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TWENTY-FIVE

BANE

I pull back from Moira slowly, deliberately, as if Domhnall’s voice hasn’t sliced through the moment. My gaze stays locked on her flushed face, lips slightly parted, pupils blown wide with something darker, wilder and far more appealing than innocence. She looks like sin wrapped in velvet.

But the sudden tension stiffening her body isn’t because of me. It’s from him.

Her brother.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze over Moira’s shoulder. He stands a few paces away, rigid in his tailored suit, his eyes full of judgment. His voice might’ve been cutting, but his cold eyes are worse. They carry the weight of history and clear resentment.

Moira straightens beside me, rolling her shoulders back like she’s preparing for war.

“Domhnall,” she says sweetly, all sugar, but I know her well enough by now to hear the razorblade underneath. “I was wondering when you’d crawl out from whatever dark corner you were brooding in.”

His lips twitch, but not in amusement. No, I don’t think this man finds anything amusing when it involves his sister.

There’s clearly bad blood here. Moira told me she and her brother had a falling out, but now I’m thinking there’s much more to it than that.

His gaze flicks to me briefly, assessing, then back to her like I’m nothing more than a shadow.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks coolly.

“Oh, immensely,” she replies, her grin widening like she’s daring him to push. She gestures between us. “You’ve met Bane? He’s my”—her eyes flick toward me before she quickly finishes—“my Dominant.”

Domhnall’s jaw tightens. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, the way a predator sizes up another predator. His glare lands on my collar. “And you decided to cosplay at my charity event?”

“What? No! He’s really a?—”

I step forward slightly, not enough to be overt, but enough to remind him I’m not background noise and extend my hand. “We haven’t had the pleasure.”

Domhnall’s hand shoots forward, rigid, the motion practiced and hollow. I clasp it, our grips locking in something far less polite than the gesture suggests. His palm is calloused and controlled. I feel the strength in his intent. He’s not pleased I’m here, and he wants me to know it.

I squeeze just enough to make a point.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bane, is it?”

“Father Blackwood, if you prefer,” I reply smoothly. “Or if you have sins to confess.”

His eyes narrow, but he lets go first. That’s two points for me, though I doubt he’s keeping score the way I am.

Moira steps between us, ready to steamroll over the tension. “Where’s Anna? I thought she’d be glued to your side.”

Domhnall’s expression shifts, the sharpness fading into something more subtle. His eyes dart around the room, scanning the glittery crowd.

“She had to go to the restroom, but that was ten minutes ago,” he mutters, more to himself than to us.

Moira’s smile falters, just a crack, and I see the undercurrent of worry that mirrors her brother’s.

Domhnall’s brow furrows, his gaze darkening. “Unless…” His voice drops lower. “Unless something brought Mads out.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. I don’t know much about their situation, but Moira told me her future sister-in-law has DID.

Moira’s face shifts from playful to concerned. She leans in, voice low. “Want me to look for her? I can check the bathroom.”

Domhnall hesitates, the mask of indifference slipping just enough to reveal the concern underneath.

Moira puts a hand on her brother’s sleeve, voice soft. “I’ll find her.”

She immediately heads in the direction of the far wall, and I follow, with Domhnall at our heels.

We move through the gala together. The crowd parts for us, whether from instinct or the quiet tension radiating off us like heat. My hand rests on the small of Moira’s back, not to control, but to remind her—and myself—that she’s not alone. Not anymore.

Moira disappears inside the women’s restroom, but it’s not long before she emerges again, shaking her head.

“She’s not there, but I got a lead,” she says. “A lady said security just kicked a woman out for smoking in a stall.”

Domhnall grimaces, jaw flexing. “It’s Mads. I keep finding spent cigarette butts in the corner of the back deck.”

“She’d have gone outside then,” I say. “C’mon, I know the way out back to the service entrance. We can check there.”

Domhnall’s eyes flash my way distrustfully, but, teeth gritted, he nods.