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TWENTY-SEVEN

Christmas Eve, Mid-morning

BANE

The faint scent of fresh laundry greets me when I step off the elevator at Moira’s penthouse apartment. No doubt the cotton-scented candles she likes to burn. It always makes the place feel homey. She told me once she likes the smell because it makes her feel like a normal person with a normal life.

She’s waiting for me.

I don’t even have to see her to know it. I feel her—this buzzing, restless thing thrumming in the space where she’s pacing as I turn the corner. I hear her before I see her. The quick, uneven taps of her footsteps against the floor, like her anxiety has its own heartbeat.

When I round the corner, she freezes.

Her face—God. That face. Wide, dark eyes rimmed with worry, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s afraid if she lets go, the terror will spill out.

She knows where I’ve been. I had to have an emergency meeting with the bishop about everything that went down at the gala last night.

Her voice is a whisper, fragile and thin like it might snap under its own weight. “Do you still have a job?”

I should draw this out. Make some joke about clergy job security or how even God wouldn’t fire me. But I can’t.

“Of course, I have a job.”

I say it fast, like I need to get the words to her before they lose their meaning.

She crosses the room in a rush, colliding with me. I catch her, my arms wrapping around her small frame automatically. She fits against me like she was made for it. Her face presses into my chest, her body trembling the second she makes contact.

It hits me harder than it should—her shaking.

“Thank god,” she breathes, the words a soft exhale against my shirt. “I’ve been so worried.”

“I can tell,” I murmur, my hands sliding up her back, massaging the tension from her shoulders. She’s all tight knots and frail bones beneath my fingers.

“Shhh,” I whisper into her hair, breathing her in like I need her scent more than oxygen. “I told you everything would be fine.”

But that’s a lie. I seem to be stacking them up lately.

It wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

I don’t tell her that.

I don’t tell her about the bishop’s voice, sharp and cold, slicing through the screen like it could cut me where I sat. I don’t tell her about the way my name— Father Blackwood —sounded like an accusation instead of a title on the bishop’s lips.

I went to the church office for the video meeting, although meeting seemed like the wrong word. It was more like an interrogation. The bishop’s face glared back at me from the screen, framed by the sterile white walls of her office.

“Explain to me why you’re on the front page of the Dallas Chronicle .” She folded her hands underneath her chin like she was ready to deliver a verdict even though I’d barely said a word.

I kept my face neutral, hands in my lap, but my jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it.

“With respect, Bishop, I don’t control the media.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a scalpel. “Don’t be flippant with me. This isn’t just media, Father. This is a scandal waiting to explode. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

I didn’t flinch. “It looks like a man caught in a photograph.”

“A man caught with Moira Callaghan,” she snapped, her voice rising. “A woman with a—how shall I put this delicately—colorful history. The press didn’t even bother with subtlety.” She waved a hand, mockingly quoting, “‘Billionaire Tech Tycoon’s Unstable Fiancé and Sex-Addict Sister Cause Chaos at Charity Gala.’”

I said nothing.

She leaned forward, her voice colder. “But I know who you are. And I know who she is. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m serious about her.” The words left me before I could temper them. “That’s what you asked when we last met, and I am. Serious.”

She froze for half a second, then laughed—a short, humorless bark. “Serious? Have you heard a thing I’ve said? Clergy have to be above even the appearance of reproach, Father. It doesn’t matter how serious you think you are. She’s a known sex addict. The papers have statements from treatment facilities she seduced her way out of. Not just one. Several.” She shook her head like she pitied me. “I’d hardly call you na?ve, but are you sure you’re not being played?”

The words hit harder than I would’ve expected, anger sparking beneath my ribs. But I didn’t let it show. I did grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles went white, though. I had to anchor myself in restraint somehow.

“I am not being played.” It took all my strength not to belie the fury humming like a live wire right beneath my skin. Rule one was do not disrespect your bishop.

But the bishop just continued relentlessly. “She’s manipulative. That’s not judgment—that’s fact. She’s estranged from her billionaire brother, and now she’s latched onto you? Another man with wealth and status? Wake up, Father.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “End it. End it now.”

I swallowed every retort burning on my tongue. Every curse, every defense. Instead, I bowed my head slightly.

“Thank you for your counsel, Bishop. Merry Christmas Eve.”

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t expect to have this conversation twice, Father Blackwood. If you value your position, I suggest you reflect deeply on your priorities.”

The call ended with a soft click , but the echo of her words lingered.

So it’s come to this.

A choice.

My calling. Or Moira.

My faith saved me when I was nothing but a hollow man—a shadow of myself, drowning in the wreckage of my selfishness.

I clawed my way out of that darkness, not with strength, but with surrender. I turned to the Lord, cracked open and raw, and found something resembling salvation.

Faith and serving others gave me purpose. It wasn’t just a vocation; it was what stitched me back together and made me a man.

I believe I received a genuine calling from the Lord—to go and do likewise for others. To reach into the darkness for others the way God once did for me. To offer light. To offer hope.

But here’s the thing about light and darkness. Sometimes, darkness doesn’t smother light, it shapes it. Sometimes, they coexist without blurring, tangled so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Moira is both.

And in the end, I suppose there’s no choice at all. Not really.

I smooth my hand down her back now, feeling the curve of her spine beneath my fingers and the steady thrum of her heartbeat pressed against my chest.

“I won’t be home tonight.” My voice is low, like if I say it softly enough, it won’t matter.

Moira pulls back, her brow furrowing, confusion flickering across her face. “But it’s not a Saturday.”

I force a small smile. “There’s Midnight Mass tonight and then a Christmas service in the morning.”

Her hands tighten around my waist, fingers digging in like she’s trying to keep me from slipping through her grip. “Will you come over after?”

“After the service tomorrow, of course.”

I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead, letting them linger there longer than necessary. My chest aches with the weight of her. Of this.

“There’s just not enough time between services,” I add, pulling back slightly and making sure to keep my face neutral.

But she sees through it. She always does.

She frowns, tilting her head, studying me like she’s searching for the cracks beneath the surface. “Are you sure I couldn’t come stay the night just this once at your place?”

The question hits harder than it should. I feel my muscles go tight. “Things are… a little strained with the bishop at the moment,” I admit carefully, each word measured and deliberate. “It’s not the best idea, in case anyone sees you.”

Her sigh is loud, frustrated, her breath warm against my collarbone. She buries her face into my chest, her arms clutching tighter.

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” Her voice is muffled by my chest.

I close my eyes, resting my chin on top of her head, and inhale the familiar cinnamon scent of her.

“Of course it is,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her hair. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

But it’s not.

These will probably be the last two services I ever perform as an ordained priest.

I hold her tighter, memorizing the feel of her and the way her body fits against mine like a puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing. My hands tremble slightly, hidden in the small of her back, and I pray she doesn’t notice.

Yes, I’ve been fighting to find myself between Bane and Father Blackwood, but who will I be if I lose being a priest completely? Will descending fully into Bane, even with Moira at my side, destroy me? Will I then destroy us both?

How do I tell her that I still choose her anyway?