Page 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

Christmas Eve Night

MOIRA

I lock up after myself at the shelter, grinning like an idiot. It was a good night. One of those rare, golden evenings where the universe doesn’t seem dead set on flipping me the bird. For once, Marci wasn’t here with her clipboard and her “Actually, Moira, could you just stick to the kitchen?” vibes. Nope. Tonight, I was unleashed. Unshackled. Free-range Moira.

I got to come out and serve the residents, not just scrub pots and pretend I don’t mind smelling like institutional lasagna. It felt meaningful, like I was part of something bigger. Like maybe I wasn’t just a walking disaster wrapped in questionable life choices.

I even saw Daniella again. Sweet Daniella with her nervous smile and the kind of haunted eyes that make you want to punch the entire male population. We talked. I told her about Bane and how my man doesn’t mind being seen out in public with me. I might’ve left out the part where I sort of catastrophically fumbled the end of the night and almost put his job in jeopardy. Details .

“Maybe you got a good one after all,” she said, and I could see in the wistfulness behind her eyes that she wanted to hope such a thing was possible.

“I think I did get a good one,” I whisper, grinning into the crisp night air.

I lock the last gate around the shelter with a satisfying clunk . The city hums softly around me, all twinkling lights and the distant sound of car tires hissing over wet pavement. Christmas Eve in the city—it’s kind of magical if you squint past the nihilistic dread.

I start walking toward the light rail, hands shoved deep in my pockets. No point wasting gas when the train runs right between the shelter and my place. I pull out my phone, hit play on my favorite playlist, and shove one earbud in. Just as I’m about to pop the second one in?—

I feel it.

That prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like my instincts are waving tiny red flags and screaming, “Hey, dumbass, pay attention!”

A man is walking behind me.

Shit.

How long has he been there?

I glance over at my reflection in a dark shop window. Nothing suspicious. Just a girl walking home, pretending she’s not low-key panicking and planning an escape route.

Then I roll my eyes at myself. Jesus, Moira. Paranoid much? It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a big city. People exist. Some of them even walk places. Revolutionary, I know. He’s probably just some dude heading to a last-minute shopping spree to buy his girlfriend a scented candle she’ll pretend to love.

Still.

Working at a shelter for survivors of domestic violence has taught me a few things. Like how not every monster wears fangs. Some of them wear nice cologne and smiles that don’t reach their eyes. We’ve had angry exes show up before.

So, just to be safe, I casually jog across the street. You know, a totally normal, festive Christmas jog. The kind you do when you’re definitely not suspicious of being followed.

I glance over my shoulder.

Oh fuck. The man crossed the street, too.

Okay. Not festive. Not normal. Not good.

My heart does this weird somersault thing, landing somewhere between mildly anxious and, oh, we’re definitely gonna die tonight.

I quicken my pace, heading toward the well-lit street ahead. The light rail stop is just a block away, glowing like a tiny beacon of salvation. I can make it. I’ve got a head start.

Play it cool, Moira. Just a brisk Christmas Eve stroll. Nothing to see here .

Screw that.

I abandon all pretense of nonchalance and run. Full out sprint. No dignity. Just pure, adrenaline-fueled GTFO mode.

But I don’t get far.

Before I make it three steps, two guys in leather jackets pop out of nowhere. One grabs my left arm, while the other snatches my right.

I scream bloody fucking murder, thrashing and kicking wildly, landing a solid heel to someone’s shin.

Leather Jacket #1 grunts but doesn’t let go.

“Calm down,” he snaps.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to be polite while you’re kidnapping me?” I snarl, twisting and kicking some more.

But they’re strong. Too strong.

“HELP!” I scream dramatically because why not go full damsel when you’re being literally manhandled? Then I remember from self-defense training at the shelter to scream “fire,” not “help,” because people are nosy about fires but conveniently deaf about calls for help.

“FI—” is all I get out before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling the rest.

Mistake.

I bite down. Hard . I mean hard- hard . Like, “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shot” hard.

The guy yelps, yanking his hand back like I’m rabid—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate. Fueled by pure rage and spite, I start kicking, aiming for shins, knees, or anywhere soft enough to cause maximum damage.

The back of my brain registers that the curses flying out of their mouths come with British accents. Fancy that. I’m being assaulted by the Spice Boys.

I’m still in full feral-cat mode when another man appears out of nowhere. He’s limping heavily with a gold-topped cane and lifts his other hand like he’s the goddamn king, all regal authority.

“Stop. Don’t hurt her.” His voice is smooth and polished with the kind of accent that’s less London-street and more I-own-an-obscene-number-of-horses. “I only want to chat.”

Chat? Oh, is that what we’re calling kidnapping these days?

The distraction is enough for me to pause mid-kick and squint at the new guy. He’s older—mid-to-late sixties, I’d guess—dressed like he walked straight out of an overpriced men’s catalog. Tailored suit, polished shoes, not a hair out of place. But the fucker is pale and gaunt and giving real consumption-chic.

“What the fuck do you want?” I spit, still twisting like I’m auditioning for the world’s angriest interpretive dance.

He steps closer, leaning calmly on his cane like this is a TED Talk and not, you know, an abduction.

“My son,” he says smoothly. “Bane.”

Wait. WHAT? It’s like someone yanked the emergency brake in my brain.

Bane?

I freeze for half a second, but it’s enough. I snap back to reality with a growl, whipping my head toward the guy gripping my right arm.

“LET. ME. GO!” I snarl, punctuating each word with another vicious kick.

When words don’t work, I go primal—I bend down and bite him. Again. On the forearm this time. I’m an equal opportunity biter.

The brute roars, yanking his arm back. His other hand shoots up like he’s about to clock me.

But Mr. Fancy Suit raises a hand, his voice cool as ice. “That’s enough, Billy.”

Billy—because, of course, his name is Billy—growls but steps back. His buddy releases me, too. But when I try to make a break for it, Billy grabs me around the waist like I’m a particularly difficult suitcase. He lifts me off the ground, carries me three steps, and unceremoniously drops me right in front of Bane’s father.

I let out a guttural scream—not words, just pure rage-fueled noise—and glare up at the smug bastard.

“What the FUCK is this?!” I snarl, my voice echoing off the nearby buildings.

“A conversation,” he says with the kind of grim patience people use when explaining things to toddlers—or women they’ve just had abducted off the side of the street, apparently. He pulls a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his face, wiping away the spittle I didn’t intend but am honestly proud of.

“The shorter, the better, if you’d stand still for a moment.”

“Oh, fine ,” I hiss, dragging out the F just enough to spit again because why not double down?

His jaw tightens, but he smooths it over with condescending British calm.

“I should’ve known my son would continue his rebellion by taking up with someone so… completely unsuitable.”

“Who the fuck are you, anyway? An anal-retentive dick in a suit? Got it.”

He squares his shoulders, standing taller like that’s supposed to intimidate me. “I’m one of the most respected men in the world, young lady. And you’d do well to watch your tongue if you don’t want these men to cut it out.”

I blink, then slowly look around. “We’re on a public street, genius. There are cameras.”

He smiles. Not a warm smile—a predatory one. “They’ll have all conveniently gone out for these few minutes.”

Great. Love that for me.

“So let me get down to it,” he continues, pulling out a literal checkbook. Like this is 1997. “What will it cost me for you to leave my son be?”

I actually laugh. Right in his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m quite serious.”

He scribbles something on the check. “Will a million do it?”

I blink. Then scoff. “You really are one jaded motherfucker. Don’t you want your son to be happy ?”

His expression flattens, deadpan. “I highly doubt the daughter of a whore from nowhere, Ireland—who grew up to be a sex addict, no less—could make my son happy.”

Oof. That one lands like a punch to the gut, but I swallow it down.

“Two million,” he bites out.

I jab my finger in his face. “You can take your money and shove it up your ass.”

“Fifty million.”

I laugh, shaking my head. That’s how much my brother paid when Anna auctioned off her virginity.

“If you know so much about me, then you know I’ve already got a billionaire brother. I don’t need your filthy money.”

“A billionaire brother who’s not speaking to you.” He gets right in my face, eyes burning. “You live in such a pretty penthouse, but what happens when he stops paying your rent? And stops paying for your fancy car? Or did he already, and that’s why you’re taking public transit like the provincial you really are?”

I toss my hands up, smiling wildly. “I guess I’ll finally have to get off my ass and get a job.”

“But you’ve never managed to hold a job, have you? One hundred million dollars.” He over-annunciates every word. “My final offer. You never have to worry about your brother again. Or ever work a day in your life.”

I blink down at the cold concrete of the sidewalk underneath my feet, then laugh—a wild, unhinged laugh that starts deep in my belly and rolls out, loud and ugly. I’m laughing so hard I have to bend over, slapping my knee like he just told the world’s funniest joke.

Bane’s father stands there, rigid as a statue, his face carved from stone.

Then, he looks at one of his brutes and gives the tiniest of nods.

In a flash, Billy lunges, grabbing me by the coat and slamming me against a nearby brick wall.

My laughter dies out, replaced by a grin so sharp it could cut glass.

“What the fuck do you think you’re laughing at, little girl?” Billy snarls, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth.

But I look past his shoulder at Bane’s father, meeting his gaze without blinking. “I’m laughing at the sad little man who Bane couldn’t wait to get away from. He hates you, doesn’t he? God, that must drive you crazy.”

He goes pale. Like, paler than he already was—ghost pale.

His face twists in fury.

“He’s better than you,” he sneers. “If you won’t leave him for the money, then leave him because Bane deserves better than some two-bit slut.”

With that, he spins on his heel and motions to his goons. Billy drops me to the ground, and they all disappear into the dark like the world’s most dramatic Bond villain.

I slide down the wall, my body sinking to the cold concrete, shaking—not from fear, but from the adrenaline crash. Silent tears slip down my face, hot and fast.

I might hate the man I just met with every fiber of my being, but…

Bane deserves better than some two-bit slut .

Damn him… he’s not wrong.