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THIRTY

MOIRA

The service was beautiful.

I came in late and stayed here in the back. But watching Bane do his thing is nothing short of… magical.

He transforms up there. Like he’s a whole different person, except not really. Somehow, he’s still him, but more. Both the dominant man I—um— have strong feelings toward (read: want to climb like a tree) and this calming, radiant presence that casts a spell over everyone in the room.

It’s wild.

Everyone felt something while he talked. Even me. Even though he was just reciting old words from an even older book about shit I don’t believe in. But it didn’t matter because he made it all come alive. Like he breathed life into them. Made them feel meaningful and useful and like maybe, just maybe, there’s something bigger than us out there that loves us.

I mean, the way his voice filled the space, soft but strong?—

I blow out my candle and press my palm against the center of my chest, right over my heart. It feels raw like someone cracked me open with a chisel. There’s this weird ache, not a bad one, just… sharp. Bright. Too big for my ribs.

I take a step back into the shadows, my heartbeat buzzing under my skin like I swallowed a hive of bees. I watch as people line up to greet him—Father Blackwood.

He steps down from the altar, still wrapped in all his holy finery: billowing white robes, a blue sash-thing draped around his neck, and his collar glinting under the soft, flickering candlelight.

He looks pure. Untouchable. Like a true conduit to the divine.

And I?—

I’m a fucking ink stain on a white page.

It’s easy to forget this part of him when he’s Mr. Kinky Dom, pinning me down and making me beg. When his teeth are on my skin and his voice is a growl in my ear. But this— this —is who he really is, isn’t it?

Bane deserves better than some two-bit slut .

The words slide into my head like they’ve always been there, waiting.

They taste like acid. And truth.

I step further into the shadows, my body vibrating with too much energy. My skin feels tight like it doesn’t fit right. I scratch at my arm—just a little—but the itch doesn’t go away. It’s under my skin, crawling, scurrying, like raccoon feet tap-tap-tapping across my brain.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Ow !

I hiss and look down. There’s blood. A thin red line runs down my forearm like it’s trying to escape.

What the fuck are you doing, Moira?

I stare at the blood for a second, but it doesn’t feel real. None of this does. The candlelight. The hymn still echoing in my head. Bane’s velvet voice.

I shouldn’t have come. The bishop said he shouldn’t be seen with me. She said I was bad for him. I’m a stain on his reputation. A mistake.

You don’t belong here.

I scratch again, harder this time, my fingers digging into the same spot like I can rip the feeling out. But it’s still there. It’s always there.

I bounce on my feet, my heart racing like it’s trying to outrun me. My thoughts spiral—fast, faster, like a tilt-a-whirl with no brakes.

What the fuck was I thinking, coming here like this?

I’m a mess. A goddamned disaster. And now I’ve dragged it here—to his place of work. His job. His sacred little world.

I’m ruining it.

Like I ruin everything.

That’s all you fucking do, Moira. Ruin things .

I should leave.

No. I should…

My thoughts skitter, each faster than the next.

I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen before I can even think. Text Bane? No. Call someone? Who? Domhnall? Ha. Yeah, right.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, neck straining as I try to stretch out the horrible tight-skin feeling.

Fuck. No one wants to hear from me.

No one wants this chaotic mess in their life. I don’t even want this chaotic mess in my life.

Wrong, wrong, wrong in the head , my brain singsongs.

Shouldn’t be here. Should be dead .

A giggle bubbles up, sharp and bright like champagne fizz, but I slap it down just in time. Don’t laugh in church, Moira . That’s rule number one in the Don’t Be A Fucking Disaster handbook.

But then?—

Exit sign.

Red and glowing like a beacon just down on the opposite end of the church.

Run.

My legs move before my brain catches up. I shove through the door, metal slamming behind me with a satisfying clang .

Then I gulp in the cold night air like it’s the first breath I’ve taken all day.

I’m outside, tucked into the shadowy guts of the church—a concrete patch squeezed between a giant AC unit and a dumpster. I press my back against the cold brick, heart racing, pulse in my throat.

Breathe.

But I’m not really here, am I?

I giggle again, feeling light-headed. Light like I might just lift off from the ground. Gravity can’t hold me.

I’m just a ghost in the shadows. A flicker at the edge of his vision. Not someone you hold on to. Not someone you keep.

There’s a balloon inflating inside, pushing against my ribs, my heart, my everything.

Somewhere at the back of my head, I recognize this feeling.

Hello, Crazy, my old friend .

I shake my hands out, fingers twitching like they’ve got a mind of their own. Doesn’t help.

So I start dancing in place. Just quick little stomps, feet slapping the ground, trying to shake it out—shake out the static, the buzz, the wild, uncontrollable more that’s crackling under my skin.

But it’s still there. Louder. Bigger.

Then I freeze mid-stomp, breath ragged. I know what I need.

Of course.

I need to fuck.

That’s it. That’s always what I need when I get like this. When my head feels too full and too empty all at once. When my skin doesn’t fit right and my thoughts are racing laps around sanity.

I ruin things. That’s what I do.

A loud, manic laugh bursts from my throat, sharp and too big for my chest. I slap my hands over my mouth, but it’s already out, echoing off the stone walls like an accusation.

Time to fuck. Time to fuck!

Ding, ding, ding.

The bell tolls for thee, Moira . Time for ruin!

I double over, gripping my thighs, nails digging into my skin because I need to feel something real, something sharp to cut through the noise. I glance around the dark, barren edge of the church, searching for something.

Someone.

There .

A man, alone, heading toward his car, keys jangling in the quiet.

Before I can think—because thinking is not on tonight’s agenda—I sprint to the edge of the church, peeking around the corner like some deranged pervert. Which I am.

I whistle.

Sharp and loud. His head snaps toward me, eyes squinting in the dark.

Hook bait. Cast line.

I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it up, flashing my tits like it’s Mardi Gras and he’s got beads. Then I wiggle my fingers in a “come here” gesture as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

He freezes. Looks away.

Dammit.

But then—he looks back.

Gotcha .

I hike my skirt up next, flashing more than just enthusiasm this time, wiggling my hips like I’m starring in the world’s most chaotic strip tease.

Come on, dumbass. How much clearer do I have to be?

He hesitates, then locks his car with a beep and starts walking toward me.

Huzzah! I caught a fish!

Fish, fish, in a dish. Catch a cock and ?—

But as he gets closer, something shifts. Not in him. In me.

His face comes into focus. He’s just a guy. Totally regular guy. The kind of face you’d forget in a crowd. And suddenly, the buzz under my skin isn’t excitement.

It’s fear.

It’s panic.

Fuck. What am I doing?

Because this isn’t a game.

I’m out of control. I just happen to be aware of it like someone watching outside my body. Fuck!

This is me, but not me. Humpty Dumpty’s off the wall, and there are no king’s horsemen and no king’s men to even try to put me back together again.

I step back, breath hitching, heart still racing, but now for all the wrong reasons.

What the fuck are you doing, Moira?

The man slows, confusion on his face when I turn and bolt—legs pumping, lungs burning, running like if I go fast enough, I can outrun the thing chasing me.

But I can’t.

Because it’s me.

And no matter how far I run, I’m still always right there.