Page 33

THIRTY-THREE

BANE

She doesn’t believe me about who’s the villain and who’s the hero here. I see it in the way her arms wrap around herself and the distressed furrow in her brow.

It’s all wrong.

She doesn’t see what I see when I look at her.

I need to hold up a mirror to make her see the truth. For once in her life, she needs to see the fucking truth.

Because I know what happened to her even if I don’t know all the details. People have taken and taken and taken from her since she was too young to fight back. They’ve told her who she is and isn’t allowed to be. A story was written for her that she never had a say in.

And fuck, do I understand.

I understand because they did the same damn thing to me.

Conditioning is a hell of a thing. It carves deep grooves in the mind—grooves that feel as permanent as the ones on an old wax record. The lies repeat, over and over, until they feel like a song you’ll be humming under your breath until you take your last exhale.

But it’s still a lie.

And I need her to know she can rewrite her story.

“It’s time you understand—you get to be whoever the fuck you want, Moira.” I step forward, framing her face between my hands, holding her still so she can’t look away. “Tonight, we set you free.”

Her brows knit tighter. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. Do you trust me?”

She hesitates, searching my face, and then—so slowly, so cautiously—nods. “I trust you. Even though you have secrets.”

The words punch through me, landing somewhere deep.

She swallows, glancing away. “Some things have… happened recently. I don’t want you to think I’m lying. I just—I want it to be like what you haven’t told me about your life before you became a priest. So you know those things are there, but I’m just not telling them to you right now. Is that okay?”

Her eyes find mine again, open and raw.

I wasn’t expecting this.

And I feel, with a quiet kind of horror, how unfair I’ve been. Keeping my own secrets close to my chest and not telling her about my past. But now that the shoe is on the other foot, I feel it—the clawing questions that rise in my throat, demanding to be asked.

What happened? When? Why can’t she tell me?

I know my reasons for keeping my secrets. They’re harmless. At least… I think they are.

But hers?

No, my mind rejects the suspicion immediately.

It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s me and my own judgment. My ability to put my faith in the right person.

I spent decades trusting the wrong one.

“I’m such a fool,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen with concern. “What does that mean? You’re acting weird. Tell me the truth—are you mad that I came tonight after you told me not to? Or about what I did outside?”

“No.” I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I think I’m just… seeing some things clearly tonight.”

“Like what?”

“Like how fucking stunning you are.” My voice drops, and I take her chin between my fingers. “The world has it backward, Moira. They look to men who hoard money and call themselves kings and make gods of them. But those men are usually liars and thieves, so lost in their own goddamn hype they wouldn’t recognize the truth if it was splashed in neon right in front of them.”

I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, memorizing the softness.

“But you,” I murmur. “You shine from within. You’re worth so much more than any of them with their stupid fucking gold.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “How much of the communion wine did you get into tonight, Father?”

A laugh bursts out of me, startled and real.

There she goes again, making my point for me.

I shake my head and take her hand, tugging her with me down the center aisle of the church. I lit every standing candelabra at the front of the church and the one on the altar. The candlelight flickers over us, casting a soft, golden glow.

The altar is clear of everything but the altar cloth, the candles, a fresh cruet of wine, the plate of leftover wafers, and a tincture of sacristy oil.

“Tonight, you see the truth,” I tell her.

We’ve reached the altar.

“Do you give yourself to me tonight?”

She studies me now, sensing the shift in my mood. Her posture straightens, and the last of the tension drains from her face.

And then—finally—the worry line in her brow smooths.

Satisfaction rumbles low in my chest.

Good.

If I can give her anything tonight, let it be this.

“Yes. I give permission for everything. I’m yours.” She meets my gaze, steady and fearless, with the kind of bravery that makes my breath catch?—

The kind of bravery that makes me love her.

I step into her, knee sliding between her legs, hands beneath her coat to cinch around her waist. My fingertips squeeze against her warm flesh.

“Even if everything I want to do tonight is very, very wrong?”

“Yes.” Her breath hitches, and her eyes brighten. “Yes. I love wrong things the best of all.”

I search her eyes, my top lip twitching. I slide her coat from her shoulders, my hands trailing down her arms until it slips to the floor at her feet.

Still pinning her gaze with mine, I grab the low-cut concert tee she’s wearing with both fists right at her cleavage. Then I rip it down the center.

She’s not wearing a bra, and her small, perfect tits heave up and down as her nipples pebble in the cool air. The heat is on, but the arching loft of the sanctuary means it never warms up all the way in here.

She swallows hard when I reach down and roughly grab for the back of her skirt, yanking her body to mine as I undo the button and zipper, adding the layers of black cotton fabric fluff to the growing pile of clothes at her feet.

Now I’m the one gulping.

“You’re so fucking stunning, naked and in nothing but your boots.” I lean into her, pressing my forehead against hers.

“I want you.” I fist my hands to keep them by my side instead of touching her.

“You have me,” she whispers back, lip trembling.

Do I?

Why is it all crashing in on me tonight?

My past and my future and her . My sense of control trembles on a knife’s edge. But control is all I have. It’s all that’s separated me from… him .

But isn’t that what I’ve seen tonight at the end of it all? At the end of the charade?

It’s all been a lie.

I’ve been a lie. Playing at priest. The collar’s like a costume I put on.

Finally, I let myself touch her. I grab her by the waist, lift her and set her bare bottom down on the altar.

“Sweet dove,” I murmur, stepping between her legs, jaw flexing. “Didn’t you ever realize? The discipline was as much for me as it was for you.”

She blinks, eyes wide as she sits so fucking gorgeously on the consecrated altar. I feel such deep fucking satisfaction, followed by a dark wave of need.

“It was?” She gulps, and my eyes zero in on the delicate curve of her neck.

It takes the last of my control to reach down for her left boot, unlacing it, tugging it gently from her foot, and dropping it carelessly to the floor behind us. Then I peel the sock from her sacred skin.

I lift her foot to kiss the arch, pressing my cheek to her cool skin. Her toes twitch against my cheek and I exhale, looking up into her surprised face. Then I repeat the ceremony with her right boot.

Her legs tremble by the time I’ve kissed her arch, and then the top of her foot, and then caress my hands up the outsides of her calves before finally stepping back from her.

“What now?” she asks breathily, eyes meeting mine.

Her eyes are curious and excited.

I’m shaking as I take in the sight of her completely naked on the Lord’s altar.

She’s perfection.

Before her, I feel the weight of exactly who I am and shed the facade I’ve been hiding behind for so many years. I yank the priest’s collar from around my neck and fling it into the shadows.

I drop to my knees before her.

Filthy soul bared.

“Please,” I beg for what I don’t deserve. “Be my priest tonight.”