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FORTY-FOUR

BANE

I smirk down at the texts Moira sent earlier when I finally get out of my day of meetings and walk out of my office at the church. She wants to milk me, does she? My beast roars his approval.

The diocese was having a morning-long virtual retreat, and I was presenting on several panels, so I had to turn my phone off.

I should have warned Moira I’d be out of touch on my way out this morning. I know it bothers her when I don’t answer quickly. But the bishop changed the schedule on me literally last minute, and I barely had time to down a cup of coffee before running over to my office, turning on my computer, and launching into my presentation.

Bishop Caldwell hasn’t been my biggest fan since I went and married Moira instead of breaking things off with her as instructed. The bishop couldn’t technically fire me over it since I didn’t do anything against canon—at least as far as she knew. Agnes has been as good as her word about keeping mum on what she saw Christmas morning.

Moira mentioned last night she was meeting a friend for lunch today.

I craft my response, something wicked to have her shifting in her seat wherever she is.

Me: Mmmm. But I’ve worked up an appetite. What if I want to eat you like a three-course meal instead?

I expect to see the little dots of her reply immediately.

But there’s nothing.

I arch a brow, then put my phone back in my pocket as I push into the house.

I can’t expect her to always drop everything to respond to me.

It’s good she’s out, socializing. It’s what I want for her.

It’s not like I want her obsessing over me every minute.

I swallow hard as I head to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. Don’t lie, you selfish bastard . I sigh. Of course, I want her obsessing over me every minute.

I pull out my phone and look at the text I sent her.

And frown when I see that it’s been Read .

But still no dots showing her writing me back.

I stare at the fucking screen for five minutes, progressively feeling more and more unhinged.

After ten minutes, it’s clear. She left me on read .

My gut tightens.

I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Hour Three

I text her again.

Me: If you’re ignoring me just to make me lose my mind, congratulations. It’s working.

Still nothing.

I scroll through our last conversation, looking for any indication that she was upset with me, that maybe I did something to piss her off.

But no. She was teasing me before bed last night. She was soft when she woke up this morning, curling into me, mumbling about not wanting me to leave.

I check my call log. No missed calls from her.

I try calling. Straight to voicemail.

My jaw clenches.

Maybe her phone died after she read my message.

Maybe she’s busy.

Maybe she’s avoiding me .

Maybe— God help me —she’s finally decided she’s had enough.

Hour Five

I pace the length of my living room, my phone gripped in my fist. My mind is a battlefield, warring between logic and darker thoughts clawing at the edges.

If Moira was upset with me, she’d tell me. Loudly. She’d scream at me. She wouldn’t go silent.

Wouldn’t she?

Unless she ran .

The thought is a lead weight in my gut.

Because I knew, I knew , this was a risk. She doesn’t do relationships. She doesn’t do permanence. And maybe she finally realized what I already knew?—

That she could do better than me.

That I am too much. Too controlling. Too selfish. Too demanding.

And why wouldn’t she leave? People don’t stay for me. They stay for what I can offer them—power, status, security, money. Not me . Never me.

And now Moira. Moira, who was never meant to stay. Moira, who flits through life like fire, who belongs to no one, least of all me.

I sit heavily on the couch, rubbing a hand over my face. The idea of Moira gone—Moira slipping through my fingers like she was never mine to begin with—unravels something ugly inside me.

She never told anyone about our marriage. I didn’t push her. Was that a warning sign? Was she already half out the door?

Did I just not want to see it?

My stomach clenches. My fingers tighten around my phone.

I try calling again.

Straight to voicemail.

The walls close in. My breath comes sharp. Fuck this.

I grab my keys.

I don’t even remember parking the car. One moment, I’m gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles ache, and the next, I’m throwing open the doors to Carnal and stalking inside like a man possessed.

The music is loud, too loud, pulsing through my bones as I scan the room. But something’s off. The lighting isn’t as dim as usual, the atmosphere not dripping in sin and desire the way it normally is. Instead, there are fucking balloons tied to chairs. A massive cake sits untouched on a long table. Women are gathered in small clusters, some laughing, some holding up tiny onesies and pastel gift bags.

A baby shower.

Fuck.

It barely registers because I’m already zeroing in on the person I need. Quinn, standing at the bar, laughing at something Isaak just said. My voice cuts through the chatter like a blade.

“Where’s Moira?” I demand.

The room freezes .

Every single person turns to look at me. Glasses hover mid-air, conversations cut off, music still throbbing in the background like a heartbeat.

Domhnall stands up, glaring. “What’s it matter to you, anyway? You lose my sister in the middle of role-play again?”

“He’s a real priest, you idiot,” Quinn interjects.

I keep my scowl locked on Domhnall. “It matters because Moira’s my wife .”

Quinn blinks. Slowly. As if she must have misheard me.

“Your what ?”

“My wife,” I bite out again. My voice is too low, too sharp.

Isaak leans back against the bar, exhaling. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Domhnall has gone rigid, fingers curling around his drink like he’s about to snap the glass in half. And he’s looking at me like he wants to take my head off my shoulders. As if he has any right to. He’s been a total shit brother to Moira. I’m the only fucking one who’s been there for her the last six months.

It’s Kira who steps forward.

“Moira?” she says carefully, her brows knitting together. “I had lunch with her earlier.”

Something inside me lurches .

My pulse thunders in my ears. “When did you see her?”

Kira exchanges a glance with Isaak before looking my way again. “I don’t know. A little after noon?”

The room is still watching me, but it’s shifting now. The shock is turning into something else—something I don’t want to name.

“She seemed…” Kira hesitates. “A little off.”

I seize on that immediately. “Off how ?”

Kira shrugs, like she’s trying to remember details that didn’t seem important at the time. “Jittery, I guess? She was checking her phone a lot. But she wasn’t worried. And she said she’d be here tonight.”

Everyone looks around. She’s obviously not here.

“She’s usually late to things,” Quinn says, “But we’ve already been here for an hour and a half. If she’s this late, it probably means she’s ditching.”

My stomach drops, something ugly twisting inside me.

I look back at Kira. “But you said she didn’t look worried?”

Kira shakes her head. “No.” Then she tilts her face, frowning slightly. “She was just… being Moira . If anything, she looked… excited. I think maybe after she got a text from someone?”

I go completely still.

Excited.

After she got a text from someone.

Someone who wasn’t me .

There’s a long silence, and then Domhnall laughs . It’s low and sharp, humorless. “Ah, Christ. You really don’t know her at all, do you?”

My head jerks toward him. “What?”

Domhnall takes a slow sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “You’re standing here, tearing the goddamn club apart, looking for her like she’s missing.” He lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You married my sister, and you still don’t get it.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. Because something is unfurling in my chest, something slow and creeping and fucking cold.

“She does this ,” Domhnall continues. “She runs. She gets restless and goes off on these wild benders, screwing whoever she wants, drinking herself into oblivion. Then she comes back like nothing happened.”

I flinch.

I hear Quinn sigh before she steps in. “Look, man… I get that this is new for you, but Moira’s always been—” She hesitates. “Unpredictable.”

I don’t even realize my hands are clenched into fists until my nails dig into my palms.

“She’s my wife ,” I grind out.

Quinn winces like the word physically pains her. “Yeah, well. That was a choice, wasn’t it?”

The unspoken You should’ve known better hangs between us.

I can feel the eyes on me. Pitying. Some apologetic, some amused. Like I’m the naive fool who thought he could keep her.

Like I thought I was different .

Domhnall leans forward, voice mocking. “Tell me, Father. Did you think you’d be the one to change her?”

I exhale slowly through my nose, locking my jaw, fighting the urge to break his fucking teeth.

“I was never looking to change her.”

He scoffs. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Why are you acting like she’s been kidnapped? Face it. She’s off with someone else, same as she always is.”

“She’s not,” I snap before I can stop myself. It comes out too fast. Too desperate. But is that just because I need them to be wrong?

Domhnall gives me a long, hard look. Then he shrugs. “Then why aren’t you at home waiting for her?”

And there it is.

The final blow.

Because the truth is, I should be. I should be pacing our goddamn house, waiting for the inevitable moment she comes stumbling back in, laughing off her absence, maybe even taunting me about it, seeing how far she can push me.

It’s not outside the bounds of our original agreement. And we never updated it after the marriage.

But I don’t believe it.

I can’t.

Not Moira. Not my Moira.

Not after everything.

And yet?—

I hear Kira’s words in my head again.

She wasn’t scared, Bane. She was excited.

The club is too loud. Too bright. Too fucking suffocating .

I turn on my heel without another word and walk out.

I don’t slam the door. I don’t say goodbye. I just leave, the conversations behind me picking back up, the music resuming, like none of this ever happened.

Like I’m already forgotten.

Like she’s already forgotten me.

I get into my car and grip the wheel, my breath coming in sharp, controlled exhales.

She left me.

Even as my gut screams that something isn’t right.

Even as my body shakes with the urge to hunt for her.

Are they right?

Is it the right thing to let her go?

Beast wars with priest.

My car ultimately takes me home, though, if only in case she comes back to me.

But when I walk in the door, apart from the cat, the house is horribly, hauntingly empty.