Page 58

FIFTY-EIGHT

BANE

She’s quiet. Too quiet.

I expected claws. Teeth. That vicious mouth lashing me open the second we sat down. I expected either a fight or to find her on her knees weeping in apology and begging for me back now that my father’s dead.

But instead, Moira is calm. Moira is distant

And I fucking hate it.

The jet hums around us, a soft undercurrent to the silence between us. It’s not just any jet—it’s a Blackwolf jet. A thing of obscene wealth, all buttery leather seats and polished mahogany paneling, with gold accents that catch the dim cabin lighting. It smells of expensive whiskey and money. Money I never wanted, money that came with a legacy I’ve spent years trying to run from.

But now? Now I’ve got a kingdom built from my father’s sins waiting for me in England, and I made sure to drag Moira with me.

She’s curled up in the window seat, her knees pulled up, bare feet tucked beneath her. She should look out of place here. This jet was built for politicians and billionaires, not for the girl who used to drink three dollar wine with me in parking lots at three a.m., her bare feet on the dashboard, laughing like the night belonged to us and no one else.

But she doesn’t. She looks like she belongs everywhere and nowhere and like she’s made peace with being untethered.

She doesn’t so much as blink when I unbuckle myself from my original seat across the aisle and slide in beside her. If she notices the way my thigh presses against hers in the too-close space, she doesn’t react. She doesn’t roll her eyes when the flight attendant asks if we want anything, and I order whiskey, neat. Or even flinch when I say, “And whatever she wants.”

And then?—

Instead of talking to me or even looking my way, she pulls out a notebook.

A fucking notebook. It’s very Moira , the cover a chaotic mix of dark pink and black splashes. And it’s clearly well-used.

I watch, rigid, as she flips it open to the middle and starts writing.

“What’s that?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

“My journal.” She doesn’t look up; she just keeps moving the pen across the page.

“Since when do you journal?”

“Since I started tracking my moods.”

Her voice is clinical. Distant. Like she’s talking about the goddamn weather.

I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she sits there, perfectly composed, writing her thoughts like they aren’t meant to be torn out of her, spat at me, and fought over until we’re both raw.

She used to be all jagged edges, sharp and wild and impossible to hold without getting cut. Now, she’s smoothing herself down. Filing away the parts of her I used to clutch like a lifeline.

I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” I murmur, dark and quiet, the way she used to love. “I know exactly who you are.”

She pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to think I’ve cracked through. Then she exhales. Slow. Even. Like she’s past it. Like she doesn’t crave me anymore.

And that’s when I feel it?—

Real fear.

Not for her. For me .

What if this isn’t just about her getting better? What if she’s outgrowing me?

I sit back, jaw tight, and watch her hand move across the page, logging things I don’t understand. Moira never used to write things down. She used to scream them out into the world.

I don’t know this version of her.

And I don’t know if she still wants me.

Hours pass in silence, and at some point, she dozes off against the window. I study her, trying to make sense of the sight. Moira asleep. Moira still. Not tossing and turning, not mumbling half-crazed thoughts in her sleep. Just… peaceful.

It unsettles me more than anything else.

I reach out before I can stop myself. A curl has slipped over her cheek, and I want—need—to tuck it behind her ear. To touch her. To make sure she’s real. But my hand stops inches from her skin. I let it hover there, suspended, before curling my fingers into a fist and pulling back.

Then, an alarm goes off.

Moira stirs and blinks, then reaches into her bag. She pulls out a bottle, dry swallows a pill, and tucks it away like it’s nothing.

I watch. I wait. I feel the words scrape up my throat before I can stop them.

“What was that?”

She arches a brow, the ghost of her old smirk dancing on her lips. “My meds.”

Silence.

“What kind of meds?”

“The kind that makes me less fun.”

I hate the way she says it. Like she’s taunting me, daring me to react. Daring me to admit I do miss the fun. The fire. The chaos.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t fucking know the answer.

She watches me, something sharp in her gaze, and then, finally, she says it:

“You don’t like me like this, do you?”

I freeze.

She exhales and shakes her head, then looks away. “Not that it matters if you like me anymore, I guess. I’m just here for paperwork.”

And that? That’s what makes me snap.

I grip the armrest between us and lean in, my voice low and razor-sharp. “You think I’m dragging you across the fucking ocean for paperwork ?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. She just holds my gaze, so fucking steady and unshaken.

Then she shifts, stretching her legs out and rolling her neck like she’s settling into a throne instead of a seat. She lets her gaze wander the cabin—across the sleek walnut bar, the plush recliners, the gleaming brass light fixtures—and then, without looking at me, she says, “You must like having nice things now that you’re rich again.”

I don’t take the bait. Because the truth is, I don’t give a fuck about the money, the jet, the legacy. None of it means anything.

She’s the only thing I ever wanted.

And for the first time since I met Moira Blackwood, I am the one unraveling.

I stare at the woman in front of me and wonder if I ever really knew her at all.