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EIGHT

BANE

I’m at my usual perch, watching from the shadows and feeling more foolish than usual.

How long am I going to keep this up? Yes, we had one night of connection. And yes, she came to my church pleading for something—salvation or absolution, maybe. But the dazzling siren who commands every room she walks into doesn’t look like she needs saving. She looks untouchable. Unstoppable.

Unlike me.

Oh, I go through the motions: my rigid priest’s routine, my careful sermons, my daily devotions. But the truth? I’m having what the kind-hearted might call a crisis of faith . I don’t doubt God. I only doubt that He ever truly called me .

Did I turn to the priesthood to atone, or was it just another form of selfishness? Another way to wrest control over the urges that have ruled me since I was old enough to name them? Because if I was ever truly in this life to serve others…

Then why can’t I let go of her?

She haunts me. Possesses me. Consumes my thoughts with a fervor no prayer could ever match.

I’ve stopped dressing it up. Why lie to myself? There’s nothing noble about this. There is no higher calling behind my actions.

There’s only obsession .

I’m as twisted as I ever was.

The drizzle starts, soaking through my collar as I keep up my usual vigil across the street from the club. But still, she doesn’t come.

I clench my jaw, already cursing myself for a fool and telling myself that this is it . The last night. I’ll leave this place behind. I’ll let her go.

Then, a car pulls up.

She steps out.

And my whole body locks with tension.

Something’s wrong.

She stumbles, barely catching herself as the driver steadies her. Moira never stumbles. I’ve watched her for weeks; she’s a force of nature, striding through life with fiery confidence. But tonight, she’s moving like something inside her is broken.

My hands curl into fists inside my coat.

Don’t move. Don’t interfere. Whatever’s wrong in her life, you’ll only make it worse . My obsession is meant to be my own curse.

She disappears inside the doors of the club, and my breath releases.

But she’s barely inside ten minutes before she storms back out.

Limping.

Quinn follows, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a hard line. They argue. Moira shouts something sharp, and Quinn lifts her hands in surrender before shoving back inside, leaving Moira alone on the street.

And the moment she’s alone, she absolutely collapses in on herself.

Even though she’s still standing, I see her broken before me again—lost, trembling, pleading.

Lightning splits the sky.

I failed her once.

I won’t fail her again.

Before I’ve even made the decision, I’m moving. Already slipping my mask from my pocket and tying it into place across my face. Already crossing the street.

Her tears have mixed with the rain by the time I reach her, but I don’t miss her sharp inhale when she lifts her gaze and sees me.

“You!”

“Me.”

She blinks, water clinging to her lashes, her chest rising and falling too fast. I see the moment she registers me. The way her expression wobbles, just for a second, before she forces herself into something sharp, something brittle.

And then I see the bruise blooming across her eye.

My stomach twists.

Who?

I’ll fucking tear them apart.

I will find them. And I will end them.

But first?—

She’s shivering. Uncontrollably.

“Come with me.” My voice is lower than I mean for it to be, but she doesn’t hesitate.

She nods, eyes wide, and reaches out a hand like she’s a child seeking comfort.

Her trust destroys me.

I take her hand. The moment our skin touches, a shudder runs through her, and I don’t know if it’s the cold or?—

No. She’s freezing. That’s all it is.

After only a few steps, I see again how badly she’s limping.

What the hell am I thinking? Dammit. I can’t make her walk three blocks like this. She’s just an elf of a woman, anyway.

Without a word, I scoop her up into my arms.

Her gasp is soft, startled, but her arms loop around my neck like she belongs there.

My gut tightens.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I keep striding forward, carrying her down the familiar path I’ve walked over and over these past few weeks, as if each step wasn’t a step toward damnation.

She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.

Not until we’re almost at the church.

Her voice is quiet but not weak. Never weak. “Are you real, or am I imagining you?”

I should ignore her. I should let the silence stretch between us. I should remember that this moment—her body curled against mine, her trust so freely given—is an illusion.

But I don’t.

“Do you often imagine me?”

She hums, something wistful curling in the sound. “Sometimes.”

The word slams into me like a fist to the gut. My grip tightens around her instinctively, my body warring between smug satisfaction and something darker.

She thinks of me. Imagines me. I shouldn’t crave that knowledge, but it unfurls inside me, warm and insidious. I want to know how often. How much. In what way.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I shove open the gate to the parish house, the rain falling harder now, soaking through my coat.

“I’m real,” I growl.

She shivers against me, her face pressing into my chest, seeking warmth.

I move faster.

The gate swings shut behind us, and the cobblestones glisten with rain. Her breath is warm against my throat as I climb the steps of the parish house, my keys already in my free hand.

I should let her go.

I should set her down.

But I don’t.

I shoulder open the door, my grip on Moira unwavering. We step inside, dripping water across the threshold, and I shut the door quickly, cradling her tighter before carrying her straight to the bathroom.

The moment we cross into the smaller space, I reach over and twist the faucet, a rush of water filling the tub. Steam curls into the air, warming the chill between us. Only then do I realize—I’m still wearing the mask on my face.

I pull it off, and the second my face is revealed, she gasps.

Her gasp slices through the air like the snap of a whip. Her eyes widen, shock swirling with something raw.

I expect words—accusations, questions—but she gives me silence instead as she shivers in the damp glow of the bathroom light.

Shame crashes through me.

For years, I’ve fought to keep these two halves of myself separate. To lock Bane away and let Father Blackwood atone for his sins. But now, standing before this bruised and vulnerable woman, it’s so clear: I was never truly hidden.

I kneel before her, the motion both instinct and surrender.

I force my hands to stay steady as I untie her boots, the sodden laces resisting. When the first shoe finally slips free, I set it aside carefully, almost reverently.

This feels like a sacrament.

The chill of her sock seeps into my fingertips as I peel it off, her skin cold against my palm. Too cold.

A deep, unrelenting rage coils in my chest. What happened before she got to the club? Who left that bruise?

I shove it down. She doesn’t need my fury. She needs warmth. Comfort.

I gently rub her foot between my hands, coaxing heat back into her body. She gasps at the contact, her breath hitching, and my stomach tightens. Fuck. Not now. Not like this .

“In the bath,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.

I risk a glance upward, but she isn’t looking at me. Arms locked tight around herself, her gaze is fixed firmly downward as if she can hold herself together through sheer will alone.

And then, in a whisper barely audible over the running water, I hear, “You’re… Father Blackwood. But you’re… you’re Bane.”

The name cracks through the air like a whip. I flinch.

I wish there was any denial I could make. But the truth is raw and rasping in my throat. “I am,” I admit. “I’m both.”

I look away as her accusing gaze flashes up at me.

I’ve tried to smother Bane for years, to starve that hunger out of me. But, in this moment, as her eyes rake over me, I feel him resurrecting.

I take a breath and steady myself.

“You’re freezing,” I say, pushing past the wreckage of my confession. “Let’s get you warm first. The rest can wait.”

She hesitates. I reach out but stop short, hovering just above her arm. “May I?”

She nods, barely, but it’s enough.

I slip my arms beneath her knees and back, lifting her effortlessly. She’s nearly weightless in my grasp, yet the moment feels impossibly heavy.

Now she knows. Now, there’s no more pretending and stalking safely from afar.

I ease her into the bath, clothes still on, my hands steadying her as the water rises to meet her skin. She gasps at the heat, fingers brushing my wrist before she lets go.

Her shivering slows. She sinks deeper. The steam swirls between us, a fragile veil.

“You’re… a priest,” she murmurs at last, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. “But that night, you weren’t…”

The accusation cuts deep. That night, I was Bane.

I swallow hard. “That night, I wasn’t wearing the collar. But it doesn’t change what I am.”

Her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself again. A shield and a barrier.

Something in me fractures at the sight.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” The words escape before I can stop them. “That night, and every day since, I—” I clench my jaw and swallow the rest. She doesn’t need my turmoil. She clearly has enough of her own tonight.

She watches me, her gaze searching as if trying to see past the man in front of her to the truth beneath.

“Why didn’t you come back?” she asks finally.

I exhale sharply. “I had to stay away. For both of us.”

A flicker of something crosses her face—anger? Disbelief? Pain?

She opens her mouth, but I shake my head, reaching for the towel beside the tub. “Feel free to stay in ’til you get all the way warmed up,” I say, quiet but firm. “I’ll leave you now.”

I stand, nodding toward the robe hanging by the door. “You can use that. I’ll find you something warmer to change into.”

Her nod is faint. Hesitant. Watching me even as I pull away.

I step to the door, pausing at the frame.

I glance back once.

“You’re safe here,” I murmur, voice low but resolute. “I promise you that.”

Then, before I can break further, I close the door behind me.

The silence that follows is heavy. Final.

I let out a slow breath, turning and resting my forehead against the door for just a moment before pushing off and walking away.

Because she sees me now. And for the first time in years, I don’t know if that means salvation—or damnation.