Page 179 of Priest and his Anarchist

My eyes find him as if they know the lies I told. My heart cracks in my chest but I clear my throat. Even from this distance, the power he has over me is too much. I know that he knows that, and—movement catches my eyes. A dark shadow sits in the corner, his suit shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Nate’s ankle is crossed over his knee, his other hand balancing a full glass of alcohol. Whiskey, no doubt.

He knows it.

“Luna…”

I shake my head. “I don’t think of love when I look at him because I can’t ever imagine a time where I didn’t love him. When I look at him, all I see is him. All of him. I can’t separate the two feelings because I don’t think I knew what love was until I knew what it felt to receive it from him.”

Evie clucks her tongue. “Well. That’s a long time to feel his love, especially from someone who everyone thought didn’t have it.”

“Yep!” I take a sip of my—whatever this is. “It has been a long two hours.”

We both look at each other before Evie bursts out laughing again, her head tilting back. She taps at my knee. “Good luck,girl.” She disappears behind me, and I’m left stuck, my eyes heavy and the weight of everything still hanging over my head.

I learned to compartmentalize. How to read a room full of criminals in less than two minutes. How to kill a man three times my size and frame the murder on the least suspicious person, but right now, even my strengths are waning the more time goes on.

I twirl my glass around the stem, listening to the lyrics of the song playing in the background. It’s not one I’m familiar with, but it’s catchy and slow, enough to distract me from my own self-pity.

Alcohol touches the pit of my stomach, the last bit of tension finally releasing in my neck.

“Thank you.”

My eyes slowly peel open when I hear her voice. So similar to when I thought she was dead.

Slowly, I turn my head to where she’s nestled on the sofa. Her face is bandaged up around her chin, all the way over her head, and her arm is in a cast that’s wrapped tight. Bruises swell over almost every inch of her face, and staples run up the side, disappearing beneath the gauze.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” I whisper hoarsely, finally being met face-to-face with what she had to go through. “I wish—” I stop when my throat tightens.Agh!Things were much better when I didn’t care about hardly anyone.

“Don’t.” She shakes her head, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I’m just glad I’m still alive to see this.”

I look out in front of me and smile. The black tree is finally almost set up, after Stella snatches the remote off Vaden and pushes him into the fireplace. Her laughter swallows the music when his arm catches on fire, causing him to tear off his hoodie and stomp it out. Vaden snaps at her with a scowl, something about a reckless idiot.

“Yeah. I’ve never been much of a Christmas girl, but this is one that I might actually enjoy.” Madison laughs, but it turns to soft wailing before a hiss. “Dammit. Don’t make me laugh. Shit hurts.”

I wince.

“But I don’t mean this.” She lifts her partially good hand, the one holding the drink. She turns to me. “I mean, the day my son got back the only thing he could ever lose.” I blink back my shock.

Narrowing my eyes, I peek over at her lap. “Are you on strong pain meds?”

She laughs again before cussing under her breath and relaxing further into her chair. “It’s obvious why he’s so—Bishop—about you.”

I don’t bother asking her what she means about Bishop.

“But, and I say this with full sincerity, Luna. Be careful. I know my son, and I know he’s hiding things that I can’t imagine. He’s always put the EKC before all else. There’s just something there that I can’t seem to piece together.” Her words die on her tongue, and before she can say anything else, both Bishop and Priest are standing in front of us. Bishop scoops Madison up from beneath her, kissing her neck before slowly lowering them both back onto the sofa, this time with her cuddled into his lap.

Priest’s thigh presses against mine when he leans forward to grab the bowl on the coffee table, licking his thumb after he rolls out a blunt.

“You going to find the person who runs that piece of shit downstairs?” Madison asks, words directed at Priest.

His tongue dampens the edge of the blunt and images flicker behind the back of my eyes of what it feels like on my body.

In my mouth.

Over my scar…

“Don’t worry about it, Ma. I’ve got it.”

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