Page 117 of Unholy Obsession

“Fuck,” I hiss. “Why do you have to be sorough?”

She just keeps dragging me toward the front of the bar. “Sorry, kid. Not all of us were raised to live in cotton candy houses with peppermint dreams.”

Once we hit the sidewalk, Iyankout of her grasp. “Wow, you reallyarea bitch. And there’s just one little problem with yourbrilliantplan.”

She crosses her arms. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

I smirk, wiping sweat from my palms onto my jeans. “We got married. The priest and me.”

For once, something I say actuallyshocksMads. She blinks. “Well, shit.”

But she doesn’t even have time to process what I’ve said before a white van screeches to a stop right next to the curb. The doors fly open, and six men in black gear and face masks spill out like a fucking nightmare.

They grab us.

Mads kicks. Iscream.

We fight like hell.

It doesn’t matter.

We’re dragged into the van, kicking and cursing, and the doors slam shut behind us.

I barely have time to breathe before the vantakes off.

Well.

This is new.

FORTY-FOUR

BANE

I smirkdown 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 Iwantfor her.

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

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