Page 127 of Unholy Obsession

But the bartender just shrugs again and chuckles, silver crowns on his front teeth gleaming as he leans in like he’s telling a secret. “Man, that thing’s just there for show.” His sour breath rolls over me, and I pull back, disgusted.

I storm out of the bar and look in both directions, wondering which way Moira and the mysterious woman went. Then my eyes go up.

The bar’s cameras might be fake, but other places around here give an actual shit about security.

Like the jewelry store halfway down the block. If they went that way, maybe I can catch a glimpse. I’m heading in that direction when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I yank it out and quickly check the text.

Domhnall: Moira’s at my door. She looks fine.

Relief floods me.

Bane: What’s your address?

I’m already halfway to my car by the time he responds.

FORTY-SEVEN

MOIRA

I ring Domhnall’s doorbell,foot tapping like I’m drumming out a rock solo on the porch.

The bad guys didn’t exactly leave me with my phone when they kidnapped me and Mads, so getting here took some good old-fashioned Moira-style improvisation.

Step one: Escape the hellhole. They’d stashed us in some abandoned warehouse by the river, and let me tell you, nothing screams “high-quality hostage experience” like peeling paint, rusty chains, and the lingering scent of dead rats. But I got out. Had to jog for what felt like miles before I found a street that didn’t double as a tetanus breeding ground.

Step two: Pop my thumb back into the socket. My hand was starting to go really numb. And yes, it hurts like just as much of a bitch going backinas it does popping itout.

Step three: Hustle up a ride. No phone, no cash, just my wits and a face that people tend to be generous to when I play my cards right. So I worked my magic, batting my lashes at any guy who looked both kind and gullible. Told a heart-wrenching sobstory about getting robbed and needing to get back to my dear, worried brother. It took a few tries—people are skeptical these days—but eventually, some saint of a man bought it and called me an Uber. Bless his easily manipulated soul. Though, in this case, the grift was pretty damn close to the truth.

Now, here I am, standing on Domhnall’s doorstep, looking like I lost a fight with a few alley cats, waiting for my so-called loving brother to open the damn door.

Finally, the door swings open. But instead of the warm welcome I deserve, Domhn plants his arm against the frame, blocking the way like he’s a bouncer at a club. And, of course, he’s glaring. That’s his default setting when it comes to me lately.

“Where’s Mads?” he demands in a voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Not “Are you okay, Moira?” Not “Holy shit, you’re alive!” Nope. Straight to business.

I roll my eyes. “Lost your fiancée?”

His jaw twitches. “Mads sent me a message yesterday saying she had to go out of town for a few days. Then you go missing. Do you know where she is or not?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.” I shove against his arm and muscle my way inside. Screw waiting for an invitation. I’ve been kidnapped, hustled, and half-starved for the past however many hours. I am not in the mood for his attitude. Because all that isn’t even to mention what I still have to do. I’ve only been functioning by blocking that part out.

Domhnall barely moves, but he lets me pass, shutting the door with a heavy sigh. “Jesus, Moira.”

I flop onto his couch, stretching out like I own the place. “Nice to see you too, big brother. Got anything to eat? Because I’m starving. And also, maybe, just maybe, you could show a little concern for your only sister who just escaped a goddamn hostage situation?”

His glare softens—just a fraction. But I’ll take it.

“Start talking,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “And don’t leave anything out.”

Finally. Some hospitality. “Napkins, too!”

Domhnall drops a plate of leftover lasagna in front of me with all the gentleness of a prison guard serving slop, along with a couple paper towels. “Talk.”

I take a big, dramatic bite just to piss him off. The man has even less patience than me. “You sure you don’t want to ask me how I am first? Maybe offer me a hug, a ‘glad you’re alive, sis?’ No? Cool, cool.”

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