Page 130 of Unholy Obsession

And Moira knows it.

A roar rips out of me, raw and animalistic, as I slam my foot down on the gas. I fucking hate this. Hate not knowing where she is, what the fuck she’s thinking, and what she’s running from.

I am never out of control.

And right now, I don’t even know what the fuck is happening, much less how to be in control of it. I should have her at my sidealready, not running around like she’s a ghost slipping through my fingers.

When I get home, the house is empty. Silent. My body is too tight and my head too full of all the ways this could go sideways.

I pace the living room, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. My pulse pounds, my body primed for battle.

My phone rings. “Moira?” I bark into the receiver.

There’s a pause, then a confused voice. It’s a parishioner. Just the phone tree, asking me to arrange a hospital visit later this week.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. It takes everything in me to shove Father Blackwood into place, forcing my voice into something smooth and reassuring as I make pastoral assurances that yes, I will visit, yes, I’ll be there, yes, my prayers are with them.

I nearly drop the phone when a sleek, overpriced red car glides into the lot outside.

Moira.

I cut off the parishioner with a quick, “My apologies, I have another incoming call,” and hang up before they can respond.

She’s here.

I move to the window, standing just behind the curtain, watching her step out like she hasn’t shattered every piece of my sanity these last couple of days.

Whose fucking car is that?

Not hers.

A man’s? A rich man’s?

The idea slams into my gut like a fist. I shake it off because I know Moira. She’s not like that. But then, whatisshe like anymore? Because she sure as hell isn’t the woman who whispered confessions into my skin and heard mine in return.

She opens the door and steps inside, her eyes locking onto mine like she expected me to be waiting.

She exhales long and slow, raking her gaze over me, and I do the same. Her hair’s twisted into some messy attempt at a bun, but strands have fallen loose. Her dress is wrinkled, her makeup smeared. She looks… tired.

And fucking gorgeous.

My hands twitch. I want to grab her, pin her, hold her still, and make herexplainwhat the fuck is going on in that head of hers.

“Are you all right?” The words come out rough, edged in something lethal. I step closer.

She lifts a hand, stopping me. “I’m fine.”

Liar.

“I’ve been calling?—”

She shrugs. “I lost my phone out clubbing last night.”

“Clubbing?”

Her leg bounces, fingers flipping the key fob like it’s a toy instead of a weapon that’s gutting me.

But she doesn’t look manic, necessarily. Or drunk, or high, or anything else that could easily explain her erratic behavior.

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