Page 137 of Unholy Obsession

I want tohurt.

I go to the club. And I stomp in with a purpose.

The club is alive.

Not in the way a church is alive—breathing with whispered prayers, the rustle of hymnals, and the gentle clinking of a chalice.

This place pulses. It throbs. It beats like a second heart, its rhythm discordant with the one already hammering in my chest.

The bass rattles the walls.

Bodies move in the dark.

Writhing. Submitting. Taking. Giving.

The scent of it, theweightof it, presses against me like an invitation, and I breathe it in.

I don’t belong here.

Not tonight. Not in this headspace.

But I came anyway. And without my mask. I’m done pretending I’m two people. Consequences be damned.

I scan the room, my pulse a steady, punishing thrum beneath my skin. I know who I’m looking for. A particular person clad head to toe in latex, booted heels tipped in a wicked spike.

Quinn.

She’s easy to spot. In all black, confidence rolls off her as she sits on a throne-like chair with a man kneeling at her feet, his head bowed, his body slack in surrender. She runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly as if he’s a pet. The room seems to orbit around her without her even trying.

I cross the floor in measured steps.

When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. “Mistress Quinn. I’d like to engage your services for the night.”

“Father Blackwood,” she purrs, dismissing the man at her feet with a flick of her wrist. He whines but crawls away.

She looks up at me and takes her time raking her gaze over my frame.Reading me.

“You look like hell, Father.”

I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension coil tighter. “I need your services.”

Quinn leans back in her chair, crossing her legs, the movement lazy. Unbothered. “Oh?”

“I need you to hurt me.”

She stills. Not a dramatic pause, not a tease—just pure, assessing silence. Then, slowly, she exhales, setting her drink down on the table beside her.

“You’re not my usual clientele.”

“I don’t care.” My voice is raw, scraping against something inside me that feels close to breaking. “Just do it.”

She studies me, taking her time, eyes slicing through my composure like a scalpel. She sees too much. She always has.

“This abouther?”

My teeth clench, and my pulse roars.

“Questions aren’t part of the bargain.” My voice is low with warning.

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