Page 142 of Unholy Obsession

His voice changes. No more bluster, no more exasperation.

I swallow hard. “Just tell me. Did it work?”

A long pause. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Mads called and said she’s all right. We’re all safe. Whatever you did, it worked.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. Relief crashes through me so hard I nearly choke on it.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Good.”

Domhnall exhales on the other end. “Where are you?”

I glance up just in time to see the giant green highway sign flash overhead.

Austin.

“I—uh. Apparently, I’m about to be in Austin.”

Domhnall mutters a long stream of Gaelic curses under his breath. “Jesus, Moira. You need to?—”

But I don’t hear the rest because suddenly, the itch is worse than ever. My hands shake as I hang up on Domhn. My whole body thrums with electricity. I don’t know what I need. To fight? To break something? To break myself?

All I know is that I can’t stop. I can’t slow down.

Everyone’s safe, but it doesn’t change anything. I can’t go back to Bane or it just starts all over again.

I yank the wheel to take the 6thStreet exit.

Losing myself in the famous Austin bar scene sounds perfect just about now.

FIFTY-TWO

BANE

I sitat the club’s bar, my fingers wrapped around a glass of whisky I’m not drinking. The ice has melted, diluting the amber liquid into something weaker.

Quinn told me to feel my fucking feelings. To sit in them. To let them do their worst.

I have a better idea.

I could drink myself into oblivion. Numb it all out. Let the alcohol cauterize the gaping wound Moira left in me. It would be so easy to slide back into old habits. To drown in the dark instead of facing it.

But what’s the point?

Tomorrow, the pain will still be there. The hole inside me will still be a bottomless, black fucking void that not even the best whisky can fill.

So I sit. I breathe. I let it settle in my chest like a second heartbeat—pounding, pulsing, demanding my attention.

Punishment.

This is what I deserve. To be left. To be hollowed out and wrecked.

Quinn’s whip could tear the flesh from my back, and it still wouldn’t compare to this. This pain is deeper, a sickness in my soul I can’t sweat out or bleed away. This is the kind of agony I’ve spent my whole life outrunning.

And now, I have to sit in it.

Like a good little boy taking his medicine.

I stare down into the glass. My reflection stares back. A stranger. A man who let the only good thing he ever had slip through his fingers.

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