Page 145 of Unholy Obsession

The words are out before I fully think them through, but I don’t regret them. Not when the alternative is sitting in my own misery, waiting for answers that won’t come. At least this is something tangible. Something I can fuckingdo.

“Yeah?” Caleb looks at me, eyes wide—the first time he’s looked me in the eye this entire conversation. “Oh my god, man, you’d save my fuckin’ life. That would be amazing. I just want to know he’s okay and—” He swallows again, looking away. “And for him to know that I love him. That I’m pulling for him. And that I’m so fucking sorry.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words, of his guilt, of his pain. They settle into the air between us, heavy and unspoken.

They’re his words, but they might as well be mine.

Wherever you are, Moira, I love you. I’m pulling for you. And I’m so fucking sorry.

FIFTY-THREE

MOIRA

Bar-crawlingon 6th Street on a Friday night is practically a fucking tradition in Austin. They close the whole street to traffic, turning it into a river of sweaty bodies and pulsing music spilling from bar to club to rooftop to gutter.

When I used to regularly come down to 6thStreet for a good time, I’d just turned eighteen and had no patience to wait three more years for access to all the fun. Thank god my fake ID guy was still in business since bad guys took my wallet yesterday. Fuck, was that yesterday? The day before?

I shake my head.

It’s officially time to get fucked up and let all this shit go.

The hours pass, the drinks flow, and I give into the electricity of the city on a Friday night. I finally find the perfect club—electric with bodies that move like a single, chaotic organism. It’s not just alive; I can feel it breathing. It pulses through me like a second heartbeat.

The mayhem is me, and I am the mayhem.

The fabulous insanity only escalates as the night deepens. The music thumps louder. Drinks get sloppier. Bodies press closer.

By last call, the whole street will be a writhing mess of drunk, horny, half-dressed heathens stumbling toward whatever bad choices will carry them into the morning.

I throw my arms up and spin.

Someone hands me a shot, and I toss it back, laughing. Liquid fire coats my throat, and heat spreads through my limbs. I move back into the center of the full, writhing dance floor. The crowd roars. A great undulating beast—pressing, pulling, moving as one.

I am everything and nothing, just sensation and sound and motion.

The bass from the club shakes the floor beneath my feet, vibrating up through my spine.Toxic Lovecomes on, SZA’s voice dripping like honey, Kendrick’s words slicing through me like a whip. The DJ mixes it with a dark, thrumming techno beat that turns my veins electric.

The pain in the lyrics doesn’t just seep into my skin—it fucking burns.

It’s in the way I move, in the roll of my hips, in the arch of my spine. My fingers dig into the air like I can pull something from it. Like I can rip myself open and let the music swallow me whole.

I feel Bane’s fingerprints ghosting over me. The bruises he left on my hips, my waist, my thighs. I hear the heat in his voice as his voice breaks, demanding the truth from me.

Say it. Tell me you love me.

My body remembers. The way he pinned me against the door. Then the countertop. Oh god, the way he filled me. He held me together even as I shattered in his hands.

And I remember the way his eyes burned when I lied to him and broke us apart with my own two hands.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I fling my arms up to the music, to the ceiling, to whatever god wants to take me.

I am a dark, broken angel, cracked down the center, wings outstretched as I plummet.

Fly, fly away, dark angel.

The lights strobe too fast. The floor tilts under my feet.

I blink, and the neon signs smear across the walls like wet paint. The air is crackling and alive, making my skin prickle.

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