Page 152 of Unholy Obsession

A flashlight slams against the bars.

“Moira Callaghan,” a female officer calls.

I jerk upright, my stomach pitching. My head is still a fucking mess, and my shoes—god, why was I wearing these tight-ass pinchy Mary Janes when those fucking assholes decided to kidnap me?

Pushing to my feet, I swallow against the nausea. Then I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms as I follow the officer out.

A grim-faced worker hands me my belongings in a sad little plastic bag.

Domhnall’s credit card.

My key fob—to a car I currently don’t have.

A half-empty pack of cinnamon gum.

A ponytail holder.

Don’t remember where I acquired those last two from but shrug and pop a piece of gum in my mouth. Cinnamon. My favorite.

Then, with all the grace and dignity of someone definitelynotarrested for public intoxication and unauthorized unicorn theft?—

I skip out of the jail.

It’s tradition.

For luck.

What can I say? I’ve had a few drunk and disorderlies in my day. A handful of indecent exposures.

But FOMO?

Yeah. That’s never been my problem.

Kira is waiting when I get outside, leaning against her car like some kind of sleek, put-together goddess of competence and emotional stability. Unlike Dom, she’s not here to give me the world’s most disappointing TED Talk about my life choices. She just smiles and pulls me into a hug so big and warm that I half expect her to absorb me like an amoeba of goodwill and expensive perfume.

“I’m so glad to see you’re okay.”

Tentatively, I smile back. “Thanks,” I say, voice quiet, but my body already betrays me by sinking into her hold like an exhausted cat.

She gestures toward the car, but before she can get inside, I remember Domhnall’s car and launch into an explanation about how we have to go break it out of car jail. Kira just waves me off.

“Isaak can send one of his guys to do it later in the week. Domhnall’s got, like, five cars, right? He’s not going to miss it.”

I stare at her. Then, before she can dodge, I give her another hug, squeezing the stuffing out of her.

“You beautiful, competent, problem-solving genius!” I announce, squeezing tighter. “If you were a cake, I’d stuff my face with you.”

She laughs, but it’s the indulgent kind like she’s used to dealing with me at full volume.

She lets me hold on for far longer than socially acceptable, her arms tightening around me at just the right moment before finally pulling back.

“I’m so sorry you had a bad night, Moira.”

I swallow hard. My throat’s gone tight, and I hate it. I hate how easily she gets past my defenses. How she doesn’t even have to try.

When we let go, she holds onto my forearms, pinning me down with one of those therapist looks I can already tell are her secret weapon.

“You know, over the phone, you asked me for help. I’m happy for that help to extend as far as this car ride, but I can also connect you with people who could do more than that. We could get youactualhelp.”

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