Page 162 of Unholy Obsession

I stretch, yawn, and shake out my hands as I push off the couch. My tea sits cold and forgotten on the coffee table, a half-hearted attempt at self-care that never quite sticks.

Whatever. Pizza is better.

The bell rings again, sharp and insistent. Jesus, impatient much? I’m already halfway to the door, tugging my hoodie straight and reaching for my wallet.

I yank it open with a breezy, “Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on?—”

And then I freeze.

Because it’s not a delivery guy standing on Kira’s porch.

It’s Bane Blackwolf.

My ruin. My obsession.

Myhusband.

My stomach doesdropthen, so fast I feel like I’m plummeting off a cliff, wind rushing past my ears, heart slamming against my ribs.

He’s so goddamn gorgeous in a black suit, hands in his pockets, looking so sharp he could slice right through me. Like he’s been waiting for this moment. Like heplannedthis moment.

The world tilts, and I grip the doorframe.

I wasn’t ready.

IthoughtI was. I thought the pills and the therapy and the trying would make me immune to this.

But no. No, because my body is already betraying me—heart racing, breath catching, fingers twitching with the memory of what it feels like to touch him.

“Moira.”

His voice is a slow drag of gravel and heat, and it wrecks me.

I wet my lips and force a smile that doesn’t fit. “Bane.”

His eyes darken. He expected something else. Sharp words. A flirty jab. The old Moira, crackling and unhinged. But she’s gone. Or caged. Or sleeping.

Or maybe she’s still here, pressing up against the bars, waiting for him to get close enough to sink her teeth into.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is hoarse.

His lips press together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then he exhales, slow and steady, and says, “You’re coming with me.”

I laugh. Short, brittle. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

“You’re tangled up in my inheritance.” His gaze never wavers. “As my wife, you have to come to England.”

There’s a sharp crack inside my skull. Like something snapping back into place.

As my wife.As if it’s something real and not just a thing I dreamed up that one time.

As if it’s binding.

My pulse skitters. I scrape a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the knotted curls. “You’re shitting me.”

“No.”

“Christ.” I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my palms against my temples. “Did youmakethis happen?”

---