Page 163 of Unholy Obsession

Silence.

He’s justwatchingme, that quiet, steady, terrifying way he does.

Oh my god, that was just a shot in the dark, but hedid, didn’t he?

“You fucker.” It comes out on a breath, a laugh, a goddamn whimper.

He steps closer. Just a fraction. Just enough to make the space between us feel like a living thing, thick and hungry. “Pack a bag.”

My stomach clenches. “And if I say no?”

A ghost of a smirk flickers across his lips.Therehe is. The man who owns me. The man whoknowsme. “You won’t.”

I let out a sharp, shaky breath. Because he’s right. Because I never say no to him. Because I don’tknowhow to.

But I don’t want to.

“Fine. But if you think for one second I’m just gonna fall in line?—”

“I would never.” His voice is too smooth. Too certain. “Iknowyou’re going to fight me the whole way.”

His lips twitch. Like he’slooking forward to it.

And God help me, I think I might be, too.

FIFTY-EIGHT

BANE

She’s quiet.Too quiet.

I expected claws. Teeth. That vicious mouth lashing me open the second we sat down. I expected either a fight or to find her on her knees weeping in apology and begging for me back now that my father’s dead.

But instead, Moira is calm. Moira is distant

And I fucking hate it.

The jet hums around us, a soft undercurrent to the silence between us. It’s not just any jet—it’s a Blackwolf jet. A thing of obscene wealth, all buttery leather seats and polished mahogany paneling, with gold accents that catch the dim cabin lighting. It smells of expensive whiskey and money. Money I never wanted, money that came with a legacy I’ve spent years trying to run from.

But now? Now I’ve got a kingdom built from my father’s sins waiting for me in England, and I made sure to drag Moira with me.

She’s curled up in the window seat, her knees pulled up, bare feet tucked beneath her. She should look out of place here. This jet was built for politicians and billionaires, not for the girl who used to drink three dollar wine with me in parking lots at three a.m., her bare feet on the dashboard, laughing like the night belonged to us and no one else.

But she doesn’t. She looks like she belongs everywhere and nowhere and like she’s made peace with being untethered.

She doesn’t so much as blink when I unbuckle myself from my original seat across the aisle and slide in beside her. If she notices the way my thigh presses against hers in the too-close space, she doesn’t react. She doesn’t roll her eyes when the flight attendant asks if we want anything, and I order whiskey, neat. Or even flinch when I say, “And whatever she wants.”

And then?—

Instead of talking to me or even looking my way, she pulls out a notebook.

A fucking notebook. It’s veryMoira, the cover a chaotic mix of dark pink and black splashes. And it’s clearly well-used.

I watch, rigid, as she flips it open to the middle and starts writing.

“What’s that?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

“My journal.” She doesn’t look up; she just keeps moving the pen across the page.

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