Page 20 of Unholy Obsession

Without a word, I scoop her up into my arms.

Her gasp is soft, startled, but her arms loop around my neck like she belongs there.

My gut tightens.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I keep striding forward, carrying her down the familiar path I’ve walked over and over these past few weeks, as if each step wasn’t a step toward damnation.

She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.

Not until we’re almost at the church.

Her voice is quiet but not weak. Never weak. “Are you real, or am I imagining you?”

I should ignore her. I should let the silence stretch between us. I should remember that this moment—her body curled against mine, her trust so freely given—is an illusion.

But I don’t.

“Do you often imagine me?”

She hums, something wistful curling in the sound. “Sometimes.”

The word slams into me like a fist to the gut. My grip tightens around her instinctively, my body warring between smug satisfaction and something darker.

She thinks of me. Imagines me. I shouldn’t crave that knowledge, but it unfurls inside me, warm and insidious. I want to know how often. How much. In what way.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I shove open the gate to the parish house, the rain falling harder now, soaking through my coat.

“I’m real,” I growl.

She shivers against me, her face pressing into my chest, seeking warmth.

I move faster.

The gate swings shut behind us, and the cobblestones glisten with rain. Her breath is warm against my throat as I climb the steps of the parish house, my keys already in my free hand.

I should let her go.

I should set her down.

But I don’t.

I shoulder open the door, my grip on Moira unwavering. We step inside, dripping water across the threshold, and I shut the door quickly, cradling her tighter before carrying her straight to the bathroom.

The moment we cross into the smaller space, I reach over and twist the faucet, a rush of water filling the tub. Steam curls into the air, warming the chill between us. Only then do I realize—I’m still wearing the mask on my face.

I pull it off, and the second my face is revealed, she gasps.

Her gasp slices through the air like the snap of a whip. Her eyes widen, shock swirling with something raw.

I expect words—accusations, questions—but she gives me silence instead as she shivers in the damp glow of the bathroom light.

Shame crashes through me.

For years, I’ve fought to keep these two halves of myself separate. To lock Bane away and let Father Blackwood atone for his sins. But now, standing before this bruised and vulnerable woman, it’s so clear: I was never truly hidden.

I kneel before her, the motion both instinct and surrender.

I force my hands to stay steady as I untie her boots, the sodden laces resisting. When the first shoe finally slips free, I set it aside carefully, almost reverently.

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