Page 45 of Unholy Obsession

BANE

The downtown coffeeshop bustles with the easy lull of morning business. Machines hiss and churn, voices rise and fall, and the smell of roasted beans fills the air.

Bishop Caldwell sits across from me, sharp-eyed and patient, her hands curled around a porcelain cup. She’s a steady woman, both in faith and presence, but even she can’t quite keep the curiosity from her gaze as I chuckle and put my phone away.

“So?” she prompts, lifting a brow. “How are things? With the congregation, I mean.”

I clear my throat and take a slow sip of my black coffee. “Steady. No great changes, but no great losses either.”

She hums, watching me over the rim of her cup. “And yet you seem... distracted.”

Fuck. No more thinking about Moira’s pink little pussy that’s probably all wet and pulsing right now. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to focus. “The budget is tighter than ever. We had to push back the repairs on the rectory roof anothermonth. And Mrs. Pearson has, once again, taken issue with Agnes over pew placement.”

Her lips twitch in wry amusement. “As I recall, she’s been fighting that war since long before you arrived.”

“I suspect it will outlive us both.”

She chuckles, but the knowing gleam remains in her eye. “And yet still, your mind is elsewhere.”

It is. It absolutely is. Three weeks ago, I laid down the law for Moira. Set expectations and stripped her of choices that had been leading her down a path of chaos. And she?—

She’s flourished.

I roll my thumb over the lip of my coffee cup, the warm ceramic grounding me as flashes of the past weeks fill my mind. The first few days, she fought the structure I gave her, bristling, testing boundaries with a sharp tongue and restless hands. But discipline and consistency won out. By the second week, her obedience no longer felt forced. By the third, something in her settled, her edges smoothing, her wildness tempered—not extinguished, never that, but refined.

This morning, I kissed her forehead before she left for the shelter. Her first day back. A test of sorts. One I’m eager to see her pass.

“Bane?” Bishop Caldwell’s voice pulls me back.

I set my coffee down and offer her a wry smile. “You’re right. My mind does wander. A thousand apologies. It’s inexcusable. I know how valuable your time is.” I mean it sincerely. I understand she’s run ragged dealing with all the churches in the diocese. Taking time to meet with all the priests individually, in addition to coming to visit the churches, keeps her schedule full to overflowing.

She studies me with that piercing gaze of hers, the one that sees too much. “Wandering anywhere in particular?”

Yes. To a woman who kneels so sweetly now, who opens so easily under my hands. To the way her breath catches when I call her my good girl. To the promise I made her this morning—that if she behaves and doesn’t chase pleasure I haven’t given, I’ll take her to play at Carnal tonight.

“Just the usual,” I fib smoothly. It’s not exactly a lie. Being with Moira is my new normal.

She smirks, unconvinced, but lets it go. “Well, distracted or not, I do have something to discuss with you.”

I force myself to listen, to engage, but half my mind remains with Moira. I imagine her at the shelter, hands busy, mouth soft with focus. I imagine her remembering my words and my warning. I imagine the reward she’ll earn if she obeys.

I can’t wait to see if she’ll pass my test.

The bishop finally folds her hands around her tea, fingers delicate but firm, and regards me with a quiet intensity.

“You know I’m not just your bishop,” she says, voice measured. “I’m meant to be a shepherd to you.”

The weight of her gaze feels too heavy for the light monthly check-in I expected today’s meeting to be.

I nod, offering nothing in return. Silence has always been my refuge, safest when words might betray too much.

She takes a slow sip from her cup before setting it down with precise care. “It has been reported to me,” she continues, each word deliberate, “that you have been seen taking walks with a woman. A woman who follows you into your house.”

The words land like a stone thrown in a pond, disturbing my calm. A muscle in my jaw twitches, but otherwise, I force myself to remain still, my hands flat against the table.

Of course, people talk. Of course, even here, where I’ve worked to build something new, the past is never entirely out of reach. As the son of my father, gossip and gossip rags used to be my constant nuisance.

The bishop watches me carefully. “You understand, of course, that your heart is not yours alone.” Her gaze becomes more pointed. “Nor is your house. You are living on parish property, and people… gossip.”

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