Page 63 of Unholy Obsession

Perfect.

I straighten my collar, smooth the front of my jacket, and walk toward her like I belong. Because that’s the trick. It’s not about sneaking. It’s about being invisible by standing in plain sight.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice low but threaded with quiet authority. She glances up, frazzled but polite enough not to ignore me completely. “I was told an attendee requested spiritual counsel. They asked me to come discreetly.”

Her eyes flick to the collar, then back to her clipboard, processing just enough to believe me without actually thinking. That’s the beauty of the uniform—it fills in the blanks for people. They see what they expect to see.

She doesn’t question me or ask for a name. She just jerks her thumb toward the door. “Down the hall, ballroom’s to the left.”

“Thank you.”

I slip inside before she can change her mind.

The hallway is dim and lined with crates and folded linens. Staff hustle by with trays of champagne flutes. No one looks at me twice.

I move through the corridors like smoke—silent and unnoticed.

I’m not here to be seen.

I’m here for Moira. To prove whatever point she needed to be proved by my presence. To meet her brother. To take her home where I can punish her properly for dragging us into this unnecessary chaos. I will be exacting. I will bring back order.

I move through the corridors, pulse steady, every step measured with precision. A man with a purpose. A man in control.

Until I push through the final door?—

And the world stops.

There she is.

Moira.

Time folds in on itself and slips sideways, as if the universe had been holding its breath for this very moment.

The noise of the gala—the dull roar of conversation, the clink of glass, the undercurrent of Christmas music—fades to a distant hum.

She stands under the glow of chandeliers that drip with crystals, each shard refracting light like constellations scattered just for her.

The golden warmth paints her skin in liquid gold hues that cascade over the slope of her shoulders and catch in the delicate hollow of her throat.

Her dress—fuck, her dress—is a dark, fluid thing that hugs every curve like it was designed with just her in mind. It drapes. It clings. Itbares.

My knees are weak, and all pretense at control evaporates as my eyes continue to trace her, incapable in this moment of doing anything else.

The truth is laid bare: I’m as under her spell now as I ever was.

Her hair is swept up, leaving her neck bare and vulnerable, the elegant curve of it leading down to a thin, silver chain resting against her collarbone—a chain I want to trace with my tongue. I want to taste where the cool metal meets her warm skin.

She laughs at something, her head tilted back just enough for me to see the curve of her throat, the faint pulse beating there like a siren’s call. Her mouth—Christ—her mouth is a perfect, wicked thing, soft and plush, curved in a way that makes me remember every filthy, sacred thing it’s ever done to me.

I feel it like a punch.

Low. Sharp. Hot.

A hunger buried so deep it’s practically in my bones, clawing its way to the surface.

But it’s more than that.

And I’m faced with the stark truth that this is more than just want—it’s need. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that doesn’t get sated, no matter how many times I’ve had her. No matter how many times I’ve told myself it’s enough.

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