Page 68 of Unholy Obsession

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s what photographers do.”

The paparazzo tries to wriggle free. Bad idea.

Domhnall shoves him against a car, the impact loud enough to make me wince. People are starting to notice now. Phones come out. Flashes ignite.

Bane steps in then, his arm coming around my waist, lifting me back gently but firmly. His eyes lock with Domhnall’s, and oh boy, here we go. The testosterone showdown.

“Let him go,” Bane says to Domhn, calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

Domhnall hesitates, just for a second.

He drops the guy like trash but scoops his camera off the ground. He yanks the mini-SD card out of it, then tosses the camera back to the photographer. The photographer stumbles, catches it, then grins. He just pulls out his phone and starts snapping pics again.

“This is gold,” he mutters, grinning. “Callaghan family drama. Love it.”

Domhnall lunges, but Bane moves faster, stepping in front of him with a quiet authority that makes even my hot-headed brother pause.

“Not worth it,” Bane says.

Domhnall glares. At Bane. At me. At the world.

And that’s when the real circus arrives. More paparazzi flood the back parking lot like vultures smelling blood. Flashes explode around us, blinding and relentless.

Domhnall tries to shield Mads, who finally snaps out of her trance. She flinches at the lights and throws her arms over her head.

Bane pulls me closer, his body a solid wall between me and the chaos. But it’s too late. I hear the shutter click. A perfect shot:

Domhnall, furious, his hand still clenched into a fist.

Mads, fragile and wide-eyed.

Me, mid-yell, hair wild, expression wilder.

And Bane, towering behind me, protective and dark, his hand firm on my waist.

One photo.

A thousand stories will be splashed all over the internet tomorrow about tech billionaire Domhnall’s lunatic fiancé and sex-addict sister.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Christmas Eve, Mid-morning

BANE

The faint scentof fresh laundry greets me when I step off the elevator at Moira’s penthouse apartment. No doubt the cotton-scented candles she likes to burn. It always makes the place feel homey. She told me once she likes the smell because it makes her feel like a normal person with a normal life.

She’s waiting for me.

I don’t even have to see her to know it. I feel her—this buzzing, restless thing thrumming in the space where she’s pacing as I turn the corner. I hear her before I see her. The quick, uneven taps of her footsteps against the floor, like her anxiety has its own heartbeat.

When I round the corner, she freezes.

Her face—God. That face. Wide, dark eyes rimmed with worry, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s afraid if she lets go, the terror will spill out.

She knows where I’ve been. I had to have an emergency meeting with the bishop about everything that went down at the gala last night.

Her voice is a whisper, fragile and thin like it might snap under its own weight. “Do you still have a job?”

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