Page 70 of Unholy Obsession

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t expect to have this conversation twice, Father Blackwood. If you value your position, I suggest you reflect deeply on your priorities.”

The call ended with a softclick, but the echo of her words lingered.

So it’s come to this.

A choice.

My calling. Or Moira.

My faith saved me when I was nothing but a hollow man—a shadow of myself, drowning in the wreckage of my selfishness.

I clawed my way out of that darkness, not with strength, but with surrender. I turned to the Lord, cracked open and raw, and found something resembling salvation.

Faith and serving others gave me purpose. It wasn’t just a vocation; it was what stitched me back together and made me a man.

I believe I received a genuine calling from the Lord—to go and do likewise for others. To reach into the darkness for others the way God once did for me. To offer light. To offer hope.

But here’s the thing about light and darkness. Sometimes, darkness doesn’t smother light, it shapes it. Sometimes, they coexist without blurring, tangled so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Moira is both.

And in the end, I suppose there’s no choice at all. Not really.

I smooth my hand down her back now, feeling the curve of her spine beneath my fingers and the steady thrum of her heartbeat pressed against my chest.

“I won’t be home tonight.” My voice is low, like if I say it softly enough, it won’t matter.

Moira pulls back, her brow furrowing, confusion flickering across her face. “But it’s not a Saturday.”

I force a small smile. “There’s Midnight Mass tonight and then a Christmas service in the morning.”

Her hands tighten around my waist, fingers digging in like she’s trying to keep me from slipping through her grip. “Will you come over after?”

“After the service tomorrow, of course.”

I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead, letting them linger there longer than necessary. My chest aches with the weight of her. Of this.

“There’s just not enough time between services,” I add, pulling back slightly and making sure to keep my face neutral.

But she sees through it. She always does.

She frowns, tilting her head, studying me like she’s searching for the cracks beneath the surface. “Are you sure I couldn’t come stay the night just this once at your place?”

The question hits harder than it should. I feel my muscles go tight. “Things are… a little strained with the bishop at themoment,” I admit carefully, each word measured and deliberate. “It’s not the best idea, in case anyone sees you.”

Her sigh is loud, frustrated, her breath warm against my collarbone. She buries her face into my chest, her arms clutching tighter.

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” Her voice is muffled by my chest.

I close my eyes, resting my chin on top of her head, and inhale the familiar cinnamon scent of her.

“Of course it is,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her hair. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

But it’s not.

These will probably be the last two services I ever perform as an ordained priest.

I hold her tighter, memorizing the feel of her and the way her body fits against mine like a puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing. My hands tremble slightly, hidden in the small of her back, and I pray she doesn’t notice.

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