Page 77 of Unholy Obsession

And as I stand there, holding my own candle, the warmth of it trembling in my hands?—

Iseeher.

Moira.

I gasp and blink, looking again as if my eyes have deceived me. My candle flickers with my sudden inhale of breath.

But it’s her, standing at the very back of the church, just beyond the last row of pews. She’s holding a candle, but she’s not dressed for church. Her curly hair is wild and untamed, catching the faint glow of candlelight like a halo gone rogue. Her coat is slightly crooked, and though warm candlelight blooms on her cheeks and forehead, her eyes are shadows.

How long has she been here?

The moment our eyes meet, it feels like the world stops spinning. Like every note ofSilent Nightfades into nothing, leaving only the pounding of my heart.

She doesn’t move. Just stands there, her gaze locked on mine, her expression unreadable—something between defiance and longing.

I swallow hard, the candle trembling slightly in my hand.

I shouldn’t look.

But I can’t look away.

The hymn comes to an end, the final note lingering like a held breath.

“Go in peace,” I say softly, my voice rough around the edges.

The congregation responds, but I don’t hear them.

Because all I can see is her as the congregants file out, lights held aloft in their hands.

Moira.

Maybe faith was never about choosing between darkness and light.

Maybe it’s about learning to stand in both. Night and day in harmony.

And as I extinguish my candle, I feel the glow.

Not from the flame.

From her.

I step forward once more. Toward her. Toward hope.

THIRTY

MOIRA

The service was beautiful.

I came in late and stayed here in the back. But watching Bane do his thing is nothing short of… magical.

He transforms up there. Like he’s a whole different person, except not really. Somehow, he’s still him, but more. Both the dominant man I—um—have strong feelings toward(read: want to climb like a tree) and this calming, radiant presence that casts a spell over everyone in the room.

It’s wild.

Everyone felt something while he talked. Even me. Even though he was just reciting old words from an even older book about shit I don’t believe in. But it didn’t matter because he made it all come alive. Like he breathed life into them. Made them feel meaningful and useful and like maybe, just maybe, there’s something bigger than us out there that loves us.

I mean, the way his voice filled the space, soft but strong?—

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