Page 91 of Unholy Obsession

She shoves me with her palms on my chest, and I stumble back.

“What happened then?” she asks, eyes burning.

A laugh forces its way out of my throat, sharp and empty. “Nothing. My father took care of it, of course. He paid the guy off after he recovered. Buried the records. And I barely cared. I was such a selfish little shit. I didn’t feel athing.”

“Until what?” she challenges. “What changed?”

My mouth opens—and nothing comes out.

Because this is the part I never say. The part I never let myselfthink.

“My mom,” I finally force out, voice thick. “She’d died a couple of years before.” I exhale hard, willing the words to keep coming, to cut me open like I deserve. “But my father always told me she was just another gold-digging whore. That she neverwanted me. That he was the one who wanted an heir, and she just used the pregnancy to trap him.”

Moira stays silent, but I can feel her watching me.

I don’t look at her. I can’t.

I focus on her knees. The candlelight flickering against the floor. Anything but her eyes.

“I believed him.” My lips twist, bitter. “Because why wouldn’t I? He said she’d signed me away without a second thought. That she never fought for me. And then one day… I was looking for something in my father’s office.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat.

Say it.

“I found proof. Court papers. She never stopped fighting for custody until the day she died of cancer. She was still filing for visitation rights even when I was sixteen.”

Moira exhales sharply.

My jaw locks. “My father fucking stole her from me. He wanted a trophy for a son. An heir of his own creation. But my mother, she just wantedme. All that time. She’d wantedme. And I—I just believed him and never fought forher.”

I hate myself for how easily I let him shape me. How desperate I was for every ounce of his approval.

How pathetic I was, playing along with his game. Trying tobehim.

I drop back to my knees.

And I look up at her.

I beg.

“Kick me again. But this time for real. I can take it. Please. Humiliate me. Hurt me.”

Her mouth presses into a tight line. Then, slow and deliberate, she points to the ground.

“Face to the floor.”

I don’t hesitate. I drop.

And pray for once in my life to feel the weight of my sins pressing in on me.

I hear her hop off the altar and watch, my cheek cemented to the cold wood. Her bare feet walk out of my sight and she pauses, maybe to get something from a pew? Then she comes back toward me.

“Shove your pants down.”

I obey immediately, lifting my ass enough to unbuckle and shove my pants down. Whatever she’s about to do, I just pray she makes it hurt.

Almost as soon as I’ve got my pants down, she smacks my butt with somethingthuddythat’s barely more than a gentle massage. I should know. I used it on her once.

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