Page 95 of Unholy Obsession

“I completely understand the need for dismissal after this sacrilegious infraction,” Bane adds solemnly because he’s still in some kind of confessional mood now.

Agnes wags a gnarled finger at him. “Oh, you won’t get out of this so easily, young man.”

Bane blinks. I blink. We both brace. Shit. This could cost him hisjob.

“This church was twenty grand in the hole when you showed up. The bishop stuck you with us because we had no endowment, no resources, and our last priest was an embezzling jackass.” She straightens, looking him up and down with the judgmental power of someone who has seen men fall and rise again. “I had my doubts about you. I thought you were too young. Too arrogant. Too…British.”

Bane bows his head slightly. “I understand.”

She narrows her eyes. “But things have turned around since you’ve been here. People have come back to church. You actually care about the folks around here, and I reckon that’s what we’ve been needing all along.”

There’s a long, excruciating pause.

Then she levels him with a gaze so sharp I feel it in my bones. “But I expect the bishop’s got a copy of that marriage license.”

Bane doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. He lies with the kind of conviction that really makes you wonder if he should’ve been a politician instead of a priest. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “And I’ll tell the congregation the good news next Sunday.”

I would strangle him if I weren’t still frozen in shock. Instead, I just gape, then snap my mouth shut when I realize I’m gaping.

Agnes eyes both of us up and down—takes in my bare arms, Bane’s half-dressed state, and the general disaster zone of our clothing strewn across the holy ground—and then snaps, “Well, for God’s sake, go get yourselves cleaned up before anyone else comes in and sees you like this.”

Bane extends a hand, and I scramble to book it toward the back of the church. He’s not far behind, scooping up our clothes. Because, of course, the man is still in crisis mode but remains polite enough to gather my things.

The second we’re across the lawn and behind the tall gate of his parish house, I whirl on him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Your wife?” I hiss.

He looks down at me, utterly unrepentant. “Did you have a better idea?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Damn it.

No.

But still.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Oh my god, I’ve been fake-married for less than five minutes, and I already want a divorce.”

He smirks. “You’ll have to get in line, little heathen.”

I glare at him. “Oh, you think this is funny? This is your career, Bane. Yourlife.”

His expression softens just a fraction. “And what about you?”

I hesitate. I don’t have a good answer. Because my life? It’s been chaos from the start. But Bane? Bane had a future here. A purpose. And last night, I might have ruined it.

I chew my lip. “What are we going to do?”

His smirk fades, and he lifts a hand to brush a wild curl from my face. “We’re going to get married. If you’ll have me.”

His voice is steady. Confident.

Then the bastard drops to one knee right there in the dewy grass. “Moira Callaghan, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I thought I was done gaping open-mouthed for the morning, but apparently not.

I slap him hard on the shoulder. “What are you doing down there? Get up!”

“Not until you answer me.” His eyes darken. “But feel free to keep slapping me. Just try not to leave a mark. I do have to go preach a sermon in a minute.”

“Be serious!”

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