Page 169 of Unholy Obsession

“To his right—my eldest brother, Charles. He’s got my father’s ambition but none of his charm. Next to him is Gabriella. Sharp and vicious, and she’ll smile while she’s shoving an icepick in your ribs. She’s one to watch.”

Moira’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest against my arm.

“The blond, three seats down? That’s Simon. He’s had everything handed to him, so he compensates by making everyone else miserable. Don’t engage.”

She exhales, muttering under her breath, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And the woman at the end, swirling her wine like she’d rather shatter the glass than drink from it? That’s Miriam. One of my father’s many discarded lovers and Simon’s mother. She’ll call youdearwhile digging the knife in.”

Moira lifts her chin, eyes bright with something reckless. “So many pointy objects.”

I glance down at her, noting the fire in her eyes. My blood heats.

Conversation around the table slows as we reach the last steps. Every head turns. Every gaze sharpens. They’re ready to carve Moira up and see what she’s made of.

I slide my hand over hers, fingers settling firmly over her knuckles. When she squeezes back, my entire chest expands.

Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them think what they want.

She’smine.

And I’m about to show them exactly what that means.

The moment we sit, as expected, the knives come out.

Moira sits beside me, her spine straight, her chin tipped up in the way she does when she’s already prepared for a fight. She thinks she’s ready. She doesn’t understand yet—this isn’t a fight.It’s a slow, deliberate unraveling. And they’ll enjoy every second of watching her come apart.

I immediately want to protect her, but I can see by the way she shoots a quick glare my way she won’t welcome it. I need to let her find her footing on her own first. It won’t do her any favors with the wolves if I don’t let her parry some first strikes and show them what she’s made of, either.

So grudgingly, I just nudge my chair closer and stare down my family.

Simon is the first to punch, his voice dripping with lazy cruelty. “Well, well. The stray he picked up finally made it to the big kid’s table.”

Moira doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the way her breath catches, the fraction of a second where she has to decide whether to ignore him or slit him open with her words.

She picks the latter. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” her brow scrunches adorably, “but I was raised not to lie.”

Gabriella lets out a sharp little laugh into her wine glass. Charles merely raises an eyebrow. Simon’s smirk widens, but there’s something mean curling at the edges now. He leans back, stretching out like he owns the room. “Feisty. Shame that won’t help you here.”

Moira’s fingers tighten around her fork. She’s still trying to play it cool, but I know her. I know how hard it is for her to sit still when she’s under attack. She’d rather throw the first punch and draw first blood. Fuck, I love her. Even as I know she’s inmyworld now, and here, we don’t waste effort when words can kill just as easily.

Still, it’s nice to see some fire back in her eyes, even if I instantly feel protective of her in this room of vipers.

Miriam, ever the elegant executioner, tilts her head, smiling with a mouth full of hidden razors. “I must admit, darling, I wasexpecting… well, someoneelse. Bane’s tastes have always run a bit more… polished.”

Moira turns to her, eyes sharp, but before she can fire back, Miriam keeps going, voice smooth. “But I suppose every man has his rebellions. And who could blame him? You’re such adelightful little scandal.”

The way she says it—delightful like an insult, scandal like a disease.

Moira’s eyes narrow. “And you’re his father’swhat, exactly? Beloved companion? Kept woman? Longest-running mistake?”

A hush falls over the table. Gabriella’s lips twitch. Simon grins outright. Even Rotterdam, ever the composed observer, flicks his gaze toward Miriam to see how she’ll react.

Miriam only smiles wider, but there’s something venomous underneath. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs, her fingers gliding over the rim of her wine glass. “If you have to ask, then you reallydon’tbelong here.”

Moira’s fingers twitch toward her knife.

I know the moment she’s about to snap—the tension in her shoulders, the tight breath, the way her eyes flash like she’s on the edge of lunging across the table and cutting this woman open with something sharper than silver.

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