Page 36 of Unholy Obsession

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, but I see the hesitation, the way her body betrays her even now.

“You need to eat.” I rise, heading to the kitchen. “Stay.”

She grumbles under her breath but doesn’t argue.

I take my time preparing something simple—grilled chicken, fresh greens, a slice of lightly buttered bread. When I return, she watches me warily as I set the tray down beside her.

“Lunch.”

She eyes it, pride warring with hunger. I pick up a forkful of salad and hold it out. “Open.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but her body decides for her. She opens her mouth, taking the bite and chewing slowly. I watch her, cataloging every shift and every subtle flicker of emotion.

“Good girl.”

She glares, but there’s color in her cheeks. My cock, already half-hard from watching her defiance give way to need, stiffens fully.

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.

“I’m not.” Another bite. Another moment where she lets me take care of her. “I’m feeding you.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Of course you don’t.” I smirk. “But you’re getting it anyway.”

She huffs but keeps eating. The fight in her never fully dies, but it softens at the edges, dulled by a full stomach. And by something else she isn’t ready to name yet.

By the time the tray is empty, she looks almost… content.

I set it aside and meet her gaze. The air between us hums, quieter now, less combative. Charged in a different way.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper.

I don’t know if she realizes how much that single concession means.

“You’re welcome.”

As her eyes slide away from mine, I feel it again, the warring ache, satisfaction, andneedin my chest at having her so near.

She’shere.

And she’s more than even my dark, little, obsessive heart could ever dream she could be.

FIFTEEN

MOIRA

The sun driftslower in the sky, and I let out a shaky breath. It’s almost sunset. I’ve almost made it through this whole goddamn day without losing my mind.

Almost.

Every other second, I was right there—on the edge of screaming my safe word and ending this whole stupid experiment in self-discipline.

Because let’s be real: I don’t do discipline. Ask any of the nuns back at The Sisters of the Immaculate Heart Academy for Girls. They tried. They failed.

I tug at the silk binding my wrists. It doesn’t give. Of course, it doesn’t. Bane’s too precise for that, too maddeningly perfect at tying me just tight enough that I can’t slip free but not enough to actually hurt me. It’s like he knows exactly how to push me to the edge but never lets me fall.

I should hate that. I do hate that.

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