Page 47 of Unholy Obsession

I shrug. “A few times a week.”

She gives a knowing hum, fingers steepling. “They need someone willing to see them. To remind them they aren’t lost causes.”

“They’re not.” My voice is steel. “They don’t get visitors. They don’t get forgiveness. They don’t even get a phone call from the outside. Most of them got thrown away long before they ever ended up behind bars. The least I can do is show up.”

Her lips press together, thoughtful. Then, “It’s good work. Just don’t neglect the ones who sit in your pews every Sunday, the ones looking toyoufor guidance.”

I roll my shoulders, letting the tension settle. “I’m aware.”

She studies me another beat, then nods. “And Advent preparations?”

I lean back in my chair. “The choir’s rehearsing, the volunteers will handle the decorating after Sunday’s service, and I’ve got midnight Mass lined up.”

She hums. “And the food drive?”

“It’s happening,” I confirm. “But I’m expanding it. A lot of the guys inside have families barely scraping by. I want to make sure they get something too: care packages, food, supplies, whatever they need to get through the season.”

Bishop Caldwell leans back. “Good. The church should serve more than just those who walk through its doors.”

I nod once. “Agreed.”

“Then I suggest you stay focused on the work. And don’t get waylaid by…distractions.”

She watches me carefully, as if waiting for me to falter, as if she expects some further admission. But I give her none.

The conversation shifts back to logistics and schedules, but the weight of her words lingers.

Long after I leave the cafe, long after I walk the familiar streets back to my home, her voice echoes in my mind.

I took a risk on you.

Figure it out.

Your heart is not yours alone.

TWENTY

MOIRA

The neonred glow of Carnal’s sign flickers against the rain-slicked pavement as we pull up to the club. My heart is already tap-dancing in my chest, a wicked little beat of excitement. It’s been too long since I’ve been here, too long since I’ve felt this rush, and even longer since I arrived on the arm of someone who actually meant something to me. Oh, wait. I’ve never arrived on the arm of anyone who actually meant anything to me.

I giggle at myself, feeling flushed with happiness as I suck on my signature cherry lollipop. Bane bought me a bagful the other day to help satiate my oral fixation.

He steps out first, the heavy door of the sleek black car swinging open with practiced ease. I was a good girl all day at the shelter, and now I get my reward.

Bane’s always in control and composed. But I see the slight pause in his breath and the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides. He might be cool, but he’s feeling this too.

I know sometimes his control is just a front. Like earlier when I’d all but burst through the front door of the parish house,practically vibrating from the afterglow of a good deed. “You should’ve seen me!” I announced, kicking off my shoes. “I was a damn angel today.”

Bane was already home, rolling his big, stupid, unfairly sexy shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the world. He barely glanced up. “That so?”

I sauntered toward him, still high on my own self-satisfaction. “Mm-hmm. Spent all day at the shelter. Scrubbed some toilets. Didn’t get into a single fistfight. I’m practically a saint myself. How ‘bout you?”

He just exhaled, long and slow, like he was carrying something heavy. “Long day.”

I cocked a hip, crossing my arms. “At the church?”

He shook his head and ran a hand through his messy dark hair like some tortured hero in a gothic novel. “I met with the bishop. Then spent the afternoon at the prison.”

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