Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
I wasn’t ready.
I thought I was. I thought the pills and the therapy and the trying would make me immune to this.
But no. No, because my body is already betraying me—heart racing, breath catching, fingers twitching with the memory of what it feels like to touch him.
“Moira.”
His voice is a slow drag of gravel and heat, and it wrecks me.
I wet my lips and force a smile that doesn’t fit. “Bane.”
His eyes darken. He expected something else. Sharp words. A flirty jab. The old Moira, crackling and unhinged. But she’s gone. Or caged. Or sleeping.
Or maybe she’s still here, pressing up against the bars, waiting for him to get close enough to sink her teeth into.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is hoarse.
His lips press together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then he exhales, slow and steady, and says, “You’re coming with me.”
I laugh. Short, brittle. “Yeah? And why’s that?”
“You’re tangled up in my inheritance.” His gaze never wavers. “As my wife, you have to come to England.”
There’s a sharp crack inside my skull. Like something snapping back into place.
As my wife. As if it’s something real and not just a thing I dreamed up that one time.
As if it’s binding.
My pulse skitters. I scrape a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the knotted curls. “You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
“Christ.” I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my palms against my temples. “Did you make this happen?”
Silence.
He’s just watching me, that quiet, steady, terrifying way he does.
Oh my god, that was just a shot in the dark, but he did, didn’t he?
“You fucker.” It comes out on a breath, a laugh, a goddamn whimper.
He steps closer. Just a fraction. Just enough to make the space between us feel like a living thing, thick and hungry. “Pack a bag.”
My stomach clenches. “And if I say no?”
A ghost of a smirk flickers across his lips. There he is. The man who owns me. The man who knows me. “You won’t.”
I let out a sharp, shaky breath. Because he’s right. Because I never say no to him. Because I don’t know how to.
But I don’t want to.
“Fine. But if you think for one second I’m just gonna fall in line—”
“I would never.” His voice is too smooth. Too certain. “I know you’re going to fight me the whole way.”
His lips twitch. Like he’s looking forward to it.
And God help me, I think I might be, too.
FIFTY-EIGHT
BANE
She’s quiet. Too quiet.
I expected claws. Teeth. That vicious mouth lashing me open the second we sat down. I expected either a fight or to find her on her knees weeping in apology and begging for me back now that my father’s dead.
But instead, Moira is calm. Moira is distant
And I fucking hate it.
The jet hums around us, a soft undercurrent to the silence between us. It’s not just any jet—it’s a Blackwolf jet. A thing of obscene wealth, all buttery leather seats and polished mahogany paneling, with gold accents that catch the dim cabin lighting. It smells of expensive whiskey and money. Money I never wanted, money that came with a legacy I’ve spent years trying to run from.
But now? Now I’ve got a kingdom built from my father’s sins waiting for me in England, and I made sure to drag Moira with me.
She’s curled up in the window seat, her knees pulled up, bare feet tucked beneath her. She should look out of place here. This jet was built for politicians and billionaires, not for the girl who used to drink three dollar wine with me in parking lots at three a.m., her bare feet on the dashboard, laughing like the night belonged to us and no one else.
But she doesn’t. She looks like she belongs everywhere and nowhere and like she’s made peace with being untethered.
She doesn’t so much as blink when I unbuckle myself from my original seat across the aisle and slide in beside her. If she notices the way my thigh presses against hers in the too-close space, she doesn’t react. She doesn’t roll her eyes when the flight attendant asks if we want anything, and I order whiskey, neat. Or even flinch when I say, “And whatever she wants.”
And then—
Instead of talking to me or even looking my way, she pulls out a notebook.
A fucking notebook. It’s very Moira, the cover a chaotic mix of dark pink and black splashes. And it’s clearly well-used.
I watch, rigid, as she flips it open to the middle and starts writing.
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice low and rough.
“My journal.” She doesn’t look up; she just keeps moving the pen across the page.
“Since when do you journal?”
“Since I started tracking my moods.”
Her voice is clinical. Distant. Like she’s talking about the goddamn weather.
I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she sits there, perfectly composed, writing her thoughts like they aren’t meant to be torn out of her, spat at me, and fought over until we’re both raw.