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)
He looks pure. Untouchable. Like a true conduit to the divine.
And I—
I’m a fucking ink stain on a white page.
It’s easy to forget this part of him when he’s Mr. Kinky Dom, pinning me down and making me beg. When his teeth are on my skin and his voice is a growl in my ear. But this—this—is who he really is, isn’t it?
Bane deserves better than some two-bit slut.
The words slide into my head like they’ve always been there, waiting.
They taste like acid. And truth.
I step further into the shadows, my body vibrating with too much energy. My skin feels tight like it doesn’t fit right. I scratch at my arm—just a little—but the itch doesn’t go away. It’s under my skin, crawling, scurrying, like raccoon feet tap-tap-tapping across my brain.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Ow!
I hiss and look down. There’s blood. A thin red line runs down my forearm like it’s trying to escape.
What the fuck are you doing, Moira?
I stare at the blood for a second, but it doesn’t feel real. None of this does. The candlelight. The hymn still echoing in my head. Bane’s velvet voice.
I shouldn’t have come. The bishop said he shouldn’t be seen with me. She said I was bad for him. I’m a stain on his reputation. A mistake.
You don’t belong here.
I scratch again, harder this time, my fingers digging into the same spot like I can rip the feeling out. But it’s still there. It’s always there.
I bounce on my feet, my heart racing like it’s trying to outrun me. My thoughts spiral—fast, faster, like a tilt-a-whirl with no brakes.
What the fuck was I thinking, coming here like this?
I’m a mess. A goddamned disaster. And now I’ve dragged it here—to his place of work. His job. His sacred little world.
I’m ruining it.
Like I ruin everything.
That’s all you fucking do, Moira. Ruin things.
I should leave.
No. I should…
My thoughts skitter, each faster than the next.
I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen before I can even think. Text Bane? No. Call someone? Who? Domhnall? Ha. Yeah, right.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, neck straining as I try to stretch out the horrible tight-skin feeling.
Fuck. No one wants to hear from me.
No one wants this chaotic mess in their life. I don’t even want this chaotic mess in my life.
Wrong, wrong, wrong in the head, my brain singsongs.
Shouldn’t be here. Should be dead.
A giggle bubbles up, sharp and bright like champagne fizz, but I slap it down just in time. Don’t laugh in church, Moira. That’s rule number one in the Don’t Be A Fucking Disaster handbook.
But then—
Exit sign.
Red and glowing like a beacon just down on the opposite end of the church.
Run.
My legs move before my brain catches up. I shove through the door, metal slamming behind me with a satisfying clang.
Then I gulp in the cold night air like it’s the first breath I’ve taken all day.
I’m outside, tucked into the shadowy guts of the church—a concrete patch squeezed between a giant AC unit and a dumpster. I press my back against the cold brick, heart racing, pulse in my throat.
Breathe.
But I’m not really here, am I?
I giggle again, feeling light-headed. Light like I might just lift off from the ground. Gravity can’t hold me.
I’m just a ghost in the shadows. A flicker at the edge of his vision. Not someone you hold on to. Not someone you keep.
There’s a balloon inflating inside, pushing against my ribs, my heart, my everything.
Somewhere at the back of my head, I recognize this feeling.
Hello, Crazy, my old friend.
I shake my hands out, fingers twitching like they’ve got a mind of their own. Doesn’t help.
So I start dancing in place. Just quick little stomps, feet slapping the ground, trying to shake it out—shake out the static, the buzz, the wild, uncontrollable more that’s crackling under my skin.
But it’s still there. Louder. Bigger.
Then I freeze mid-stomp, breath ragged. I know what I need.
Of course.
I need to fuck.
That’s it. That’s always what I need when I get like this. When my head feels too full and too empty all at once. When my skin doesn’t fit right and my thoughts are racing laps around sanity.
I ruin things. That’s what I do.
A loud, manic laugh bursts from my throat, sharp and too big for my chest. I slap my hands over my mouth, but it’s already out, echoing off the stone walls like an accusation.
Time to fuck. Time to fuck!
Ding, ding, ding.
The bell tolls for thee, Moira. Time for ruin!
I double over, gripping my thighs, nails digging into my skin because I need to feel something real, something sharp to cut through the noise. I glance around the dark, barren edge of the church, searching for something.
Someone.
There.
A man, alone, heading toward his car, keys jangling in the quiet.
Before I can think—because thinking is not on tonight’s agenda—I sprint to the edge of the church, peeking around the corner like some deranged pervert. Which I am.