Page 110 of Godless Saints

His eyes opened. He grinned, completely unashamed. “Lost a bet in Dublin. Woke up the next morning with the whole clan laughing their asses off. Allegedly I thought it was the best idea I’d ever had at four in the morning.”

I tried to hold it in. A laugh slipped out anyway. Then another. Soon I was shaking against him, laughing for real.

Cillian caught my jaw and pulled me in hard. “You’d look fucking sexy with tattoos too,” he murmured. His other hand traced up my chest and neck, thumb brushing my throat.

I tried to pull back. “Cillian—”

“No.” His grip tightened. “You’re not going anywhere, Moonshine.”

He hardened against my thigh.

“Your people are right outside the house,” I muttered. “There’s no way I’m doing this now.”

He let out a frustrated growl, forehead dropping to mine. “They won’t know. Even if they do, who the fuck cares.”

I smirked, still a little breathless. “I don’t need them hearing you out there going…” I dropped into a terrible Irish accent. “Fuck, Moonshine. You’re fucking mine, prince.”

Cillian huffed a laugh against my mouth, then kissed me again, softer this time, and pulled me tighter against his chest.

I tucked my face into his neck, breathing him in.

“You’re fucking mine, though, prince,” he said into my hair.

Tomorrow, we’d go back to Evermourne. But tonight, tucked against him with his men outside and his ring on my finger, I let myself believe we could actually do this.

CHAPTER 28

SAINT LUCIA

MOON

What the fuck am I even doing here. The music slams too loud, trap shit I hate. Strobes slice across the beach like they’re trying to split my skull open. Sand under my shoes. Salt and cheap cologne in the air. Couples grinding. Groups screaming laughter. Strangers already half-undressed and hunting. Everyone touching like it’s nothing.

I pulled my phone out again. Scrolled. There it was. The Evermourne Academy invitation. Of course I’d already accepted.

Father would never turn it down. He went himself. The pride in his voice when I told him still sat in my gut. This is exactly what you need, son. Show them who the House of Moon is. Win the Patronage Seat your first year. Just like me. Then two more years to fight for the masked patron role. The Saint’s Mourning Chair. Knowing him, he’s probably already one of them. Watching. Even there. Harvard gave me Boston. A few years outside Manhattan. Away from the constant weight of being Nathaniel Moon’s son.

Mother kept pushing Korea. Family. Another glass cage. No thanks. So when I graduated Harvard, and they asked where I was spending the summer, I said Geneva. Policy fellowship. Three weeks of rich people pretending to save the world. I came to Saint Lucia instead.

“You here alone?”

I killed the screen and looked up. No. Fuck no. Dark hair. Green eyes that shouldn’t look real. Black shirt open at the throat. Ink climbing both arms and up his neck. Thin silver chain with a cross. He’s hot. No. Stop. Tell him you have a girlfriend.

“Uh. Yeah.”

I was supposed to say I wasn’t alone. That my girlfriend was right over there. I pictured some girls in bikinis splashing around, laughing. Point. Done.

Great. He’s sitting down.

The bartender came over.

“What can I get you, mate?” He glanced at my glass. “Another rose martini, sir?”

The tattooed asshole smiled at my drink. Just leave.

“Double whiskey, neat.” He raised an eyebrow at my glass.

“Gold leaf, huh?”