Page 27 of Godless Saints

Still wasn’t him.

I wanted Moon under me, over me, didn’t fucking matter. The need clawed low and ugly. That pissed me off most. I never gave a single fuck about anyone. Then Moon happened.

There had to be an off switch somewhere. Maybe fucking him was enough to kill whatever this was. Then I could go back to normal. Whatever the fuck normal used to be.

Moon in Saint Lucia was different, drunk, guard down, smiling. I miss that fucking smile. Here he looked at me like I was the worst thing that could touch him. Should’ve ended there. Sawyer’s smug face flashed through my head, always standing too close to what wasn’t his. Good. Finally. A useful target. I should’ve put his face on the bag instead.

The Thorn training hall usually helped. A good place to stop thinking. Usually.

I rolled my shoulder, sweat soaking the waistband of my boxing shorts, knuckles taped as I bounced lightly on the balls of my feet.

The word came back anyway.

Fuck.

Misha was in the ring with Declan, gloves up, grin wicked enough to count as a nerve gas. Declan was bigger, heavier, the kind of thick muscle that looked built for breaking doors instead of people. He swung. Misha slipped it and tapped him twice in the ribs. Light. Humiliating. Declan cursed and reset his stance.

I hit the bag again. Late. The chain jerked.

“Fucking hell, Ashbourne,” Declan called, wiping sweat from his mouth. “That hook was ugly.”

I punched the bag again, harder. “Still prettier than your footwork.”

Misha grinned from the ring. “He’s right. You’re stomping.”

“Shut up, Lovchy.”

Declan shoved Misha’s shoulder with one glove, light enough to deny and hard enough to ask for trouble. Misha’s grin widened. Bad idea. Declan looked back at me. “The fuck is wrong with you lately? That Aster cunt still making the Blood Writ difficult? You look pathetic.”

I slammed another punch into the leather. “Keep talking.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Then come over here.”

He laughed. “What, and catch whatever has you punching like shit?”

Misha moved first. “Declan.”

Declan pointed a glove at him. “Don’t start.”

“Stop talking.”

“Why?” Declan’s eyes cut back to me, chest up, chin high, trying to make size look like courage. “What? You in love with the Aster prince now?”

A few heads turned. My hand flexed inside the wrap.

Misha stepped through the ropes. Declan shoved him back with one glove. “Relax, Lovchy. I’m just asking a question.”

“No,” Misha said. “You’re trying to keep your teeth.”

Declan laughed, eyes dragging over me. “No, seriously, lad. We fucking hand you Aster’s pretty little prince on a silver platter and you’re in here beating the shit out of bags like some whipped dog waiting for him to pat your head and call you good boy. Even Kaelan’s laughing behind your back. This pathetic romance is fucking embarrassing. The prick doesn’t even want you, yet you’re drooling like a lovesick cunt over something you’ll never own. Instead of dragging him somewhere private, bending him over, and reminding him who the fuck he belongs to, you send him flowers. Flowers, Cillian. This isn’t some romance bullshit. This is a blood writ. We’re here to break the Moon heir, not make the little bastard blush.”

Instinct dragged my eyes to him.

“Say that again.”

Misha moved faster. “Cillian.”