Page 31 of Godless Saints

My hand froze on the tape.

“And Moon.”

The lockers clicked around us.

Misha watched me carefully. “He wants to know if you’re actually working the Blood Writ… or if you’re too compromised by the Aster prince.”

I watched him, every muscle gone still.

“What the fuck did you tell him?”

“That you’re disciplined. Loyal. Fully committed to Thorn’s interests.” Misha shrugged. “The usual lies.”

I yanked the tape tighter until it bit into my split knuckles.

“How much does he know?”

“Enough to be watching,” Misha said, leaning back against the lockers, arms crossed. “Not enough to pull you off it. Yet.” His eyes stayed flat. “But Lesha needs this Writ, Cil. Thorn needs to climb that fucking scoreboard. We need Aster bleeding out.”

“I know the fucking job.”

“Then stop looking like you want to fuck the target every time his name comes up.”

My jaw flexed hard.

Misha pointed at me. “There. That exact face. Don’t do that shit when anyone says his name.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are. Moon looks like he wants you dead in public, so we’re safe for now. But if Aleksei starts thinking you’re compromised instead of just obsessed…” Misha’s grin thinned. “He’ll pull the Writ. And you know what happens after that.”

The thought of Aleksei pulling the Writ, cutting off my excuse to corner Moon, provoke him, watch that perfect control slip whenever I got too close, locked my lungs tight.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

If the Writ disappeared, so did every public reason I had to keep touching him. I wasn’t finished with him.

“So,” Misha said. “Gallery stays quiet. You keep your head. I keep Aleksei off your back.”

The reading gallery. Seven-thirty. Alone.

I threw the tape in the bin.

“Don’t make this messy,” I said.

Misha laughed. “You just punched Declan in the mouth for saying his name.”

“Messier.”

I was already picturing it.

Moon alone in the gallery, hunched over some mind-numbingly boring Patronage Seat documents, that intense little frown he got when he overthought. Green tea gone lukewarm. Hair pushed back for the third time on the same paragraph.

Fuck, I couldn’t wait to ruin his concentration.

The second I stepped inside, his spine would lock. He’d try to look unaffected. I’d catch the fingers tightening on the page, the hitch in his breathing. Every reaction another piece of proof the perfect Aster candidate was already compromised. He could bury himself in dry politics all he wanted. I was still going to savor every second of watching him fight not to react while the whole Court kept score.