Page 94 of Godless Saints

“Moon… Let me explain.”

I didn’t turn.

He stepped closer anyway. “Declan has the Writ now. It’s not with me anymore.”

My fingers tightened around the mug. I stood too fast. Tea splashed over my hand. Cillian’s jacket suddenly felt too heavy on my shoulders, but I pulled it tighter, anyway.

Cillian’s jaw flexed. “Moon—”

“No.” The sharpness in my own voice surprised even me. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He went still. “You knew,” I said, breath shaking, “and you did it, anyway.”

Cillian reached for me, then stopped, fingers curling into a fist. “I knew it was a mistake and I still did it. So what’s the real problem? Being seen with me? Or that I’m a guy?”

Air snagged high in my chest. Heat burned behind my eyes. A shiver tore through me. I wanted to hit him. I wanted him to hold me.

The mug left my hand before I even felt my fingers open. It shattered against the stone wall with a sharp crack. Hot tea exploded everywhere. Scalding droplets splattered across the floor, the wall, and Cillian’s shirt. The sharp scent of spilled tea mixed with woodsmoke and cold stone. Glass shards glittered dangerously in the firelight.

My hands trembled violently, fingers stinging from the heat of the mug I’d just thrown. For the first time in years, I had completely lost control.

And the worst part?

Cillian didn’t even flinch.

He just looked at me like my breaking was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Like he’d been waiting for me to finally snap. I finally looked at him.

I abandoned the spilled tea and started pacing. My shoes crushed glass beneath them, sharp cracks following every step. I barely noticed. I laughed once. The sound scraped out of me. “He cares that it’s you.”

Cillian’s expression locked down.

“Cillian fucking Ashbourne.” I stepped closer. “My father doesn’t give a shit who I fuck. Irish mob gutter rat. The one bastard who turns every rumor about me into undeniable truth.”

A bitter laugh tore out of me. “I could’ve had anyone this summer. Anyone. Zara was my fake girlfriend for optics. The daughter of a senator. But no. I had to let you. The worthless Ashbourne whelp in a blood-stained leather jacket. Sink your teeth into me and drag my name straight into the sewer with you.”

I stepped out of his reach. My eyes burned. “And I’m not even gay. Yet here I am letting the Irish filth fuck our legacy into the ground.”

Cillian’s face shattered. He closed the distance too fast and dropped to his knees. The dull thud of bone on wood.

His hands wrapped around my waist, fingers digging in hard. Forehead pressed to my stomach, breathing rough and ragged against me. His shoulders trembled.

“Tell me what to change,” he rasped against my stomach. “The name. The accent. The blood. Say the word and I’ll carve it out myself.” His fingers tightened. “I’ll lose the accent. Speak like one of those polished pricks. Choose you over the Ashbourne name any day.” His breath ghosted hot across my skin. “I’ll handle your father. Your family. Every stakeholder. They won’t suffer… unless you want them to.” His grip flexed. “Tell me who I need to become so you’re allowed to want me. Tell me what lines I have to cross.” His voice dropped. “Because I’m very good at crossing them… and I’m running out of reasons to hold back.”

My hands hovered above his head. His forehead burned against my stomach. This was Cillian Ashbourne on his knees. Offering to carve pieces off himself just to keep me. And it destroyed me. That was the problem. I believed every word. I almost told him yes. I almost chose the version of me that could keep him.

I pressed closer, saying nothing, tears sliding hot down my cold cheeks, body shaking so badly I could barely stand.

“You idiot,” I whispered, voice breaking as my fingers finally sank into his hair, gripping tight. “You absolute fucking idiot.”

The words kept echoing. It was a fucking mistake. And something inside me snapped.

I shoved him. Hard. Both hands slammed into his shoulders. Cillian hit the floor with a heavy thud.

I ripped his leather jacket off my shoulders and threw it at him. Then I ran. Out the door. Into the freezing night.

The cold cut through me instantly. Wind sliced my clothes. Lungs burned. Gravel skidded under my shoes. I kept running anyway.

Footsteps crashed behind me.