Page 21 of Godless Saints

“Why not Vivi?” Zara asked.

“Vivienne has abandoned me to pursue romance and personal fulfillment.” I kept my tone even. “She wants to date. Apparently, my current situation ranks below her social calendar.” I exhaled once. “Selfish, really.”

Zara’s mouth twitched, then she laughed, cutting through the courtyard hum. “She would say that. But to be fair, she’d also be right.”

“I only need optics,” I said. “You know how important that is. Better than anyone.”

Zara studied me, head tilted.

“In return, I want access.”

My eyes narrowed. “Access to what?”

“The Whitlocks,” Zara said. “The right Aster functions. Patronage introductions when they matter. Public association with the House of Moon name.”

I crossed my arms. “That’s generous.”

Zara shrugged. “Alright then. Good luck with Ashbourne.”

She turned to leave. My hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“Terms, Hyun.” She tapped her nail once against her phone. “Public proximity when required. Handholding if optics demand it. A dance at formal events. Cheek kisses for photos. One real kiss only if absolutely unavoidable. And you will not humiliate me, undermine me, or let him use me as leverage against you.”

“Yes. Fine. All of it.” I answered too quickly. “Do we have an arrangement?”

Zara held out her hand. “We have an arrangement.”

I shook it. Her grip was firm.

She left.

Halfway across the Court I opened The Gallery. Cillian’s hand in my hair. Comments flooding. Okay. Fix this.

I closed the app.

CHAPTER 6

MOON

The foil missed by half an inch. I never missed. Until him. The salle smelled of resin and old leather. High windows threw cold light across the long strip.

I studied the dummy’s shoulder where the point had slipped wide. Unacceptable. Precision had been non-negotiable since I was six, every lunge, every parry, every extension drilled into muscle memory until error became physically intolerable. The Aster standard demanded perfection. Not excellence. Perfection.

And now one man had introduced measurable decline.

I rolled my shoulders back and reset my stance. This was how erosion began. One fractional deviation. One visible failure. Then another.

Don’t look at him. Don’t you dare look at him.

I tried to focus on the dummy. On the next sequence. On anything except the man watching me from the doorway. It didn’t work.

Again. Advance. Feint. Lunge. Hit. Too fucking hard. The dummy rocked violently. Behind the mesh my jaw locked tight while Cillian Ashbourne leaned against the far doorway in boxing shorts and wraps, arms crossed, shoulder blocking half the exit, watching me like he had already mapped every crack in my form.

They’d taught me how to greet presidents and charm donors. How to survive shareholder meetings before I turned eighteen. No one had thought to include a chapter on obsessive Irish criminals.

I finished the sequence because stopping would have been surrender.