Malachi should’ve known every detail. Elior was supposed to report everything, everysin, every deviation from the rules.
If Malachi knew what had happened between us? The touching? The talking? My teasing?
I’d have been dragged out of bed at dawn and probably whipped or some shit.
But nothing happened.
Which meant only one thing—Eliordidn’t tell him.
That soft, trembling, naive boy had disobeyed a rule for me.
Forme.
I’d scrubbed a hand over my face, fighting back a smile. Little did he know that he’d sealed his own fate by helping me make up my mind.
So as he shuffled down the gravel path ahead of me after the morning service, hands clasped behind his back, I took a breath, lengthened my stride, and caught up to him.
I needed to regain his attention, needed to pull him back in.
God. I’d managed to suppress my darker urges for two fucking decades, but somehow I couldn’t control myself when it came to him.
It felt like there was something brewing under my skin, like the evil of this place called to the evil inside me, tempting it out little by little.
I fell into step beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed. He stiffened—barely, but enough that I noticed.
“Elior,” I said quietly.
He kept looking straight ahead, but his fingers tightened behind his back.
“Hey.” I softened my voice. “Can we talk?”
A tiny pause. Then, a barely audible, “We… we are talking.”
Christ.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. Apologizing wasn’t something I did often—not sincerely, anyway—but the words were there, stuck behind my teeth. I forced them out.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “For the other night.”
Elior faltered mid-step, like the apology had thrown him off balance. He recovered, but his pace slowed.
When he looked up at me, it was through his lashes. It was a soft look, full of hope and caution and a smidge of longing.
And fuck, he had no idea what that did to me.
My pulse kicked. My hands curled into fists at my sides. Those eyes were too open, too trusting.
A look like that could unravel a man.
He blinked once, his lips parting in a small, uncertain shape. “You don’t… You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do.” My voice came out lower than I meant, rough around the edges. “I crossed a boundary. I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”
His cheeks went pink so fast I almost groaned. He stared down at the ground again, voice small. “I… I didn’t know what to do.”
“I know,” I murmured.“And that’s on me. I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry for putting you in that position.”
He peeked up again—another one of those devastating looks from beneath pale lashes.
