“Not if I see you first,” I say, and step past him into the cold.
Outside, the air bites the inside of my nose and makes everything feel newly scrubbed. I stand on the stoop and breathe until the numbers I count come without effort. Four steps to the car, where the driver waits. Seven seconds to text Pru without Nico reading over my shoulder. Twelve—always twelve—panes in the nearest window. Why is it always twelve?
Pru:You alive? Do I need to bury a cousin? I have a tiny shovel from the craft store.
Me:Haha. I’m alive and relatively unscathed. Friday sit-down with the Shannons.
Pru:That sounds intriguing.
I laugh out loud, which earns me a glance from the driver. My phone buzzes again before I can put it away.
Unknown:You owe me a confession for making me text you first.
My breath catches. I don’t need a name to know who the message is from.Cayce. Spelled wrong on purpose. Heat and trouble in a church who knelt when I told him to.
Me:How did you get this number?
A beat passes. Then?—
Cayce:I can get all manner of things when I set my mind to it.
I look at the city passing by and the windows that keep secrets for a living, and then at my hands. They’re shaking the tiniest bit.
I don’t know why he’s texting me. We agreed that last night was a one-off. He would defile his saint, and I would have my one night. That was it.
Me:I have no regrets, but last night can’t happen again.
There’s a lengthy pause.
Cayce:You don’t need to worry about that. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay, kitten.
I watch Boston go by like a rosary I can count without bleeding. Something like regret burns at the back of my throat, but I shove it down where I don’t have to choke on it.
Me: I’m back where I belong.
The driver clears his throat, and I realize we’ve been sitting in front of my campus dorm for several minutes. Pushing open the door, I climb out and walk, gaze fixed firmly forward.
I pocket my phone and lift my chin to the wind. Friday, I’ll be expected to smile at men with bloody knuckles and let them see what my father’s deemed me worth. Nothing but the lies of purity. Last night I decided that for myself. Let them try to bless or price me—I already know which word opens my door.
6
CAYCE
Rafferty doesn’t sitbehind the desk. He meets me at the door and shoves me back two steps with a hand to my chest, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to remind me who taught me to square up.
It almost makes me want to remind him I’m a grown-ass man, but I restrain myself. There’s a time for everything under the sun.
“What in the ever-loving hell were you thinking?” he says, low and controlled, the way you talk in a church or a bar that could go quiet if you raise your voice.
I let the door swing shut behind me. “You want options alphabetically or by blood type?”
“Don’t be smart.” His jaw works. “You were seen.Shewas seen. In St. Brigid’s. On Halloween.” He flicks a look over my shoulder. Tiernan’s a shadow in the corner, Roisin perched on the radiator like a crow that does the books. “Nico Moretti saw you. Two campus kids with cameras saw you. The sexton saw you go in and out. Do you hear me? This isn’t a rumor. This is a record of you defiling a fucking Moretti princess in our city.”
“I hear you,” I say.
“Do you?” Rafferty steps in, that same hand lifting like he’s about to jab a finger in my sternum but thinks better of it. “Because it looks to me like you were consorting with the enemy in the one place they can turn into scripture and scandal in the same headline.”
I take the hit. I let it land where it wants. “I didn’t know she was a Moretti.”
