"Look, I umm... fuck, fuck, fuck," the sound of bashing in time with his cursing grates against my ear. "Just... nevermind. Stay where you are. I'm not joking. I'll do what I can here to keep your friends safe."
The line goes dead, the beeping of the disconnection final before I even got a chance to tell him to stay the fuck away from Bel. I stare at my phone, wondering what the fuck just happened, considering what I should and shouldn't tell Eamon.
Honestly, I can't tell him anything.
If I tell him about this threat, he won't let me go to the shower.
It's either safe or it's not. Either way, I have to be there. To celebrate with all the people I love and to keep them from harm if something goes wrong.
So I say nothing.
The decision makes me nauseous. Hiding something this big from Eamon is almost certainly an unforgivable deception. But if I don't get out of this fucking hole in the ground for a few days, he might as well kill me himself. Forget the possibility of the Sanctus Sculitis getting to me; I'll take care of the problem of the pesky blood pumping through my veins with one of the many weapons downstairs.
So that brings me to the next step in making sure Eamon doesn't suspect anything.
Do I delete the email? No. If Eamon sees it as it is, it's nothing suspicious. And the phone number is probably dead now. I can always come up with an excuse for why she had a burner. Broken phone, paranoia, new carrier issues. I can lie through that fairly easily.
But I can't lie through the suspicion of an email being deleted within five minutes of receiving it. Eamon won't buy anything if it looks like I hid it from him.
Just in case... I redial the number, and sure enough, it's already been disconnected. So Eamon won't be able to track down who I spoke to since I took his stupid fucking spyware off my phone, but my email is still fair game, unfortunately.
Speak of the devil.His nearly earth-shattering footfalls echo through the hallway before he knocks on my door. "Please tell me this isn't your lunch still sitting untouched in the kitchen."
"Untouched?" Indignation lights up my chest. "I ate more than half of it, what are you talking about?"
My door swings open, and the food lying half-eaten in his hands is quite literally the last thing I could ever notice.
My mouth goes completely dry. I can't even ask Eamon what he's wearing or why; I'm shocked completely thoughtless by the view before me.
He doesn't even realize the effect his choice of outfit has on me, arguing already, "You maybe had three bites, Isla. You didn't even touch the fucking orzo. And I've spent years perfecting that recipe."
"Uh huh," I repeat, "Years."
I'm dumbfounded. He's dressed in all black, nice pressed pants, a uniquely collared shirt. And just there, peeking out at the base of his neck, a small strip of white.
A Roman collar.
"What's up with you?" he finally seems suspicious of my inability to fight with him.
A harsh breath leaves me, and I try to cover it, asking the least obvious question, "What are you wearing?"
"Oh, this." He pulls at the thing, ripping the little white strip off and tossing it onto my bed. My eyes follow its path as he continues, "I needed to pop in on a church near a suspectedSanctum bunker. I've found this costume works way better than the police one. No one ever suspects a priest."
He grins, a giant, conspiratorial expression. One that I can't possibly match, not with the visceral reaction I'm having to the vision of him in that get-up.
Is it fucked up? Maybe. Is it just an unfortunate side effect of my trauma from religious figures? Probably. Do I want him to fuck me absolutely stupid while he wears it? Definitely.
"Hello?" he snaps at me, looking at me with a concerned and annoyed expression. "Are you good?"
"I'm fine," I manage to squeak out, turning away from him to try to calm my racing thoughts.
"Isla," Eamon takes a step toward me, followed by another. "What's going on?"
I breathe out through my nose, realizing it's a mistake only a second later when I breathe back in, and the scent of him wraps around me, sending me into a fucking frenzy like it always does. I don't even know how many times we've slept together now, but every time he steps close, it's like it's the first time all over again, driving me insane.
"It's nothing, Eamon. All good." I try to play it off, unwilling to feed his ego and seem as desperate as I feel. "What's for dinner?"
"Isla," he taunts me by name, "Do you have something you need to confess?"
