The volunteers disperse in soft waves of chatter—the scrape of folding chairs, the rustle of jackets and paper schedules. I linger at the table, head bent, posture small, fingertips lightly tracing the edge of my welcome packet like I can’t decide which task to sign up for.
A good girl pretending to be overwhelmed. A wolf wearing lambskin and a borrowed smile.
The coordinator gives me an encouraging pat on the shoulder before stepping away to handle two elderly parishioners arguing over the altar-decorating sign-up sheet.
I wait exactly three seconds.
One… Two… Thr—
The air shifts behind me.
The hairs on my neck rise before my brain grasps the silent advance.
Fuck.
I turn.
And there he is.
Santino.
No footsteps. No warning. None of the gentle softness priests are supposed to project.
He’s just there, like my thoughts pulled him out of the shadowed edges of the hall.
I feel his presence with a physical impact. He stands close—too close—filling the narrow space between tables with the full force of his height and that sharp, coiled tension he wears like a second skin.
Rain-rough hair.Collar straightened one too many times.Eyes dark enough to swallow light.
And beneath the usual incense and old-stone scent of the church, something else clings to him—
Anger. Conflict. Desire.
My pulse stutters once.
Just once.
I recover before he can see it.
“What were you doing in the east corridor?” he asks, his voice low enough to vibrate through me.
Not a gentle priestly inquiry. Not a reprimand.
A demand.
My heartbeat jumps—not from fear, but from the savage, pulsing thrill I refuse to acknowledge.
Caught.
God, I like being caught.
I turn slowly, widen my eyes just a fraction, let innocence bloom across my features like a trembling, fragile flower.
“The east corridor?” I echo, breathy confusion layered into every syllable. “I got turned around. This place is… big.”
A lie wrapped in lace.
He knows it.
