He finally looks away from Rocco—only to look deeper into me.
Whatever breaks nextwill not be small.
Desire in the Aftermath of Violence
Rocco loses consciousness, slumping to the ground in a heap. Not dead—but close.The sound of his body hitting the wet concrete echoes up the brick, a dull, ugly thud that should make me flinch more than it does. His head lolls to the side, mouth slack, one arm twisted under him. His chest still moves—barely. A wheeze. A ragged drag of air. Proof of life.
For now.
My heartbeat is still trying to tear out of my chest. My palms are cold, my mouth dry. I should stare at Rocco, checking that he’s truly down, that he won’t get back up and drag me into another fucking car.
But I’m not looking at him.
I’m looking at Santino.
He turns toward me slowly, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. His hands tremble—adrenaline, restraint, something darker. Now that the immediate threat is facedown on the ground, I see everything he’s holding back. The way his shoulders twitch is like he’s shaking off the ghost of something violent. The way his fingers flex like they’re still wrapped around Rocco’s throat. The tight muscle in his jaw is like he’s fighting the urge to go back and finish what he started.
He just chose not to kill a man.And the restraint looks almost as dangerous as the violence.
He steps closer.
Then closer.
The wall behind me feels like it moves, but it’s me. I’m the one inching back without realizing it. My heels scrape across the gritty alley floor until—
My back hits the brick wall.
Cold, damp stone jolts against my shoulders, anchoring me in place. I’m pinned between an ancient brick and the man who nearly choked someone out for daring to come near me.
“You could have died tonight,” he says quietly, voice raw around the edges.
It’s not an accusation. Not quite. More like a confession—fear, anger, and something he doesn’t want me to hear bleeding into six words.
My throat works as I swallow. I should look away, look past him, look anywhere that isn’t his mouth… but my gaze refuses to move.
“I didn’t,” I whisper—my voice is not fully mine. “Because of you.”
The second the words land, something inside him snaps tight. His jaw flexes, eyes darkening with a fierce heat that has nothing to do with God or forgiveness.
He shouldn’t touch me.He knows he shouldn’t.
I watch the war play out on his face—the collar, the restraint, the priest he’s pretending to be—battling the man who slammed another human being into a wall because he thought I needed protecting. Because he wanted to.
But the moment my voice cracks on that last word, the fragile truth of it—
He stops thinking entirely.
His hand comes up and cups my jaw.
Heat explodes under his touch. His palm is cold from the night, but his grip is strong, sure, tilting my face up so I can’tlook anywhere but at him. It feels inevitable, like I’ve been walking toward this moment since the second I stepped into his confessional.
My breath catches.
The alley narrows until it’s just us—not the church, not the city, not the bleeding man on the ground. Just his hand on my jaw and the look in his eyes — like we’re both seconds from doing something we can’t come back from.
“Tell me to walk away,” he murmurs.
The words ghost over my lips, close enough that I taste his breath—smoke, bitterness, and something that feels like every bad decision I’ve ever survived.
