“Why?” I ask, knowing deep in my gut that he is running just as hard and fast as I am. I just don’t know if he’s running from something or toward it.
“I stopped breathing. In seminary, I could breathe again.”
The honesty of it makes my breath catch. He's standing here in his bespoke suit telling me the priesthood was an escape, and the worst part is I understand exactly what he means. We're both refugees from our own lives.
I touch my clutch where Reyes's card sits heavy as a promise. An hour ago, I'd found him by the champagne fountain, all yacht-club tan and careful charm. "My late husband left complicated finances," I'd said, letting my voice catch just enough. His hand lingered on mine when he passed me his card, and I'd smiled through the revulsion because that's what you do when you need information from men like him. Friday morning, his office. Another step toward cracking Julian's code.
The music shifts—the quartet sliding from background to something with intent, something that demands movement. Couples drift toward the dance floor, and I make a decision that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the way he's looking at me.
"Dance with me."
Not a question. A challenge. A dare.
He should refuse. I can see him calculating the distance he needs to maintain, the careful boundaries that keep him functional. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, then away. His hands flex at his sides, and I recognize the gesture—Julian used to do the same thing before he grabbed something too hard.
"Sera…"
"Just one dance. Then you can go back to pretending we're strangers."
I hold out my hand. Wait. Let him see it's his choice, even though we both know it isn't. There's a magnetism between us that's been building since I walked into his church, and fighting it is like fighting gravity—exhausting and ultimately pointless.
He takes my hand.
The contact completes some circuit I didn't know was open. Heat, immediate and undeniable, his palm against mine sending electricity up my arm. His other hand finds the small of my back, and even through the dress I feel it—the warmth, the pressure, the barely controlled strength.
We move into the rhythm, and of course he can dance. Of course he can lead with the same precise control he brings to everything else. But this close, I can feel the effort it's taking. His breathing carefully regulated. His hand on my back exactly where it should be, not an inch lower. The professional distance of someone who learned to dance at galas exactly like this.
I step closer.
His breath catches. His fingers flex against my back, and for a moment the control slips. I see him—not the priest, not the Delgado heir, but the man underneath both masks. Hungry. Desperate. Real.
"Who are you?" I ask, our faces close enough that the words are more breath than sound. "Really. Under all of it."
His hand trembles slightly against my back. He has to close his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, they're darker. "You might not like the answer."
"Try me."
The song ends. Another begins. We don't separate. If anything, we drift closer, the space between our bodies narrowing to nothing. I can feel him against me—the solid wall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the evidence of what this proximity is doing to him pressed against my hip.
My stomach turns over, that sick drop when you realize you're about to make the same mistake twice. Except this time I see it coming. This time I'm walking into the cage with my eyes wide open, and that makes me either brave or stupid or so fundamentally broken that even knowing better doesn't save me.
We're barely dancing now. Just swaying, locked in our own gravity while the room continues around us. Anyone could see us. In his world—his family's world—weakness gets you killed. And right now, we're both catastrophically weak.
His hand slides lower on my back, not much, just enough to tell me the control is fracturing. I press closer in response, letting him feel that I know, that I'm not pulling away.
He tries to step back. I feel the movement start, the attempt to create distance. But his body won't complete it. He's fighting himself and losing, and watching it happen is like watching a wall collapse in slow motion—inevitable and devastating.
We drift from the dance floor—not consciously, just following some inevitable physics toward the edge of the room. An alcove where the light softens and the noise fades and we're visible but not observed. The kind of place where bad decisions dress themselves as destiny.
I can hear the distant clink of crystal, smell the orchids and money and expensive perfume, but all I can taste is the anticipation of something dangerous.
"You want to know who I am?" His voice has dropped to that register from the parking lot—flat, dangerous, stripped of warmth. His hand comes up to my throat, thumb along my jaw, fingers in my hair. The touch isn't gentle—it's a claim, a warning, a promise. "This is who I am."
He kisses me.
The kiss explodes through me like something I've been starving for—his mouth claiming mine with a desperation that makes my knees weak. His hunger frightens me because it's so consuming, so immediate, so completely outside my control. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head where he wants it, and my body responds like it's been waiting for exactly this—this command, this certainty, this man who kisses like he's drowning and I'm air.
I grab his jacket with both hands, pulling him closer, deeper, needing to eliminate any distance between us. The expensive fabric wrinkles under my grip and I don't care. My tongue finds his and he makes a sound—raw, involuntary—that shoots straight through me. I press my whole body against his, feeling his cock hard against my hip, and the knowledge that I did this, that the controlled priest is coming apart in my hands, makes me bold and terrified in equal measure.
