“A parishioner visiting the rectory for help,” I reply sternly.
"I'm not your confessor," Alma replies, lips pursed. "But I am your friend. And right now, I'm worried."
I shift my weight, vestments suddenly too warm in the morning air. Nothing escapes Alma’s notice. Including, apparently, Sera.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, hearing how formal I sound. "But there's nothing inappropriate happening."
The lie tastes like mud. Every second with Sera is inappropriate—my thoughts, my dreams, the way my body responds to her mere presence.
Alma's eyes narrow. "Whether anything inappropriate is happening or not, people talk, Father."
"Thank you for the reminder." I keep my voice even, professional. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for the eleven o'clock."
I retreat to the sacristy, shutting the door behind me. My hands tremble as I remove my chasuble, hanging it carefully on its stand. The silk is cool against my fingers, a reminder of my vocation, my promises.
I press my palms against the ancient wooden table where generations of priests have prepared for mass. What would they think of me now? A priest harboring a woman marked for death,a woman who makes me question everything I’ve built my life upon.
The door opens. I don't need to turn to know it is Sera.
"What did Alma want?"
I close my eyes. "She’s just protective."
"Of you? Or your vows?"
"Stop it, Seraphina," I snap.
I turn to face her, keeping the table between us. Her dress clung to her curves, modest by any standard but still enough to make my blood run hot.
“Stop what?” she asks, her tone growing blades.
I shake my head.
"It’s my busiest day, Sera. You need to leave. Go to the rectory, stay inside, don’t you dare go anywhere without me. I’ll be back tonight."
She opens her lips to protest, and I feel like an asshole for ordering her around like her husband used to, but I need her to leave before I tear that pretty sundress into shreds with half my flock still standing in the parking lot.
She huffs in displeasure, but, thank God, leaves.
I spend the day lighting candles, arranging flowers, taking notes, counseling the bereaved, and pretending my thoughts aren't constantly returning to her.
I survive on muesli bars between services, my stomach quieted but my mind restless. Every distant engine sound has me tensing, listening for her car. The safety watch offers some protection, but it's not enough—not with Markovic's reach. The man didn't build his empire by being stupid or merciful.
Finally, it is time to lock up the church. Ten pm, when even sinners go to bed.
The church is empty, dark except for the few remaining flickering candles.
Until suddenly it is filled. Sera walks in, her light footsteps pattering down the aisle.
I can’t help it. I turn around and watch her.
She walks the nave, fingers trailing over pews. Stops at the altar. Leans back against it like it's a kitchen counter.
"You stared at me during your sermon."
"I tried not to."
"You failed."
