His hands flex at his sides, and I know he’s remembering how that hip felt beneath his palm, how my body arched into his touch.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly despite the terror surrounding us.
Elijah’s gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the line of my throat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I remember how that tongue felt on my skin, how his whispered praise made me feel beautiful and wanted and whole.
The sexual tension in the small basement is suffocating, mixing with fear and desperation until I can barely breathe. We’re all thinking the same thing.
This might be the last time we’re together like this, the last moment before everything falls apart.
“The Bishop made his position clear.” Marcus’s voice breaks the charged silence. “He’s recommending my removal from the parish unless I can prove my commitment to my vows.” His dark eyes find mine, and the pain in them makes my chest ache.
34
ELIJAH
The encrypted email arrives while I’m reviewing sheet music in the choir loft, and a chill dances down my spine when I read the subject line.
I know what Whitmore is doing to you.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, every instinct screaming this is a trap.
But desperation makes people reckless, and after yesterday’s interrogations by the Bishop, after watching Charlie’s face crumble when Marcus explained the Bishop’s decision, I’m willing to take risks I’d normally avoid.
I open it.
Brother Moreau, my name is Jennifer Torres. I was Victory Life’s bookkeeper until six months ago when I was fired for asking too many questions. I’ve been following the news about St. Michael’s struggles, and I can’t stay silent anymore. I have documentation that could change everything. Please meet me. I’ll explain everything, but I need anonymity. Coffee shop on Route 9, two towns over. Tomorrow at noon. Come alone. –JT
I read it three times, my mind spinning through possibilities.
This could be Whitmore setting another trap. Or it could be the miracle we’ve been praying for.
I forward the email to Adrian with a single line.We need to talk.
His response comes immediately.My office.
Adrian’s face is grim when I arrive, Marcus already there, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl firmly in place.
Charlie sits in the corner chair, her hazel eyes red-rimmed from crying.
The sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions.
I want to cross the room and pull her close, to promise everything will be okay.
But the Bishop’s investigation has made even looking at her feel dangerous.
“Read it,” I say, handing Marcus my phone.
He scans the email, his jaw clenching tighter with each line, and I watch understanding dawn in his dark eyes.
“It could be a setup,” Marcus says, his accent thickening with stress.
“Or it could be exactly what we need.” Adrian’s gray eyes find mine. “You’re going?”
“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “If there’s even a chance this is real, we have to take it.”
Charlie stands, moving closer. Her simple dress clings to curves I’ve memorized in stolen moments, and I force my gaze back to her face before my body can respond.
“Be careful,” she whispers. “Whitmore is dangerous.”
