“Liar.” His fingers still on the keys, and he turns to face me, those perceptive eyes seeing straight through my excuse. “You’re worried about Adrian.”
It’s not a question. Elijah has always been too observant, too good at reading the subtext beneath what people say. I should deny it, but I’m too exhausted to maintain the pretense.
“I saw them,” I admit, my voice rough. “Or heard them, anyway. In his office.”
Elijah’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“And?” he prompts gently.
“And he’s crossing a line that’s going to destroy him. Destroy all of us if anyone finds out.” I run my hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into my words. “He’s a priest, Elijah. She’s a parishionerwho stole from the church. This is exactly the kind of scandal that gets parishes shut down.”
“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Elijah’s fingers trail over the piano keys, not quite playing, just touching. “The scandal?”
The question lands like a punch to the gut because he’s right. That’s not what’s eating at me. Not really.
“I don’t know what I’m worried about anymore,” I confess. “I just know I can’t stop thinking about her.” I grip the railing harder. “I’m watching Adrian fall apart over her, and all I can think is that I understand. That I’d do the same thing if I thought I had a chance.”
“And how do you look at her, Marcus?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning I’m not ready to unpack.
My throat tightens as I remember the curve of Charlie’s neck when she tilts her head, the swell of her breasts beneath her clothes, the way her ass looks when she’s on her knees scrubbing the church floors.
I imagine what it would feel like to pull her against me, to taste the skin at her throat, to hear her whisper my name the way she whispered Adrian’s.
Before I can answer, footsteps echo on the spiral staircase.
We both turn as Adrian appears at the top of the stairs, his gray eyes dark and unreadable.
He’s still in his cassock from morning prayers, at a glance the image of a respectable and devoted priest.
But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his rosary beads.
The three of us stand in weighted silence. Adrian’s gaze moves between Elijah and me, and understanding dawns in his expression.
He knows we were talking about him. About her. About the impossible situation we’re all caught in.
“Marcus,” Adrian says finally, his voice carefully controlled. “A word?”
But Elijah speaks before I can respond. “Actually, I think we all need to talk.”
Adrian’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. He moves into the choir loft, and suddenly the space feels too small for the three of us and all our secrets.
I’m hyperaware of the tension crackling through the air, the way we’re all carefully not looking at each other while simultaneously tracking every movement.
“How long have you known?” Adrian asks, directing the question at me.
“Since it happened in your office.” I meet his eyes, refusing to look away. “I heard you.”
Something dangerous flashes across Adrian’s face. Not anger, exactly. Something more complicated. “And you didn’t say anything.”
“What was I supposed to say?” My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “That you’re making the same mistake I almost made three years ago? That you’re risking everything for a woman you barely know? That I understand exactly why you’re doing it because I can’t stop thinking about her either?”
The confession hangs in the air between us. Elijah makes a soft sound, something between sympathy and resignation. Adrian’s expression shutters completely, his priest’s mask sliding into place.
“This isn’t about you,” Adrian says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Isn’t it?” I step closer, my frustration finally boiling over. “We made a pact, Adrian. The three of us, in the crypt, years ago. We swore we’dnever let shame or fear destroy something good again. We promised we’d protect each other.”
