My blood runs cold.
“Did you see,” I start, but Elijah is already moving toward the hallway.
It’s empty. No one there. But I know what I saw.
Someone was watching us. And now they’re gone.
6
MARCUS
The church is supposed to be empty at midnight. I know this because I’ve walked these halls at every hour, memorizing the rhythm of St. Michael’s like a heartbeat.
The creak of settling wood at 2 a.m.
The way moonlight filters through the stained glass at dawn.
The silence that wraps around you like a shroud when everyone else has gone home.
But tonight, the silence is broken by the sound of crying.
I find her in the third pew from the back, the one with the worn cushion where Mrs. Patterson always sits during Sunday Mass.
Charlie’s shoulders shake with sobs she’s trying to muffle, her hands pressed against her mouth like she’s afraid someone will hear.
Votive candles flicker in their red glass holders along the side aisle, casting dancing shadows across her face.
She’s still wearing her diner uniform, the polyester fabric clinging to her curves in ways that make my jaw clench.
Her auburn hair has escaped its messy bun, falling in waves around her shoulders. Even crying, even broken, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I should leave. Should give her privacy, maintain the distance that keeps us both safe. Instead, my feet carry me forward until I’m sliding into the pew beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
The contact sends electricity shooting through me. She gasps, her head jerking up, hazel eyes wide and wet with tears. In the candlelight, theylook more green than gold, and I can see every freckle dusting her nose, every tremor in her lips.
“Marcus.” My name is barely a whisper, broken and desperate.
“Querida.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it. “What’s wrong?”
She laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. “What isn’t wrong?” Her hands twist in her lap, fingers knotting together. “I stole from this church. I’m working off a debt I can never really repay. My grandmother is dying in a hospital bed, and I can barely afford to visit her. And Adrian—” Her voice cracks completely. “He won’t even look at me anymore.”
The mention of Adrian makes my chest tight.
I’ve watched him transform back into Father Cross over the past two weeks, all ice and control, treating Charlie like she’s just another volunteer instead of the woman he claimed on his desk.
I’ve seen the hurt in her eyes every time he walks past without acknowledging her, every time he maintains that careful, professional distance.
I understand why he’s doing it.
The guilt is eating him alive, the fear of discovery making him retreat behind his priestly armor.
But watching Charlie break under the weight of his coldness is destroying me.
“He’s scared,” I tell her, my voice low. “Not of you. Of what he feels for you.”
“He regrets it.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. “That night in his office. He regrets touching me.”
“No.” I reach up, my thumb catching the mascara streak, wiping it away with a gentleness that surprises us both. “He regrets that he can’t stop wanting to touch you again.”
