Her breath catches. My hand lingers on her cheek, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers. The air between us shifts, becomes charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
“Marcus.” My name sounds different in her voice. Softer. Needier.
I should pull away. Should remember Isabella, remember the priesthood I walked away from, remember all the reasons this is wrong. Instead, I let my hand slide into her hair, tilting her face toward mine.
“I’ve been watching you,” I confess, my voice rough. “For weeks. The way you move through this church like you belong here. The way you hum that hymn when you’re nervous. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry.” My thumb traces her lower lip, and she trembles. “I’ve been fighting this since the moment Adrian brought you into our lives.”
“Fighting what?” Her eyes search mine, desperate for something I’m not sure I should give her.
“This.” I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. “The same thing that destroyed Adrian’s control. The same thing that made me leave the priesthood three years ago.”
She pulls back slightly, her hazel eyes wide. “Isabella.”
The name hangs between us like a ghost. I nod slowly, my hand still tangled in her hair.
“Tell me about her,” Charlie whispers.
I close my eyes, the memories flooding back. “She was a parishioner. Married to a man who hurt her, who made her feel small and worthless. She came to me for counseling, and I—” My voice cracks. “I fell in love with her. Or I thought I did. Maybe it was just the need to save someone, to be someone’s hero.”
“What happened?”
“I was going to leave the priesthood for her. Had the papers drawn up, the plan in place. But her husband found out.” My jaw clenches, remembering that night. “He put her in the hospital. Nearly killed her. And I nearly killed him.” I open my eyes, meeting Charlie’s gaze. “Adrian stopped me. Pulled me off before I could finish what I’d started. Isabella begged me to stay a priest, said she couldn’t live with destroying my soul too.”
“So you became a deacon instead.”
“A compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.” I cup her face with both hands now, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I’ve spent three years telling myself I made the right choice. That walking away was noble, that sacrifice was holy.”
“Do you regret it?” Her voice is barely audible.
I look at her—really look at her.
The freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.
The way her lips part slightly when she’s waiting for an answer.
The vulnerability in her eyes that makes me want to protect her from everything, including myself.
“I regret nothing that led me to this moment,” I tell her, and the truth of it settles in my chest like a benediction. “Isabella was my past. You’re—” I stop, the words too big, too dangerous.
“I’m what?” She leans closer, her breath warm against my lips.
“Everything.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Charlie’s hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine, and every rational thought evaporates.
“Someone might be watching us,” she whispers suddenly, her eyes darting toward the shadows. “In the kitchen, with Elijah. I thought I saw a dark clothing disappearing around the corner.”
My blood runs cold. “Are you sure?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “Everything feels dangerous right now. Like we’re being hunted.”
If someone saw them, if someone is documenting this, we’re all in danger.
The Bishop could shut down St. Michael’s. Adrian could lose everything.
But before I can process the threat, before I can think about consequences or caution, Charlie’s other hand slides up my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath her palm.
“Marcus.” My name is a prayer and a plea. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.”
