His jaw clenches, and I watch his hand tighten around the rosary beads wrapped around his knuckles until they’re white.
I’ve seen Adrian angry before.
I’ve seen him frustrated, conflicted, barely holding onto his control. But this is different.
This is raw, primal jealousy burning in his eyes as he takes in how close I am to Charlie, how her hand rests in mine, how her lips are parted and flushed.
He’s not just protective of her.
He’s jealous.
As he storms out, I realize with sudden, perfect clarity that this situation is far more complicated than any of us anticipated.
8
ADRIAN
I notice them during the opening hymn.
Three people I’ve never seen before sit scattered throughout the congregation, each holding a small notebook instead of a hymnal.
They’re not singing.
They’re watching.
Taking notes.
Their eyes track every movement I make at the altar, every word that leaves my mouth, every interaction between parishioners.
My jaw clenches as I continue the Mass, hyperaware of their presence. Victory Life members. I’d bet my collar on it.
After the service, I stand at the church entrance shaking hands and greeting parishioners as they file out.
Mrs. Patterson, who’s attended St. Michael’s for forty years, mentions almost casually that she visited Victory Life last week. Her daughter invited her.
The worship was so energetic, she says. So modern. The music really spoke to her.
I feel the first crack in my congregation’s foundation.
In the parking lot, I watch through the window as those same three strangers approach my parishioners with glossy brochures.
They’re smiling, friendly, promising worship that changes lives. Several people take the brochures.
Some linger to talk. My hands curl into fists at my sides, rosary beads cutting into my palm.
Charlie appears beside me, her presence immediately calming and inflaming me in equal measure.
She’s wearing a floral sundress that clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
The neckline dips just low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and I force my gaze back to the parking lot before she catches me staring.
“They’re recruiting,” she says quietly, following my line of sight. “Right here. In your parking lot.”
“I know.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She shifts closer, and I catch the scent of vanilla and cinnamon that always clings to her clothes. Her arm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. I should step away. I don’t.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
