Marcus licks frosting from his thumb, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
The gesture is obscene despite its innocence, and I feel heat pool low in my belly.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, the way his tongue traces his skin, slow and deliberate.
“Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Elijah murmurs, and the words feel weighted with meaning that has nothing to do with pastry.
Adrian’s jaw tightens further.
His hands are still gripping the counter, and I wonder if he’s holding on to keep from reaching for me.
The sexual tension in the small kitchen is suffocating, electric, dangerous.
All three of them are looking at me like I’m something they want to devour, and I’m not sure if I should run or surrender.
“I should go.” I clutch the empty pan against my chest like a shield. “I have another shift soon.”
It’s a lie. They probably know it’s a lie. But none of them call me on it.
I turn to leave, feeling their stares burning into my back as I walk down the hallway.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and my skin feels too hot, too tight.
I’m hyperaware of how my dress swirls around my thighs with each step, how my body still aches in places that remind me of Elijah’s touch.
Back in my apartment, I set the empty pan on the counter and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump.
Unknown number.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the message.
You didn’t eat your roll. Come to the rectory tonight. –M.
My heart stops, then starts again, racing. I should delete this. I should pretend I never saw it.
I should remember that I’m already tangled up with Adrian and Elijah in ways that could destroy us all.
Instead, I touch the spot on my hand where Adrian’s fingers brushed mine, remembering the electricity that shot through me at that simple contact.
I think about Marcus’s dark eyes tracking my body, the hunger barely concealed beneath his careful control.
I remember Elijah’s knowing smile, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to every secret I’m keeping.
I type back before I can stop myself.What time?
The response comes immediately.After evening Mass. Use the back door.
I stare at the message, knowing this is a line I can’t uncross. Knowing I’m going to cross it anyway.
11
ADRIAN
The crypt smells like centuries of stone and secrets when I descend the narrow stairs, my phone’s flashlight cutting through the darkness. The text I sent was simple:Crypt.
I pace the stone-walled chamber, my cassock swishing against my legs with each agitated turn.
