Decades of forgotten parish records line the shelves, dust-covered boxes holding the sins and triumphs of generations.
The weight of history presses down on me, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of what I’m about to confess.
Marcus arrives first, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, and even in my current state of barely controlled panic, I notice how the fabric clings to his shoulders.
His tattooed arms are crossed defensively as he takes in my pacing and my white-knuckled grip on my rosary beads.
“Adrian.” His voice is rough, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer yet. Can’t form the words until we’re all here.
Elijah appears moments later, his golden hair slightly mussed like he was already in bed.
He’s wearing pajama pants and a thin white t-shirt that does nothing to hide the lean muscle beneath.
His blue eyes are alert despite the late hour, tracking my movements with unnerving perception.
“This better be good,” Elijah says, but there’s no real annoyance in his tone. Just worry.
I stop pacing and face them both. The stone walls seem to close in as I force myself to speak.
“We can’t continue like this.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Circling her separately. Pretending we don’t see what the others are doing. The jealousy is going to destroy us.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches. “Adrian?—”
“I saw you touch her hand during Mass preparation yesterday.” I cut him off, my control fraying with each word. “Your fingers lingered too long. You looked at her like you wanted to devour her right there in the sanctuary.”
“And I saw you watching Charlie during the homily,” Marcus shoots back, his dark eyes flashing. “Your gaze kept finding her in the third pew. You stumbled over your words twice because you were too busy staring at the way her dress clung to her thighs.”
Heat floods my face, but I don’t deny it. Can’t deny it.
Elijah shifts against the stone wall, and both Marcus and I turn to look at him. His angel face is carefully neutral, but I see the guilt flickering in his eyes.
“What?” I demand.
“I’ve been leaving her notes,” Elijah admits quietly. “In her apartment. In the sheet music. Little things. Testing boundaries.”
“What kind of notes?” Marcus’s voice drops to something dangerous.
“The kind that make her blush.” Elijah’s smile is small, almost apologetic. “The kind that make her bite her lower lip while she reads them. The kind that tell her exactly what I want to do to her.”
The air in the crypt grows thick with tension.
I watch Marcus’s hands curl into fists, his chest rising and falling with carefully controlled breaths.
My own body responds to the image Elijah’s words conjure. Charlie reading those notes, her hazel eyes widening, her teeth worrying that full bottom lip.
“We’ve all fallen,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. They tried to talk about this before, but I wasn’t ready. But I can’t ignore it any longer. “All of us. We’ve all broken our vows. We’ve all become obsessed with the same woman.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Marcus leans against the stone wall, his tattooed arms still crossed, but I see the defeat in his posture. Elijah’s fingers trace patterns on the dusty shelf beside him, a nervous gesture I’ve never seen from him before.
“I…we became involved,” Marcus says finally, his voice rough with guilt and defiance. “In the confessional.” He flicks a look at Elijah.
I turn to Elijah, who has the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“I heard you,” Elijah admits. “I was in the nave. The acoustics in this church are…excellent.”
