The automatic doors can’t open fast enough.
Outside, I lean against my car, gulping air that tastes like exhaust and fear.
Victory Life’s whisper campaign has begun.
And I’m not just collateral damage.
I’m the weapon they’re using to destroy everything.
The choir loft smells like old wood and sheet music when I arrive that afternoon. Elijah sits at the piano, his golden hair catching the light streaming through the stained glass windows.
He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms as his fingers dance across the keys.
The music is something classical, beautiful, and I pause at the top of the stairs just to watch him.
He looks up, those crystalline blue eyes finding mine, and his smile transforms his angel face into something warmer, more human. “Charlie. Perfect timing. I need help organizing the Christmas music.”
I cross to the filing cabinet, hyperaware of how his gaze tracks my movement.
The dress I’m wearing swirls around my thighs, and I catch him watching before he forces his attention back to the piano.
The sexual tension between us is a living thing, crackling in the air despite the careful distance we maintain.
“How was your morning?” he asks, his French accent thickening slightly as he transitions into a new piece.
“Fine.” The lie tastes bitter. I pull out folders of sheet music, trying to focus on the task instead of the memory of those women’s voices.That girl who’s always hanging around the priests.
Footsteps echo on the spiral staircase, and Sarah Chen appears at the top, her long black hair pulled into a high ponytail.
She’s wearing a long skirt and cardigan, a silver cross necklace catching the light.
In her hands, she carries a coffee cup from the expensive place downtown.
“Brother Elijah!” Her voice is bright, eager. “I brought you coffee. Two sugars, no cream, just how you like it.”
Elijah’s fingers still on the keys. I watch his expression shift from surprise to something that looks like discomfort before he smooths it into polite gratitude. “That’s very thoughtful, Sarah. Thank you.”
She crosses to the piano, setting the cup down with exaggerated care. Her body angles toward his, close enough that I can see him shift slightly away. “I was hoping you could teach me some French phrases. For the Christmas cantata. I want to pronounce them correctly.”
“Of course. We can work on that during rehearsal.”
“I meant now.” Sarah’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you have time.”
I continue sorting music, but I’m watching them in my peripheral vision.
The way Sarah leans in when Elijah speaks.
How her fingers brush his arm when she laughs at something he says.
The possessive tilt of her head when she glances my direction.
Our eyes meet across the loft, and the look she gives me is pure venom wrapped in teenage sweetness.
Jealous. Territorial.
Warning me away from something she’s decided belongs to her.
My stomach drops.
