The need to touch her, to claim her and forget everything except the way she feels beneath us.
Adrian clears his throat, pulling us back to the present danger. “We implement the plan tomorrow. Different information to each suspect. We’ll know within a week who’s feeding the Bishop.”
We discuss logistics, timing, and who will approach which suspect. Charlie suggests scenarios that sound plausible, her intelligence shining through despite her fear.
I watch her face in the dim light, memorizing every detail.
The way her teeth worry her bottom lip.
The pulse hammering in her throat.
The way her body angles toward mine even as we maintain careful distance.
Je t’aime, I think but don’t say.I love you, and I’m terrified of losing you.
We’re leaving through the basement’s exterior door when we hear them.
Footsteps. Above us in the church. Someone moving through the darkened nave.
We freeze, barely breathing.
Charlie’s hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers cold with fear. Marcus positions himself between us and the door, his body tense and ready for violence.
Adrian’s jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.
The footsteps pause directly above our heads.
A beam of light sweeps across the basement windows, searching, hunting.
We press against the stone wall, hidden in shadows, our hearts hammering in unison.
Charlie’s breathing is shallow, panicked, and I want to pull her close, to shield her from whatever’s coming.
Then silence.
The light disappears. The footsteps retreat.
We wait in the darkness for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.
Finally, Adrian moves toward the door, his movements careful and controlled.
We follow, emerging into the cool night air like criminals fleeing a crime scene.
The church is empty. No cars in the parking lot. No figures in the shadows.
But on the basement door handle, catching the moonlight, hangs a single rosary bead.
My blood runs cold as I stare at it. Someone knows exactly where we were.
What we were doing.
The message is clear:We’re watching. We know your secrets. And we’re coming for you.
Charlie reaches for the bead with trembling fingers, and I catch her wrist. “Don’t touch it. It might be evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Her voice breaks. “That we met in a basement? That’s not a crime.”
“It is if they can prove what we were discussing,” Marcus says, his voice rough with barely contained rage. “If they can prove what we are to each other.”
