Adrian stares at the rosary bead, his face pale in the moonlight. “Someone knows. And they want us to know they know.”
The bead swings gently in the night breeze, a tiny piece of jewelry that feels like a noose tightening around our necks.
22
CHARLIE
The storage room smells like mothballs and old fabric softener, but I barely notice as I fold donated sweaters with trembling hands.
Last night’s discovery still haunts me—that rosary bead hanging on the basement door handle.
My stomach churns every time I remember it.
Marcus works beside me, sorting through boxes of winter coats, and I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes.
The way his tattooed forearms flex when he lifts something heavy.
How his dark eyes find mine across the cramped space, holding my gaze a beat too long before we both look away.
We’re trying to act normal, but normal feels impossible when paranoia has infected everything.
“This one’s too damaged,” he says, holding up a jacket with a torn lining. His voice is rough, strained, like he hasn’t slept either.
I reach for it, and our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I watch his jaw clench, see the muscle jump beneath his olive skin.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do I. For a moment, we just stand there, connected by this simple touch that feels anything but simple.
This is dangerous, I think, but I can’t make myself care. Not when his thumb traces a small circle on my palm, hidden from view by the jacket between us. Not when his dark eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck visible above my cardigan. I feel his gaze like a physical touch, and my body responds despite the fear still coiled in my chest.
“Charlie.” My name sounds different in his voice. Rougher. Like it costs him something to say it.
I lean closer, drawn by gravity I can’t resist. The storage room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine.
Can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his black t-shirt.
My fingers ache to trace the saints and sinners inked into his skin, to discover if they feel as warm as they look.
I shouldn’t want this, I tell myself.Not here. Not now. Not when someone’s watching us, documenting everything. But my body doesn’t care about logic or safety.
It only knows that Marcus is close enough to kiss, that his hand is still touching mine, and that the hunger in his eyes mirrors what I’m feeling.
“We should,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
Should what? Stop?
Pretend we don’t feel this?
Go back to the careful distance that’s been slowly killing us?
Marcus’s hand slides from mine to my waist, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my dress. His thumb finds bare skin where my cardigan has ridden up, and the touch makes me gasp.
“I know,” he murmurs, his accent thickening. “I know we should stop. ButDios, Charlie, I can’t think straight when you’re this close.”
I’m about to respond, about to close the distance between us and damn the consequences, when a woman’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife.
“Marcus?”
We spring apart so fast I nearly drop the jacket. My heart hammers against my ribs as I turn toward the doorway, trying to look innocent and pretend my face isn’t flushed and my breathing isn’t ragged.
