I want to tear them off, to become Adrian Crosswell again, to solve problems with violence instead of prayer.
But that’s not who I am anymore. That’s not who Charlie needs me to be.
The drive back to St. Michael’s passes in a blur. My mind spins through Whitmore’s threats, the implications of what he knows or thinks he knows.
Someone has been feeding him information. Someone close enough to observe, to document, to betray.
I find Charlie in the parish kitchen, and the sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions.
She’s stress-baking again, flour dusting her simple dress, her auburn hair escaping its messy bun.
The scent of cinnamon fills the air, domestic and comforting, and I want to lose myself in the normalcy of it and forget Whitmore’s threats and the diocese’s investigation and the constant fear of discovery.
But my hands are shaking as I grip the counter, my knuckles white with tension.
Charlie looks up, and those hazel eyes immediately fill with concern.
“Adrian?” My name in her voice does something to me, makes the rage and fear twist into desperate need. “What happened?”
I can’t answer yet. Can’t form words past the fury choking me.
I watch her hands work the dough with practiced precision, see the way her dress clings to her curves, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
I remember how she felt beneath me in my office, how she tasted, how she whispered my name like a prayer and a curse.
This is what Whitmore wants to destroy.
This woman, this feeling, this impossible love that’s become more real than anything I’ve ever known.
Marcus enters, his dark eyes immediately reading my tension.
His tattooed arms are crossed over his chest, and I watch his jaw clench as he takes in my white-knuckled grip on the counter.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is rough, protective, and I’m grateful for his presence even as I hate that I need it.
“Whitmore.” The name tastes like poison. “He made an offer to purchase St. Michael’s. Insultingly low. When I refused, he threatened to provide the diocese with information about us.”
Charlie’s face goes pale, flour-dusted hands stilling in the dough. Marcus’s expression darkens, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
I watch the muscle jump in his jaw, see the same violence I’m feeling reflected in his eyes.
Footsteps echo from the choir loft stairs, and Elijah appears, drawn by the raised voices.
His gaze moves between the three of us, reading the charged atmosphere with unnerving accuracy.
“What’s wrong?” His French accent thickens slightly.
I explain Whitmore’s threats, the purchase offer, the forty-eight-hour deadline.
With each word, the temperature in the kitchen drops.
We stand surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and fear, four people who’ve built something beautiful and fragile that’s now under direct attack.
Charlie moves closer to me, her hand almost touching my arm.
The proximity makes my skin burn despite the layers of fabric between us. I’m hyperaware of every detail: the pulse hammering in her throat, the way her teeth worry her bottom lip, the curve of her hip visible through her dress.
I want to pull her close, to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in until Whitmore’s threats fade to nothing.
