The opening dinner that evening is suffocatingly formal. I’ve been asked to serve, and I move through the rectory dining room with trembling hands, hyperaware of every movement.
The Bishop sits at the head of the table, his deep-set gray eyes missing nothing. Sister Margaret sits to his right, her posture rigid, her gaze sharp as she watches me pour water into crystal glasses.
Adrian sits across from the Bishop, with Marcus and Elijah flanking him. All three are carefully neutral, maintaining appropriate distance, but I can feel the tension radiating from them.
I know their bodies intimately now, know the way Adrian’s jaw clenches when he’s fighting for control, how Marcus’s hands flex when he wants to touch me, how Elijah’s fingers drum against his thigh when he’s anxious.
I’m serving the main course when it happens. Adrian reaches for the serving dish at the same moment I do, and our hands brush.
The contact is brief, innocent, but electricity shoots up my arm. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and I see the hunger there, the memory of last night burning in his gray eyes.
Sister Margaret’s gaze sharpens. I watch her eyes narrow, see her make a mental note of the interaction.
My stomach drops as I realize how carefully we’re being observed, how every gesture is being cataloged and analyzed.
The Bishop makes pointed comments throughout the meal, his voice measured and deliberate.
He speaks of modern permissiveness, of priests who forget their vows, of the importance of maintaining appropriate boundaries.
Each word lands like an accusation, and I watch Adrian’s knuckles go white around his fork.
“The Church has always been clear about the dangers of particular friendships,” Bishop Carmine says, his steel-gray eyes moving between Adrian and me. “Especially between clergy and young female parishioners. Such relationships, even when innocent, create the appearance of impropriety.”
Marcus’s hand tightens on his fork, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Elijah’s angel face goes carefully blank, his gaze fixed on his plate.
Adrian’s voice is steady when he responds, but I hear the strain beneath it. “St. Michael’s maintains appropriate professional boundaries, Your Excellency.”
“I’m sure you believe that, Father Cross.” The Bishop’s tone suggests he believes otherwise. “Which is why I’ll be conducting private interviews with staff and parishioners over the next week. To ensure everyone understands and adheres to proper conduct.”
Sister Margaret speaks for the first time, her voice cold and precise. “We’ll need access to all parish records, financial documents, and correspondence. Standard procedure for pastoral visits.”
I clear the dinner plates with shaking hands, feeling the weight of their scrutiny with every movement.
The Bishop’s eyes track me as I move around the table, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how my dress clings to my curves and how my hair has escaped its bun.
When I return with dessert, the Bishop is discussing his interview schedule.
He lists names methodically, each one making my stomach clench tighter.
Mrs. Delacroix. Deacon Paul. Sarah Chen. Marcus. Elijah. Adrian himself.
Then he looks directly at me, his deep-set eyes holding mine with unnerving intensity.
“And Miss Davis, of course. I don’t want her left out either.”
The air goes cold.
I watch Adrian’s jaw clench so hard I hear his teeth grind.
Marcus’s hand tightens on his fork until his knuckles go white.
Elijah’s angel face remains carefully blank, but I see the fear flickering in his eyes.
The Bishop’s gaze never leaves mine as he adds, “I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time at St. Michael’s. I’m very interested in hearing about your…volunteer work.”
25
MARCUS
