He moves toward me instinctively, his hands reaching for my arms to steady me.
The touch sends electricity shooting through my body despite everything, despite the fear and panic and crushing weight of the Bishop’s words.
His fingers are warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and I can feel his pulse racing where his thumb rests against my inner elbow.
“What happened?” His voice drops lower, more intimate, and I watch his gaze track across my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “You’re pale. You’re shaking.”
I open my mouth to answer, but footsteps echo from the sacristy. Elijah’s hands drop from my arms immediately, and we both step back, putting careful distance between us.
But not before I see the hunger flash in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with the effort of not pulling me close.
Sister Margaret appears around the corner, her sharp gaze moving between us with calculating precision. “Brother Moreau. Miss Davis.” Her tone suggests she’s noted exactly how close we were standing, exactly how quickly we moved apart.
“Sister.” Elijah’s voice is perfectly controlled, his angel face smoothing into professional courtesy. “I was just checking on Miss Davis. She seemed unwell.”
“How thoughtful.” Sister Margaret’s smile is cold. “Perhaps Miss Davis should rest in her apartment. She does look rather…overwhelmed.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a dismissal.
I nod mutely and flee toward the stairs that lead to my small apartment above the rectory, feeling both their gazes burning into my back.
My legs barely carry me up the narrow staircase, and I’m shaking so hard by the time I reach my door that it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.
Inside, I lean against the closed door and slide down to sit on the floor, my dress pooling around me.
The apartment is quiet except for my ragged breathing and the distant sound of the church bells marking the hour.
I press my hands against my face, trying to stop the tears that want to fall.
I don’t think we can survive this anymore.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Marcus.
Where are you? Are you okay?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
How do I explain that I just confessed to the Bishop?
That I nearly revealed everything?
That his careful questions felt like a noose tightening around all our necks?
Before I can respond, there’s a soft knock on my door. I freeze, my heart hammering.
“Charlie?” Marcus’s voice, rough with concern. “I know you’re in there. Let me in.”
I stand on shaking legs and open the door. Marcus takes one look at my face and steps inside, closing the door behind him despite the risk of being seen. His dark eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
“What happened?” His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I lean into the touch despite knowing I shouldn’t. “Talk to me,querida.”
“Sister Margaret made it clear I needed to do confession, since it’s been awhile. The confession,” I whisper, “it was the Bishop. He knows something. He asked if my feelings involved anyone at the parish, anyone in authority.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his olive skin. His hands tighten on my face, not painfully, just possessively. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I deflected. But Marcus, he knows. The way he talked, the things he said…” My voice breaks. “He told me to consider whether my presence here is helping or hindering my attempts to be good. He basically told me to leave.”
“Mierda.” Marcus pulls me against his chest, and I feel his heart racing against my cheek. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and for a moment I let myself pretend we’re safe. That this is allowed. That loving him, loving all of them, isn’t going to destroy everything.
