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“Church?”
“Yes, church. You know, that establishment where people go and pray every Sunday.”
I glared at him. “I know what a church is. What I’m wondering is why we’re going? I didn’t take you for the religious type, despite that tattoo on your back.”
He arched a dark brow. “You’ve been studying my body, huh?”
Fuck.
“Why are we going to church, Tyran?” I asked, refusing to answer his question. “And why can’t you go alone? I’d rather not be there when the building burns down because the devil himself stepped in it.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t worry, I have firemen on standby.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re making a confession.”
“Huh?” My brows furrowed.
“Yes, Sienna. A confession.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re a Catholic, surely you know what making a confession in the church means.”
“Yes, I know what it means, but I’m not exactly a practicing Catholic. I don’t even remember the last time I stepped inside a church.”
“It was during your summer vacation when your mom married your stepdad. You went sightseeing.”
Shit, he was right. I completely forgot about that.
“How the hell do you even know that?”
“I’ve done my homework.”
I shook my head. Maybe Tyran had lost his mind while he was locked up.
“Whatever. I don’t even care why that’s relevant,” I muttered. “What I want to know is, why do I need to go to church now and make a confession? Why don’t you go and do it alone?”
“No can do,” he drawled. “The priest needs us both there.”
FIFTEEN
SIENNA
“This is ridiculous,” I said for the hundredth time since we’d left the castle.
“Nonetheless, the priest was adamant. Apparently you’ve refused to go to church for your whole five years here and he wants to meet you.”
“Fine, we can meet, but why the confession?”
He shrugged. “He wants to know all the sins of his flock.”
I scoffed. “Well, in that case, once you start your confession, we’ll be here until next month.”
“Oh, he doesn’t want my confession,” he deadpanned. “Only yours.”
My eyes narrowed to slits as I watched him. There was an angle to this, I was certain of it. Except, as I watched Tyran in his three-piece suit, looking very much like a mobster and a gentleman, I couldn’t figure out his reasoning behind all this.
“Confession booths creep me out. I really don’t want to go into one. Besides, I’m not dressed appropriately,” I said, then added in a whisper, “I’m not wearing panties.”
“Don’t worry, baby.” His hand came to my lower back and nudged me forward, my red coat concealing my not-so-great makeshift wardrobe for church. “You look good enough to eat.”
A few minutes later, I found myself inside the confession booth, my coat unbuttoned and my knees pressed against centuries-worn wood. Its surface was smooth from generations of restless humans whispering penitence. The air was faintly musty, carrying the scent of old timber and candle wax.
