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“But it feels so right,” Estelle says, and the sound of tears in her voice stabs my heart.

The woman’s so rude to me that I’ve never thought her capable of any kind of emotion. But here it is, pouring out of her office into this deserted church.

“You know it does,” she adds, with pleading in her tone.

I should turn away right now, but I step closer.

Through the door’s narrow gap, I see the back of Father Naughton’s vestments and Estelle’s arms wrapped around him. They’re standing in front of her desk, so close and absorbed in each other that my first thought isn’t sin, but love.

“But we shouldn’t,” he says, and now it sounds like he’s crying too.

One of Estelle’s hands lifts from his back, and I imagine her tenderly brushing away his tears. I force myself to back away, to leave them to their moment. As I retreat down the darkened hall, Father Naughton’s words ring in my ears.

We shouldn’t. The same words I said to Liam in that small booth. We shouldn’t ruin our friendship, we shouldn’t complicate our secret arrangement.

For Father Naughton and Estelle, it’s disturbingly similar. They shouldn’t be holding one another like that, they shouldn’t be in love when he’s devoted himself to the priesthood.

I pad up the back stairs, lifting my gaze to the ground-level window and the dark night outside. Something white flashes in the corner of the glass. I clap a hand to my mouth to stifle my scream. My scalp prickles painfully, and it’s all I can do not to crumple with fear. Then Harrison’s face disappears, retreating into the night. I clutch the stair’s railing for support, ready to cry.

He’s here.

A public engagement to Liam didn’t stop Harrison from hacking my phone, and it’s not keeping him physically away, either. I feel lost, unmoored without Liam by my side, a lone boat on the sea that could so easily be attacked.

I take a deep breath and slip my hand into the special pocket of my purse. When I wrap my fingers around my gun, I feel steadier. I’m not anywhere near calm, but I have enough presence of mind to return to the side door and wait until I see Gus circle back around.

When my guard gets close enough, I let go of my gun, then step outside to meet him.

He pauses when he sees my face. I must look like a clammy, pale mess. For two heartbeats, I worry that Gus will demand what’s wrong this time, but then he just shakes his head and escorts me back to the town car.

When he drops me off at the high-rise, Gus walks me all the way into the lobby, not leaving my side until he nods at the guard in the security office. Liam must’ve given both men very clear instructions.

In the solitude of the elevator, I scrub my hands over my face. Liam’s taking care of me, he’s doing all he can to protect me, and it still isn’t enough to stop Harrison’s stalking. Although my ex and I never discussed the O’Sullivans’ underground activity, he’d be a fool not to recognize Liam as a dangerous person.

Thinking about that side of my best friend causes that delicious shiver to run down my spine. I almost wish he could turn that dangerous side of his against Harrison, and I’m horrified to realize my nipples have gone stiff from my shivering. I chide myself, because violence is never the answer.

No matter how enticing it may seem.

After putting away my coat and shoes in the front closet, I walk through the main living space, then yelp in surprise.

Liam’s home early.

He leaps up at my strange yell, concern on his face. Given all the shocks I’ve had this evening, I struggle to conceal how shaken I am, but the last thing I want is for him to worry about me. I clear my throat.

“Is that a table?” I ask. It’s a ridiculous question, because it’s obviously a table, even though it’s upside down.

Wrench in hand, Liam gestures toward the four carved legs jutting into the air.

“For you,” he says, and the warmth in his voice eases some of the tension from my body.

My fiancé watches me expectantly, and so I head toward him to inspect the table he’s been working on. Liam knows my taste in furniture the way he knows my taste in jewelry. The table is dark oak, its curved legs and scrollwork apron reminiscent of a Louis XV piece.

“I know you’d prefer a solid-piece antique,” he says, “but it’d have to come in by crane. This’ll work in the meantime. I’ve reinforced the joints, so it should be sturdy enough.”

I frown slightly, confused by his phrasing.

“Sturdy enough for what?” I ask.

Instead of answering, Liam grins his mischievous grin, and warmth pools low in my belly.