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“And all of your victims were beyond redemption?”
My question confuses him enough for him to whisper, “Of course. I wouldn’t have taken their lives otherwise. A life for a life. And they weren’t victims?—”
“I’m ex-Catholic—you don’t have to go all Old Testament on me for me to know what you’re talking about.”
“Ex?”
“I lost faith in the Church. As much as you have.” My head tips to the side. “You’re not a priest anymore. You wear the collar, you go through the motions, but your heart’s not in it.”
“And how would you know that? After watching me for one service?—”
His sneer doesn’t hurt my feelings. “Priests don’t kill their parishioners.” Christ, do I need to spell it out?
“Some parishioners are beyond redemption.”
“And are you?” I query, hurting at his wooden tone.
“I’ve been beyond redemption for a long time.” His eyes are stark before he shutters them with his lashes. “Call thecarabinieriif you must?—”
“I have no desire to call the police. You did no wrong?—”
“I took lives. Whether or not it is Old Testament, that isn’t the law of the land.”
“No, it isn’t, and thank God for that,” I say dryly. “Still, I see no need to call the police. I’m not here for that. I didn’t track you down for that.”
“Then why did you?” His eyes opened again when I uttered ‘track you,’ his curiosity clear, but what he reveals with that look stuns me.
The striations in those obsidian orbs seem to fluctuate, flickering and surging with dark browns and golds. It’s impossible, a trick of the light, I know, but still, it affects me. Makes warmth flood me in response to his visceral reaction.
“I already told youwhy.”
“You can’t want me.”
“Why can’t I?”
“I’m a priest.”
“You’re not a priest.” I cup him through his pants, making him jolt in surprise. But it’s too late—he’s hard. “See? You’re a man.Myman.”
“You’re crazy,” he breathes, his hand darting to mine. He shoves at my wrist, but my grip tightens around his cock. A hiss escapes him as he grinds out, “No.”
Because I have no need to force anything, I back off. Even move a few feet away.
“I was just reminding you of what you are,” I tell him calmly, and ignoring his scowl, I retreat, wandering deeper into the building where I find a kitchen with a dinner table and a tiny sofa.
The light’s on like he forgot to turn it off, and I spy a busted kettle on the floor.
What happened between then and now?
I move over to the kettle and bend down to pick it up, but when I do, my knees buckle and I almost slam into the floor.
He’s there.
Like I knew he would be, even if I hadn’t anticipated falling.
My damn body, letting me down again—I’m growing tired of it not knowing what my purpose is.
His arms sweep under mine as he catches me before I can collide with the tiled ground. Within seconds, I’m sitting at the table, on one of the small stools that circle it.