Page 161 of The Billionaire's Baby

Color smears his cheeks. The skin around his lips tightens. Edward curls his fingers into fists, then draws in a breath. He rolls his shoulders, then seems to get control of his emotions. "I'll forgive you, again." He adds in a low voice, "I know how distraught you are."

"And how would you?" I glare at him. "You, who decided to divorce yourself from all emotions, while the rest of us battle our demons on a daily basis?"

"Is that what you think I did?" He tilts his head. "That I turned my back on all worldly matters?"

"Didn't you?"

"Being a priest is the hardest thing I've ever done." His lips twist. "Anything else would have been the easy way out for me, don't you see?"

"No," I frown, "I'm afraid, I don't."

"No matter." He draws in a breath. "Forget I said that."

"But—" I protest. It's rare for the Father to open up. Aside from that fucker Baron, he's the only one of us Seven, who, despite being with us, has rarely shared anything of his personal struggles with us. Which really makes it all worse, in a way. After all, he's been right here with us all these years, and yet, he's been closed off.

He folds his arms together, "Enough about me." He schools all emotion from his face. "What are you going to do now?"

"We were talking about you," I persist. "Why was becoming a priest the toughest decision you've ever made?"

"Now's not the time to discuss it."

"Then when?" I frown.

"When, the time is right."

"Which is?"

"Not now."

I blow out a breath, "You're bloody frustrating. You know that?"

"Says the man who's working himself into a tizzy over his future bride."

"She's not..."Mine,is what I want to say, but I can't. What the fuck is wrong with me? When did everything around me collapse to the point that I can't differentiate right from wrong and truth from fiction anymore?

I rub the back of my neck. "The hell am I going to do now?"

"We...are going to talk—"

I pale. "What? No, I am not in the mood for a sermon."

"Man to man." Edward scowls.

"Nor am I going to confess," I say in alarm.

He huffs, "As friends." He squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Why are the five of you so immature?"

"And Baron?"

He lowers his hand. "What about Baron?"

"I notice you didn't include him?"

"There's nothing to talk about. He escaped; good for him. The end."

"Hmm," I frown, "if you say so."

"I do." He firms his lips.