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Kensley seemed to watch him for several long, intense minutes while the sermon droned on.

Bishop blocked out the words meant to condition and feed the beliefs of those already converted, not convince anyone new of their possible salvation.

The church had enough of the state under their control that they didn’t need to spend energy on conversion, only on reinforcement of the status quo.

The Holy Father called for all to kneel for the final prayer, breaking the maybe-gaze-lock between Bishop and Kensley.

Bishop slid to his knees on the small slab of wood attached to the pew in front of him, then lowered his head enough to seem respectful without losing his view of the room.

The prayer ended. Everyone sat for one more choir performance, and then Kensley returned to the pulpit.

“Go forth in your connection with Heavenly Father, and may the Lord bless you with peace, love and prosperity, for through Him all things are possible. Amen.”

The downside of choosing an aisle seat was that Bishop couldn’t linger without irritating people trying to leave, so he stood, moved to the far wall, and pretended to be searching for something in his coat pockets.

Slowly, deliberately, watching from the corner of his eye as Kensley and the two junior priests began interacting with the crowd.

Bishop was ninety-nine-percent sure that no one would orchestrate an assassination in the church, but he wanted more time to study Kensley.

Study him in order to protect him, of course. No other reason.

As the sanctuary emptied, hanging around became too conspicuous, so Bishop moved toward the vestibule.

He popped into the bathroom to relieve himself and, on the way back, observed more of the cathedral’s interior.

Blueprints could tell him a lot but not everything.

It also allowed him to take in more details of the nearly empty corridor and vestibule.

He paused next to a large bulletin board full of local happenings and put on his still-soggy coat.

“Good evening, brother,” Kensley said, his familiar-yet-deeper voice rolling over Bishop’s skin like a warm hug.

Bishop turned, his heart pounding, alarmed at having been sneaked up on, and also overjoyed by being directly addressed.

Kensley stood less than three feet away, hands folded together in front of his billowy robe, expression open and curious.

Up close, he was even more handsome than Bishop had originally observed, and he shoved that reaction as far back as he could. Kensley was a job, not wank material.

“Hello, Elder,” Bishop replied. “I apologize for lingering. I imagine you want to lock the front doors.”

Kensley smiled in a way that made Bishop feel less like an anonymous parishioner and more like a singular person. “Our front doors are never locked, brother. We offer sanctuary to all, at any time of day or night. The Lord’s house does not close.”

“That doesn’t sound safe.”

“There is no safer place than within these four walls. Not only for our physical bodies, but also for our souls. And forgive me for overstepping, but you seem troubled. You have not attended service in a long time?”

Bishop stared, surprised at having been read so easily. But he might as well lean into the truth and continue the conversation. “It has been a while since I’ve attended services, Elder. Life has been complicated.”

“It can be very complicated, but the good news is how simple the love of our Lord is. I’m pleased you chose to join us tonight.”

“Same.” It took all his self-control not to look at Kensley’s lips. “Tonight has been very helpful.”

Kensley nodded, his smile never dropping but something in his eyes changed. They seemed to focus on Bishop in an intent way that nearly made Bishop squirm. Nearly. “Have we met before, brother?” Kensley asked. “You seem familiar.”

Yes, we’ve met, we were briefly family, but there’s a good reason you don’t recognize my face or have any reason to think I’m alive.

“Not in this lifetime,” Bishop replied. “Maybe I have one of those faces. I know I’d remember having met you.”

Kensley’s cheeks darkened. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’m Elder Thorne, and if you are ever in need of counsel, I can be found here most days.”

“I appreciate that, Elder. I am at a crossroads in my life. Previous decisions have led to poor results. It’s good to know there’s somewhere I can go that won’t charge me two-hundred-an-hour to listen to me ramble about my feelings.”

Kensley grinned, and in that simple quirk of lips, Bishop saw the young man he’d missed. “That is one of the many bonuses of seeking spiritual guidance over that of a paid psychiatrist. If you like, we can speak in one of the private meeting rooms.”

“Right now?”

“Of course. Unless you have to be somewhere else.”

Bishop wanted to take him up on the offer of “counseling” right now, so he could be alone with Kensley and pick his brain, but that was a bad idea.

Kensley was an adult omega male, a man Bishop should not see as a sexual being but did, because Kensley was all levels of hot and sexy and desirable.

Bishop didn’t see him as a priest, as unobtainable, because Bishop had known him before Kensley took those vows.

He remembered a hot-tempered teen who loved to cuss, to make sexual innuendo, and who declared everlasting hatred against both King and Bishop for reporting Kensley’s omega presentation to the church.

For forcing Kensley into a life he had not wanted.

“I can’t tonight,” Bishop forced himself to say. “But I do appreciate the offer. I, um, haven’t been active in the church for a long time, but I hope to change that.”

“Music to an Elder’s ears. You are always welcome here, Brother….?”

Bishop didn’t insult Kensley by not acknowledging the unasked question. “Drew Burton.”

“Brother Drew. Welcome, and I hope to see you at service again.”

“Count on it, Elder Thorne.” He extended his hand out of habit, and he was pleasantly surprised when Kensley reached out to shake.

He must have imagined the spark that raced from their joined hands, up Bishop’s arm, and then down his spine.

Definitely imagined it, and he released Kensley’s hand quickly.

Kensley glanced at his hand then smiled at Bishop. “Have a good evening.”

“You, too. Good night.”

Bishop turned, every cell in his body rebelling at leaving Kensley behind.

Yes, the young senior priest was safe inside his church, but it was more than that.

Bishop had sworn to himself and to King that he would protect Kensley, and walking away did not constitute protection.

Not when Bishop wanted to scoop Kensley up in his arms, stuff him into his car, and drive until they were both safe from King’s enemies forever.

Maybe one day but not now.

For now, all Bishop could do was turn his coat collar up against the rain, walk into the cold night, and head home to his very empty apartment. An empty, efficiency apartment with a huge, Kensley-shaped hole in it he’d never noticed before tonight.

Kensley Thorne completed his evening service duties at nine-thirty on the dot, as he often did when he wasn’t counseling a parishioner in need.

In his private office, he hung up his robe and sash, traded his sandals for regular sneakers, and locked up.

Headed down the private corridor that led into the abbey gardens.

A long colonnade protected him from the steady rain falling all around as he walked, soaking the ground for the coming spring warmth and growth.

One of his favorite parts of his existence here was tending their gardens during spring, summer, and deep into autumn, as the last of the squash and sweet potatoes emerged from still-fertile soil.

He loved the way nature reinvented itself over and over, always doing something new, while Kensley was stuck doing the same things, over and over, year after year. Never growing, never changing.

Existing.

Existing in a faith he only pretended to embrace, so he remained safe. Safe and stagnant and lonely.

Loneliness that had increased last month when yet another lonely birthday passed, the only acknowledgement of him turning twenty-eight an anonymous fruit basket left with the cathedral’s secretary.

He knew his brother had sent it, as he had every birthday since Kensley entered the Order.

It would never replace a phone call or visit, but he also knew better than to expect those things.

It was the heavy shroud of loneliness draped over his soul that had driven him to approach Drew Burton this evening.

He’d noticed the tall, golden-haired stranger when the congregation stood for the first hymn.

Kensley was a creature of habit, as were all members of the Order, and Kensley was certain that Drew had never attended the Wednesday evening service before.

And his intuition had been proven right when they spoke.

Drew had reminded Kensley a bit of his brother, in the way he carried himself, always alert and aware of his surroundings.

He’d also reminded Kensley of someone who’d died two years ago, a man he recalled from before the Order.

His brother’s best friend, a dark-haired, serious man named Bishop Anders.

Bishop had lived a violent life, just like King, and he’d died in a violent manner.

Kensley had mourned the loss of so much potential—and the life of a young man who’d once fiercely protected him.

Who’d been gentle and kind…until those last two days that had changed Kensley’s life forever.

Drew was not the ghost of Bishop Anders, but he’d still made Kensley feel inexplicably safe.

The taller, muscled man carried so much wariness and pain in his dark eyes.

Eyes that didn’t look at Kensley with disdain (a common expression directed at omegas, priests or not) or silent respect (for his rank as a senior priest).

Drew had looked at him with an openness Kensley hadn’t experienced for half his life.

Openness tinged with curiosity and interest.

As a man with suppressed needs and desires, those things had stirred something new deep in Kensley’s gut.

A gorgeous man was giving him serious, direct attention in a way never directed at priests by their congregation.

At least, not senior priests. It was the job of the junior priests to mingle in the crowd after services and extend offers of counsel.

Kensley doing so with a complete stranger—who didn’t feel like a stranger—was totally out of character. And dangerous.

Maybe a little danger would spice up his incredibly boring life.

He let himself into the abbey, the large dormitory and cafeteria where the entire staff resided.

The Father and Mother had their own private residences with a private entrance and exit, but the rest of the Order members lived here in simple, private rooms and a shared cafeteria.

Everyone contributed to the cooking and cleaning as part of their acts of good work, since the priests who were omega or alpha were forbidden from doing good work in the community at large.

It was too dangerous for them to leave the four high walls surrounding the entire abbey, cathedral and grounds. Four walls that had become a prison.

Kensley passed through the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

Food was forbidden anywhere except the cafeteria, but drinks could be taken upstairs, as long as they remembered to bring the cup back.

Being caught with more than one cup in their room earned demerits and eventual acts of penitence.

The abbey was quiet all around him, which was not unusual this late in the evening.

His brothers and sisters were probably in their own rooms, reading, meditating, or praying.

They were allowed to read the Holy Scriptures, of course, or any sort of non-fiction books they liked.

They may not be of the world, but they still needed to learn about and understand the world, in order to provide effective counsel.

Kensley’s latest selection lay on the simple wood table beside his bed, his progress held by a bookmark he’d crafted last summer as part of a church fundraiser.

He’d learned to make handmade paper and layer in leaves and flowers which, when dried, he’d cut, sealed and added a simple yarn tassel.

He’d sold quite a few but had kept his favorite, which had several pressed sprigs of clover.

Clover reminded him of his childhood and happier times, when the world was bigger than a single city block.

He changed into simple tan pajamas and settled in bed to read more amusing stories written by an old, country doctor who oversaw a rural county in Maine.

A simple life in a simpler time, when a doctor was still paid in live chickens and baskets of freshly-picked apples.

When his eyelids grew heavy and he turned off his reading light, Kensley tried very hard not to allow the arresting memory of Drew Burton to follow him into slumber.