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At five-thirty, he made sure their volunteer chefs could step away for a few minutes and assembled everyone for a quick meeting.

After introductions all around (the elderly woman’s name was Gloria, and she had once worked at the Orange Street Orphanage), Kensley went over the order of the evening: the meet-and-greet; how to handle the door prizes; who was serving and who was busing tables as folks ate.

At five-forty-five, Jonathan went upstairs to set up the sign directing guests to the banquet hall downstairs.

Baskets of hot bread and cold salad were placed at intervals on the tables.

Drew did every task asked of him with quiet precision, that ever-moving gaze always aware of the people around him.

It was both bizarre and somehow reassuring.

The church didn’t hire security guards or private police for events, because in the long history of Holy Order Ninth Cathedral, no violent crime had ever occurred on their grounds.

But with Drew here, Kensley had the odd sense of having his own security guard.

He didn’t mind the feeling at all. He understood the violence of men more than he believed in the protection of Heavenly Father.

As much as Kensley wanted to station himself right next to Drew for the evening, this was his event to host, so he had to socialize.

Drew, Gloria and Hosea were positioned behind the main serving station to offer up plates of spaghetti and sauce, and to watch the drink station.

Drew seemed perfectly comfortable in a blue apron, holding a ladle of marinara sauce.

And as the first guests arrived, Kensley slipped into his role as Elder Thorne, welcoming all and encouraging them to sit where they wished.

Random seating was part of the door prize gimmick.

Tickets to the dinner were not sold in advance, it was cash at the door, and by five minutes to six, the hall was nearly full, and Kensley was mentally calculating how quickly they could set up another table and eight chairs.

A group of four men entered at once, and Kensley only noticed because fundraisers like this were often heavily attended by couples or families.

Not clusters of men dressed in suits like they were about to walk onto a Wall Street trading floor, but hopefully that meant thick wallets.

By six, they were at capacity, and Kensley clapped to silence the room. He welcomed his guests, reiterated tonight’s charity, and then went through the motions of praying for the food, and for “loose pockets” in relation to the donation buckets by the exits.

Now it was time to eat.

Bishop wasn’t happy with his position scooping delectable-smelling sauce over piles of cooked noodles for people who could have easily donated the entry fee ten times over, without expecting anything in return.

But he did it, because it was his job. For the vast majority of his life, Bishop did something because it was his job.

Didn’t mean he ever had or currently did enjoy it. His adult life had never been about joy; it had always been about survival. And it still was: his survival and Kensley’s.

The buffet line passed through quickly, and Bishop counted close to two hundred guests who eventually sat with plates of food.

A constant din of chatter filled the banquet hall, a kind of white noise that was irritating but not distracting.

He remained aware of Kensley’s location, whether he was laughing with an elderly woman, or bringing someone a refill of their iced tea.

Kensley was more animated here than during any of the services Bishop had attended.

Elder Thorne, the dour senior priest, was calm, quiet, and rarely smiled.

Brother Kensley, a young man with a huge heart who wanted to connect, shined in this environment.

This was not a man who was meant to hide behind pulpits and robes and strict traditions.

He needed companionship and joy and engagement with other people, especially people his age, his omega designation be damned.

Bishop snorted then hid the noise behind a soft cough.

In some ways, being born omega male or alpha female did damn the person, often to a life of service to a religion they did not respect, for their “own safety.” He hated that he’d been party to convincing Kensley that joining the Order was best for him.

He was safe, sure, but Bishop seriously doubted he was happy.

At six-thirty, with the meal well on its way, Kensley interrupted with the first door prize.

“Everyone, please reach beneath your chair,” he said in a loud, strong voice that tickled up Bishop’s spine in an enticing way.

“Two tickets have been randomly placed beneath two chairs, and whoever finds them can come up to claim a prize off the door prize table. And I promise, we checked for bubblegum before we set up today.” That got a titter of laughter and a lot of squirming and reaching.

Bishop hadn’t paid much attention to the door prizes, which at a quick glance, were donations such as gift cards, a basket of specialty cooking items, and some handmade crafts.

The kinds of things he assumed parishioners would donate for a good cause.

A man with a shock of white hair who leaned heavily on a cane, and a teenage girl in a floral dress found the tickets, and they came up to claim their prizes.

Bishop watched, but unless Gramps had a knife hidden in his cane, Kensley was safe.

The meal resumed. At least a dozen people returned for second helpings.

Bishop had eaten before leaving his apartment, but the scent of the pasta sauce was still incredibly enticing to someone who lived off frozen dinners and sandwiches.

Eating out was difficult and delivery was risky, so he shopped at stores out of town and made his groceries last. Even though his face had changed, he still had enemies everywhere, and this version of Bishop Anders, moving through life as Drew Burton, didn’t want to be noticed.

There was safety in living anonymously.

At six-forty-five, a representative from the orphanage gave a brief speech about what tonight’s raised funds would be spent on, and then another door prize ticket was revealed.

Bishop was used to long stretches of boredom so he hid his well, while gently deflecting questions from his fellow volunteers and a few women who came up to his station to flirt.

The attention was flattering, but they were very much not his type.

His type was dark-haired, mysterious, and male, and his type was currently telling an animated story to a young couple at a nearby table.

Kensley had been his type since he’d first begun transforming from a gawky adolescent into a handsome young adult.

But Kensley was the most forbidden type of all: a priest.

An omega priest who was his best friend’s younger brother.

Jonathan wheeled out a cart laden with slices of store-bought cakes and fancy cookies, and guests began getting up to select dessert.

Bishop helped Gloria bring out two large carafes of coffee, and they eased into the final hour of the evening.

Doors were open until eight, and then they’d begin the full cleanup of food and utensils.

He’d hoped for a chance to speak privately with Kensley tonight, even if only for five minutes, but as the clock’s long hand inched around its face, that chance shrank.

The banquet room slowly emptied and singles, couples and groups left, bellies full and a few with door prizes.

Volunteer cooks took the leftovers into the kitchen to mix the pasta and sauce—someone said it was easier to reheat that way—so Bishop volunteered himself as a busboy and collected empty bread baskets.

Something to do instead of just standing there watching Kensley.

He could watch Kensley all damned night.

Less than a quarter of the original guests still lingered when everything went straight to hell.

Five men dressed in black and wearing masks swarmed the room like a trained SWAT team, guns up, shouting for everyone to freeze in place.

Bishop only had a few split seconds to clock each man: four were boring, nothing to note, but the fifth sent a block of ice into his gut.

The guy held his gun like a pro, supported by his left hand, and on the four exposed fingers was a tattoo.

A pattern Bishop recognized as belonging to one of their rival families.

An enemy of King’s. An enemy of Kensley’s.

Training kicked in, alongside the expected chaos of fifty-odd people faced with shock, fear and the completely unexpected. Bishop located Kensley by the kitchen door, frozen.

Bishop hunched and rushed toward Kensley, adrenaline fueling his speed and focus, and he yanked Kensley down.

Instead of pushing through a swinging door and gaining the attention of the masked men, Bishop shoved Kensley farther into the back of the banquet hall, toward a simple door marked Exit.

He didn’t know where it led, but this back corner was unlit and shadowy, and it didn’t squeal with an alarm when Bishop pushed it open.

“What are y—?” Kensley tried to ask. Bishop wrapped a hand around his mouth and got them both through the door, opening it as little as possible and shutting just as fast.

They ended up in a dark corridor that dead-ended ten feet to the left, but went on a good hundred feet to the right, with a few interspersed standard doors, before ending at what looked like a heavy fire door.

No motion-sensors triggered lights, but it wasn’t pitch black.

Bishop grabbed Kensley’s hand and dragged him toward that fire door.

“What’s going on?” Kensley asked.

“Hush! Don’t talk.” Bishop ran. Kensley didn’t pull against him, but he wasn’t keeping up, and that was almost annoying enough for Bishop to toss Kensley over his shoulder. But the corridor was short, and Bishop slammed into the release bar. Nothing.