The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,21

it hard to keep a straight face, in all honesty, when I take his confession. The family is aghast at the stuff he does, but to me, they’re just sticklers. Well-meaning, but stifling.

“Nothing, Padre,” he mutters glumly, before he stares down at his feet.

His sneakers squeak over the ancient stones, and his toe digs into them, kicking a loose piece of gravel that someone has traipsed in at some point after the cleaners came.

“He’ll be waiting to give confession,” his father promises, and I cut him a look, wanting to shake my head but staying still. It isn’t my place to parent the boy, nor to parent the parents, but I truly do think they are too hard on him.

Coming from me? Well, that says a lot, doesn’t it?

What would you expect from a kid when the doctors prescribe him medications and they refuse to give them to him, though?

Though the tut is silent, I move on, greeting worshippers whose faces I’ve come to know, whose names trip off my tongue like they’re old friends, and when I’ve walked to the last pew, my intent to grab Lara’s driver who never comes in, just hovers outside, I see her.

Sitting in the back corner.

She didn’t come for communion, because she wasn’t there, waiting to accept the sacrament.

I’m not sure when she arrived.

The church is small in size, but the back end of the nave is pretty dark, and the altar is bright thanks to its south-facing position.

If I’m in a pool of light, I can’t see the back of the church without difficulty.

So, she’d either watched the service, or she sneaked in.

And yes, I use that word on purpose.

Sneaked.

She doesn’t belong here.

Every instinct in my body screams at me that she doesn’t. Even as I recognize her.

How couldn’t I?

She’s the woman.

Andrea Jura.

What’s she doing in my church?

I thought she was still ill. Had thought she was being treated—apparently not.

Here she is.

In. My. Church.

And she’s watching me.

Looking at me with those eyes that had struck my soul over a year ago through a TV screen.

I freeze as her gaze drifts over me.

I want to ignore her, want to completely cut her off, but somehow, I can’t.

I just can’t.

And it’s weird. So strange. I’ve never felt that before, had never thought I would.

I’ve sinned many times in my life, but since I’d taken the vows that turned me from a simple man into a priest, I’d never looked at women.

It’s one vow I haven’t broken.

One that actually means something to me.

Sure, I know that might come across as ridiculous. How could I have killed in the past? How could I handle sinners and punish them with ease when that broke the most cardinal rule of all—thou shalt not kill—but I never thought about sex?

Well, I know why.

Two years in a rebel camp has turned me off of anything sex related.

Two years of being forced to listen to women being raped has done that to me.

Even if I have any urges—and all priests have them, but it’s our duty to fight them—they’d long since been buried in my past.

Yet, Andrea Jura?

I feel something.

I’m not sure what either.

Arousal? Lust?

Hatred?

Fear?

Repugnance?

She doesn’t look like she did back on the TV. Her hair is short, and considering she had brain surgery, I guess that fits. And while her hair is still that beautiful shade of sandy blonde, it’s somehow darker thanks to the short cut.

A part of me wants to scrub my hand over her head, to feel the curls against my palm, but another part of me wants to avoid her like she has the plague.

“Father?”

I jerk in surprise at the soft voice, and twist to see Junia Lorenzo staring up at me with concern.

I’m always kind to her because she has an asshole for a husband. He’s someone I’m watching.

Someone I’m keeping my eye on.

He’s dancing on the knife’s edge and he doesn’t even know it.

Neither does she.

Her eyes are soft, limpid, as she stares at me in concern. She’s a gentle woman, too good for that bastard of a spouse, so I reach over and pat her shoulder. “All is well, my child.”

I move on, lest I cause any more curiosity, and even though I want to watch Andrea, to see if she’s watching me, I continue, not stopping until I’m at the doorway.

The intense cold from inside the church is brisk, bracing. Outside, though, it’s still technically winter, but the sun has been hot, so I know Lara’s driver must be melting in his