The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,35
course. I wouldn’t take their lives otherwise. A life for a life.”
“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? It’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.” My words aren’t exactly simple, but 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 the police if 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 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. 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 you that,” I whisper huskily.
“You can’t want me.”
His flat reply has me quirking a brow at him. “Why can’t I?”
“I’m a priest.”
“You’re not a priest.” I snap my hand out and cup him through his pants. He’s hard. “See? You’re a man. My man.”
“You’re crazy,” he breathes, his hand darting to mine. He shoves my wrist, trying to pull it away, but my grip tightens around his cock. A hiss escapes him, and 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 back into the building where I find a kitchen. The light’s on, like he forgot to turn it off, and I spy the busted kettle on the ground.
What happened between that and now?
I move over to the kettle and start to 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.
His arms sweep under mine, and 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.
He’s crouching in front of me, and his expression is concerned now. The rage is gone.
That concern?
It’s like a balm to my soul.
“You’re still—”
“I’m not sick,” I counter, unsurprised that he knows about my illness. I feel like everyone does.
He reaches up, and his hand hesitantly rubs over my head. “The first time I landed in Rome when I was transferred here, I saw on the news that you were being operated on.” His jaw works. “You have beautiful hair. Like an angel,” he whispers.
The words sink into me like stones slipping through water. Not only his choice of words, but that, on his first day here, he saw me on TV.
Fate... yet again.
Could it be more obvious?
My tongue feels thick in my mouth as I tell him, “I used to think I was an angel.”
I’m not sure why I say that. I never intended to, but the words slipped out, just like everything else I said tonight.
He frowns at me, then his fingers trace along the crispy part of hair which I use to control how much of the scars are visible. I’ve had a haircut since it grew out, and I kept some parts longer and use gel to cover the thick ropes of mangled flesh that expose my surgery to the world.
That he touches me there, in such an intimate a spot, doesn’t seem to register.
It isn’t the touch someone gives a stranger, and while I know that’s because we’re not strangers, he doesn’t. Yet he touches me like he knows me.
Because he does.
He just doesn’t realize it.
Well, not consciously.
“The cyst?” he asks simply.
“The cyst.” I