Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Julian
The first thing to go was the shoes.
One by one, people kicked them off—sandals, boots, a surprising number of barefoot hippies who’d never bothered with footwear to begin with.
The grass beneath our feet was damp and warm, like the earth itself had been soaking up sunlight all day and was now radiating it back through the soles of our feet.
A few people giggled as they tugged off socks, some with toe rings and chipped nail polish, others with mud-streaked ankles and anklets made of string and beads.
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to participate, but because I wasn’t sure what the hell I was participating in. Still, I untied my boots. Peeled off my socks. Felt the squish of grass and river silt underfoot. And then looked up—
—at him.
Jude stood at the river’s edge, his palms raised slightly, like a priest about to bless the congregation.
He looked back at the group gathered on the bank with an expression that was somewhere between nervous and radiant.
And, holy hell, it hit me: he was beautiful.
Not just good-looking—though that too—but luminous in a way that made my chest feel too tight.
Like he was reflecting something I’d never been allowed to believe in.
“Water,” Jude began, voice clear and slow, “is the oldest cleanser. The one element we’ve trusted since before language to wash away what we can’t bear to hold anymore.”
I swallowed a laugh. Not because it was ridiculous—okay, maybe a little ridiculous—but because I didn’t trust what was happening in my chest. That twitchy, rising hum that didn’t feel like irony. Or even cynicism.
It felt suspiciously like peace.
Jude stepped forward, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and lifted a small bowl filled with river water. He dipped a sprig of rosemary into it and walked along the semicircle of us gathered on the bank, flicking droplets in our direction like some benevolent woodland pope.
“Tonight, we’re not erasing the past,” he said. “We’re acknowledging it. Honoring the pain, the mistakes, the fears—and letting them float downstream.”
Someone in the crowd whispered “amen” unironically. Someone else hiccuped.
I watched Jude intently. He wasn’t performing. Or if he was, he was a goddamn method actor. His voice was steady, low, sincere. And as much as I wanted to roll my eyes, I couldn’t.
Because something was shifting in me.
This ritual, these barefoot strangers, the soft lapping of water against the stones, it was seeping into the cracks of my armor, a warmth I hadn’t asked for and didn’t know what to do with.
Jude returned to the center of the group. “When you’re ready,” he said, “step into the river. Step in with intention. Let it take what you don’t want to carry anymore.”
No one moved at first. Then Zephyr stepped forward, serene as a moon goddess. Then a couple with matching tattoos followed. And then more.
And then me.
I moved toward the water slowly, as if I might wake up from whatever spell had been cast. I placed one foot in first—the shock of it nearly knocked the air out of me.
Cold. Sharp. Alive.
The river wrapped around my ankle like a silk scarf dunked in ice.
And yet, as I stepped deeper, it didn’t stay cold.
It warmed around me, or maybe I warmed into it, like we were meeting in the middle.
Stones shifted underfoot, smooth and slick, and the current tugged gently at my calves.
It was grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
I was halfway in when I felt it. Jude’s presence just behind me.
Then his hand.
An arm slid around my waist, careful and unsure. His touch was soft but firm, like he was giving me the option to pull away. I tensed on instinct.
But then I didn’t.
I let the air out of my lungs slowly, felt the rhythm of the water matching the rhythm of my breath. Jude’s arm remained around me, his warmth bleeding into my side through the wet fabric of our shirts.
One by one, the others slipped out of the river. No ceremony to it—just quiet movement. Towels retrieved, murmured goodnights, someone crooning a tune I didn’t recognize. The sky was deepening, stars winking to life above the tree line.
Zephyr was the last to leave. She passed close, her eyes locking with mine. No words. Just a look. Piercing. Evaluating. Like she was silently warning me: Don’t you dare hurt Jude.
And then she was gone.
Just Jude, his arm still around me, and the water swirling slowly around our legs.
I turned to him.
He turned to me.
And we kissed.
No preamble. No fireworks. Just his lips brushing against mine like a question, and mine answering back like I didn’t know how not to. It was slow. Gentle. Devastating in its simplicity.
I wasn’t used to this.
Sex? That I could do. Mechanical. Strategic. Quick and clean and distant. But this? This was something else. This was bare, and raw. Intimate.
And it scared the hell out of me.
Because as much as I wanted to believe I was in control, that this was still just research for a story, still about exposing a fraud…
…the longer we kissed, the less I believed Jude Brooks was a fraud.
His fingers grazed the small of my back, trailing upward. His other hand came to rest just beneath my jaw. Our mouths parted briefly, then rejoined—deeper this time. Not hungry. Just certain. Like we were carving a language out of breath.
Finally, he pulled back. Only just.
He took my hand in his, and without a word, we walked out of the river.
The grass kissed our ankles. The air felt electric. And I knew—God, I knew—I was in way too deep.
Jude leaned in close, breath warm against my cheek.
“Come back to my place,” he whispered. “Can we start over again? Because I feel this connection between us, and I want to explore it.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve.
Instead, I nodded. “I’d love to.”
Jude’s loft was quiet.
It sat above the healing center like some kind of sanctum—bare, soft-lit, and whispering with stillness.
No TV. No clutter. Just a low couch by a window framed with gauzy curtains, a small table with a salt lamp glowing faintly, and a modest kitchenette tucked into one corner.
The air smelled like cedar and sage, with a faint trail of whatever soap Jude used—woodsy, clean, unassuming.
“Sit down,” Jude said gently, tilting his head toward the couch.
I did as I was told, settling onto the worn cushions with the kind of stiffness I reserved for therapists’ offices and interviews with hostile witnesses. My clothes were still damp from the river, and the fabric clung to my skin, a reminder of just how exposed I already felt.
Jude crossed to the kitchenette, his movements smooth and quiet.
He opened a cupboard, pulled down a bottle of red wine, then retrieved two glasses from a little open shelf.
No corkscrew needed—twist-top. Efficient.
Humble. He poured us both half a glass and returned to the couch, handing one to me before lowering himself beside me.
We sat in silence for a moment.
Sipped.
The wine was decent—earthy, not too sweet. It lingered on my tongue like a secret.
And then, out of nowhere, Jude asked, “How long have you been recording your podcast?”
The glass froze just shy of my lips. My breath caught mid-inhale.
Shit.
He turned to look at me, his face soft, his tone… not accusatory. Just curious.
“You know about Unholy Orders?” I asked carefully.
“I know about it,” he said. “Percy listened to it. Zephyr mentioned it, too. I didn’t want to believe it, but then tonight... the way you watched me. Like you wanted to believe me. But couldn’t.”
I looked down at my wine. The surface trembled slightly with the beat of my pulse.
“So?” Jude asked. “Am I being investigated by Julian Reed, or courted by him? Or are they the same thing?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then, instead of answering, I blurted, “Her name was Maria.”
Jude blinked.
“My mother,” I clarified. “Maria Santini-Reed. Full-blooded Italian, raised Catholic, died her hair black until it turned gray on its own. She could cold-read a room in five seconds flat. You know the type.”
Jude didn’t interrupt.
“She was a scammer,” I said, a humorless laugh catching in my throat. “Psychic readings, past-life regressions, tarot. All fake. She had a little box of stones she used to call her ‘divination kit.’ Half of it was aquarium gravel, and the rest was stuff she picked up at flea markets.”
The memories were sharp. Too sharp. Like they’d been waiting under the surface for years, just looking for a crack to flood through.
“We never stayed anywhere long. Six months max. Any longer and someone caught on. A grieving widow realized she’d been promised a visit from her dead husband for the low price of five hundred bucks and a ‘donation to the spirits.’ A mother figured out the curse on her son was made up.
And then we’d be gone. U-Haul in the middle of the night, fake names, burner phones. Again and again.”
Jude’s hand reached for mine. Quiet. No fanfare. Just fingers sliding into place with mine and giving a gentle, grounding squeeze.
“And the scams kept evolving,” I murmured. “At one point she started selling these tiny glass vials of ‘Holy Water’ from a sacred stream in Italy. Claimed the Virgin herself had blessed it. Said it cured infertility, heartbreak, and back pain. Spoiler alert: it was tap water with a sprig of basil.”
Jude laughed softly through his nose, but it wasn’t mocking.
“What happened to her?” he asked gently. “Do you still talk to her?”
That’s when it happened.
The tear slid down my cheek without warning. I didn’t feel it building. Just suddenly there—warm and silent, betraying me.
“No,” I whispered. “She’s in prison. Upstate New York. Got caught finally—wire fraud, tax evasion, all of it. I haven’t spoken to her in years. Don’t plan to. I can’t.”
I blinked. Another tear.
“I made it my life’s work to expose people like her,” I said. “Frauds. Liars. People who prey on belief like it’s a buffet. I swore I’d never let anyone else fall for it.”
Jude pulled me into a hug.
No words. Just the warmth of his arms. Just his chest against mine, his heartbeat steady and solid while mine spiraled out of control. I wept against him, messy and sudden and loud in the quiet room. My hands fisted in the back of his shirt like I was afraid he’d disappear.
And then—
Jude kissed me.
It was soft at first. Just a brushing of lips, like he was asking permission with his mouth. I answered him with mine, and everything slowed. Time. Thought. Breath. It was a kiss born of something deeper than lust. Something sacred.
The last time we kissed, I had rushed it. Tried to turn it into sex before it could become a feeling. Jude had pulled away then, told me to slow down.
Now, I didn’t want to rush.
But God, I wanted more.
I felt it when Jude sensed my hesitation. My fear. My nerves that this would spook him. That if I moved too fast, I’d lose him again.
He pulled back slightly, breath brushing my cheek. “I’ve never felt so connected to another man,” he said, voice low and raw. “Not like this.”
And then he kissed me again.
This one was different.
Deeper.
Hungrier.
But not desperate. Not transactional.
It wasn’t like the sex I was used to. Fast, anonymous, and forgettable. This was intimate. This was two people cracking open just enough to let the other one in.
His hand slid under my shirt, splayed warm against my ribs. My body trembled, not from arousal, but from how unfamiliar it all felt—being touched like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just a body to use or a source of information, but something sacred.
My heart ached with it.
Talking about my mother had shaken something loose inside me. Something I didn’t want to look at but couldn’t ignore anymore. I’d spent my entire life building walls so I could protect myself from her legacy. From the shame of what she’d done. And from the guilt of having loved her anyway.
But Jude wasn’t trying to climb those walls. He was waiting patiently at the gate, asking me to open it from the inside.
And damn me, I wanted to.
I wanted to let him in.
His lips moved against mine like a prayer. His hands roamed slowly, reverently. And for the first time in years, I let myself feel it all. The grief, the desire, and for the first time in years, hope.
My walls were coming down. But could I truly let Jude know the real me?