Chapter 2 #2
There was a frosted glass door along the east wall that led to a narrow side passage. It had always been there, and as a child, I barely noticed it. Priests, altar boys, and staff slipped through it now and then. It was just another door in a church full of doors.
Tonight, it was wrong—an intrusion that shattered the illusion that holy walls kept bad things out.
My gaze stayed on the candles, but in my peripheral vision, I traced the line of the wall to the door.
A dark shape stood beyond it, carefully pushing it open. Tall. Not fumbling with keys. Not moving like someone who belonged here. Definitely not a priest.
My stomach tightened, but the feeling wasn’t pure fear. There was curiosity too.
If he were one of my father’s men, he was sloppy. If he wasn’t…then things had just gotten interesting in all the wrong ways.
I didn’t give him any indication that I knew he was here.
Instead, I leaned into the role.
I bowed my head so the veil fell forward, hiding most of my face.
A perfect little nun on the outside.
Inside, my mind was moving fast.
Brass candle stands stood on either side of the votive table I was kneeling in front of—heavy enough to break a nose, or worse.
The kneeler beneath me was solid and sharp.
I could drive it backward into someone’s shin if I had to.
The altar rail, a few steps away, was low enough for me to jump over.
I scanned for ways out and makeshift weapons. I’d learned these defensive skills when I’d first escaped the monastery a year and a half ago with nothing but my stack of evidence and the clothes on my back.
Suddenly the man slipped inside, the door sweeping quietly over the marble floor as it closed. A whisper of cold air drifted along the floor, snaking around the hem of my tunic. Measured footfalls grazed the stone, the sound neither hesitant nor rushed.
The steps moved quietly along the side of the sanctuary towards the back. There was a silence so absolute I was sure I could’ve heard a pin drop.
Frozen, I drew in a slow breath, counting it in and back out again as I forced my shoulders not to tense.
Shoes brushed across the marble floor behind me, somewhere along the back line of the pews. I could feel the weight of his attention.
He moved with purpose—quiet, practiced, wrong in a house of God. Whoever he was, he owned the shadows, as if slipping up behind a kneeling nun on Christmas night was nothing. That kind of arrogance burned through my nerves faster than fear ever could.
My anger was on the verge of combusting.
I was pissed off at the church that had betrayed me. At the nuns who’d called their sick form of discipline divine intervention. At my father’s corruption. At the life I never chose and the costume I’d been stuffed into tonight and so many other days.
If this man expected a trembling little nun, he was in for a surprise.
Quiet, deliberate steps grazed the marble behind me, closing the distance.
The fabric of his clothing rustled softly as he stepped in behind me, indicating exactly how near he was.
I could just make out the sound of his breathing—controlled, even, not nervous at all.
Goosebumps rose along my arms as he towered over me.
And whoever he was, he wasn’t here to pray.
“Are you just going to loom over me like the shadow of death?” I asked quietly. A dare wrapped in piety.
He didn’t answer.
My palms grew damp as I fought to keep my hands from shaking.
“If you’re here to mug me,” I murmured, “you’re going to be very disappointed. Carmelite nuns take vows of silence and poverty, you know. I have nothing worth stealing.”
Still no response.
Interesting.
My heartbeat pounded in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was from fear, irritation, or the thrill that always rose when something dangerous stepped into my orbit.
Fine. If he wouldn’t speak, I’d push him a little further.
“I suppose you could try for the ceremonial crown on the statue of Mary.” I tilted my head a little toward the side altar. “It’s made from antique gold and pearls, and it’s probably the only thing in here worth fencing.”
He let out a low grunt. He was annoyed, not tempted.
So he wasn’t here to pray or to steal anything.
Which left—
Me.
Kidnapping?
Or something darker?
A man creeping up behind someone praying didn’t exactly scream holy intentions.
The heat of him hit me a fraction of a second before his hand did.
A large palm wrapped around my shoulder—firm, unhurried. Not a grab. A claim.
“Come with me,” he said.
His voice—deep and rough around the edges with an unmistakable Irish lilt—poured straight down my spine.
I didn’t move.
“You do know,” I whispered, “that defiling a bride of Christ will condemn your soul.”
“My soul was blackened long ago.”
We were at a stalemate.
My anger sparked.
His fingers slid from my shoulder to my forearm—then clamped down.
In a flash, he yanked me up.
The kneeler scraped back as he dragged me off it, but I was already moving, my body reacting before I could think.
I didn’t scream.
I fought.
I drove my heel backward toward his knee, using the kneeler’s frame as leverage.
It struck—hard. His grunt told me I’d connected with his kneecap.
He absorbed the blow, but the surprise gave me half a second, just enough to twist, wrenching my arm free of his grip.
He reached again, but I was faster.
The habit tangled around my legs, so I ripped at it—yanking the long scapular over my head and hurling it at him. The heavy wool covered his face, buying me another breath. The mantle came next, shrugged off and thrown straight at his chest.
He tore both aside in a single swipe, but I was already kicking the tunic free, shimmying out of it like a snake shedding its dead skin.
Beneath the costume were my real clothes—black athletic leggings and a long-sleeved compression top clinging to every line of my body. Nothing sanctified about any of it.
He stopped for half a heartbeat, long enough for his gaze to sweep me from head to toe. Long enough for his jaw to tighten, his breath to hitch, his eyes to darken with something unmistakable.
Not surprise.
Lust.
Something hot and dangerous had flickered across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared—but not fast enough to miss.
And I laughed, a sound that cut the air between us.
Because I’d just learned something important.
This wasn’t a man who’d expected a fight.
And he sure as hell hadn’t expected to find me appealing.
He lunged.
I dodged, twisting sideways and slamming my shoulder into his back to knock him off balance. The move sent us staggering together, momentum carrying us straight into the nearest votive stand.
We crashed into it, red glass exploding across the white marble floor in a constellation of shards.
I didn’t retreat—I charged him with everything I had, palms slamming into his chest, hard enough to send him backwards.
Our feet tangled in the row of poinsettias lining the altar rail, pots flipping and crashing as we stumbled together.
Soil burst across the floor, red leaves scattering underfoot as we fought for balance.
He grabbed for my waist and I pivoted, driving an elbow into his ribs.
“Bloody hell,” he snarled, the ire in his voice strong.
I vaulted over the altar rail, palms slapping the top as I cleared it. He was right behind me. I spun and launched myself back toward him with a knee aimed squarely for his groin.
He caught me midair, twisting with the impact so it struck his side instead, but it still jolted him for a second.
Good.
I ducked under his arm, cutting toward the front of the sanctuary, but he was fast. His hand fisted in my veil.
The tug was painful as the hidden pins tore loose with a snap.
Cool air hit my ears as the black fabric ripped free. My heavy curls of bright red spilled out around me, tumbling down my back, wild and unbound.
He froze for what seemed an eternity.
I saw the shock.
The recalibration.
The instant he realized I wasn’t the meek little nun he’d expected but something far more dangerous.
I smiled—catlike—and launched at him again, ready to draw blood.
He recovered from the surprise of my hair faster than I expected. One heartbeat, maybe two, before he sprang.
He came at me with the force of a freight train.
Catching me around the waist, his hands were so large his fingers nearly touched as they locked around me and drove us forward.
The force of it lifted me off my feet and sent us hurtling forward.
At the last second he twisted, taking the brunt of the impact himself.
His shoulder hit the marble edge of the sanctuary step as he turned, his body absorbing the collision while I landed sprawled across him.
In a fraction of a second, I was on top of him, straddling his hips.
Way too close.
Heat curled low in my belly before I could stop it.
My thighs and core pressed against solid muscle and heat.
When I caught a flash of emerald green eyes beneath me, dark and far too aware, the realization hit me all at once: he was devastatingly handsome.
Brawny. All hard edges and dangerous control.
Wicked thoughts flickered.
No! Now was definitely not the time for those notions.
His muscles tightened beneath me, as if he felt it too—and hated it.
Then he rolled, the momentum tearing us apart, and I scrambled free.
I was up and moving before he was fully upright.
I’d barely made it up the three steps in front of the altar before he caught me again.
His arm wrapped around my middle, hauling me back against him before driving me forward onto the altar. Candlesticks scattered, metal clattering across the stone floor as the cloth bunched beneath my palms. The edge of the altar bit into my ribs as he pressed in behind me, pinning me there.
His body caged mine, solid and unyielding, every line of him telling me exactly how much trouble I was in.
He wasn’t crushing me, but he wasn’t giving me room to wiggle out of his hold either. One forearm slid across the back of my shoulders, holding me down. His hips anchored me in place, the hard line of his body against mine.
“Get your goddamn hands off me, you sick bastard. Fuck off before I break something you’re attached to,” I spat. The string of curses tumbled out fast enough to earn me instant excommunication if Father McHale had heard me.
“Didn’t know nuns had mouths like that,” he grumbled above me.
The asshole sounded almost amused.
Almost approving.
Which was somehow worse.
“I’ll give you more than that,” I hissed, twisting under him, trying to break the leverage he had on my shoulders.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said, all growly. “That I don’t allow ya to go.”
Allow.
The word seared hotter than his grip.
He dragged both my wrists behind my back, trying to bind them. The decorative runner from the altar slid out from under me. I bucked hard, throwing my weight backward, but he didn’t budge.
This mountain of a man was immovable.
Think, Scarlett.
Use everything in your arsenal.
I rolled my hips back onto him, the curve of my ass rocking against his cock.
Not fighting. Not resisting. Just using my sexuality to throw him off.
Men were all the same, and there was nothing like a little pussy power to distract and conquer this giant.
I shifted again, firmer this time, grinding just enough to remind him there was a woman pinned under all that coiled fury.
That earned me a grunt deep from within his chest.
Beyond his control, his cock hardened. Even through his pants, the size of it caught me off guard.
He hesitated. His grip loosened—not much, but enough.
I wrenched my hands free and spun around.
His breath stuttered, and the look on his face—brows drawn tight, jaw clenched—made it clear I was punching every button the man had.
A reaction he hadn’t meant to give. Not desire, not exactly.
But something more primal flashed across his expression, something that unsettled him as much as it thrilled me.
I reached back, grabbed the edge of the altar, and pushed up hard so that I could kick him with both feet.
Then I launched.
For a big guy, he was fast.
He caught my knees with his massive hands, forcing my legs apart as my momentum carried me forward. My thighs snapped around his hips, our chests colliding as we came face-to-face in a violent, breathless collision.
His eyes widened.
We were breathing the same air now.
His hands clamped around my ass.
My hair fell forward in a wild curtain around us.
“Careful with the foreplay, lass,” he growled, the words roughened by desire, making my throat go dry. “Keep this up, and you’ll get more than you bargained for.”
My answer wasn’t words, and I hated to do this, but he was obviously a thug with the worst of intentions.
I grabbed his jaw and sank my teeth into his lower lip—hard enough to tear the skin.
The taste of whiskey and copper flooded my mouth.
This time, his growl wasn’t all rumbly and hot, his mood shifting in an instant. Amusement burned off like fog, replaced by violence—pure and focused, the kind that didn’t waste time.
In a single surge, he hauled me up by the waist, and the world tilted. Votive candles, shattered glass, flashes of red and gold swung past as he slung me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.
I hammered my fists onto his back, kicking and twisting my body to no avail.
“Put me down, you psycho—”
My voice hitched as he adjusted his hold, tightening an arm across the backs of my thighs to keep me pinned.
He moved fast, stomping toward the side door. All I saw was the muscular line of his back as he held me locked in place.
This wasn’t random.
And he wasn’t a thief.
He was something else.
Something much worse.
The sanctuary fell away behind us—the disheveled altar, smashed poinsettias, shards of broken glass scattered across the marble floor.
He shoved through the side door into the cold passage, one hand gripping me with fingers digging into my thigh, the other pulling his phone from his pocket.
Giving a signal. I quickly realized this was all part of his plan.
Damn.