Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUCA
A nother week of toeing around one another has passed. Moments just like the one we had in the kitchen happen more often than I’d like them to. Subconsciously, I know that’s a lie. One I can’t confess, even on my darkest days.
Sloane is strong. That much I can see from a distance. That strength only shines brighter when I’m in her presence.
Slate is no closer to figuring out what to do about Barone, and he tells me daily I need to stay the course. Keep Sloane safe.
Keep her hidden.
What he doesn’t know, however, is how I’m struggling.
She’s becoming something I can’t ignore. A nagging feeling in my gut like she’s my higher purpose, which is preposterous being who I am and what it took to get here.
The weight of her presence looming behind me inches down my spine as I straighten and drop the mail from my hands to my desk.
“Good evening.” I don’t turn. Maybe she’ll take the hint and move on.
“Good evening, Father.”
Fuck me.
The way she says it… The Devil worked overtime when he created her.
“Did you need something?” Swaying on my feet, I turn to face her.
She’s in sweats, thank God. It’s not that it dampens an ounce of her beauty, but it covers all the alluring bits of her I can’t keep my eyes off.
“I was just checking on you. I’ve seen little of you these last few days. Not since…”
Not since I took her to dinner, behaved like a wretch, and then bolted from the kitchen to spend hours scolding myself in my bedroom and praying for forgiveness.
“I’ve been swamped. Sorry about that.”
Her brows arch. She suspects I’m lying but won’t call me out on it. Curious.
“Of course.” Meandering into the room, she runs her hand the length of a table by the door as if checking for dust.
I watch her chipped red nails glide over a piece of furniture that’s likely from the turn of the century, and it seems to shimmer in her presence.
“You’re sure you didn’t need something? With how busy I’ve been, I haven’t really looked in on you. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m fine. I can handle myself, Father.” Her gorgeous eyes, with their sad edges, flick over toward me, hardening as some thought flashes through them before dissipating.
“I have no doubt.”
It feels like a dance. It’s like she’s sizing me up.
My stomach hardens when she crosses the room, winding across the worn wood floor toward me, carrying her soft, spellbinding scent closer.
“Are you hiding from me?” she asks. It’s as forward as the stern look she’s giving me as I look down at her in astonishment.
“What?” I sputter out. My hands grip the desk behind me, and I swear I hear the wood scream in protest.
“You heard me. Are you hiding from me?”
Swallowing, I try to decide how to answer without showing how much I struggle with her so close.
There’s simply no way.
I sigh. “If I am, I’m not doing it on purpose.”
She nods, remaining silent as I watch her stare grow contemplative. “Alright, then.”
I’m utterly speechless, and not because of the way she’s approached me or the simple way she’s done it. It’s her presence that leaves my jaw on the floor.
How I’m her savior, but it feels like the opposite.
“Do you need anything?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“I need many things, Father Russo, but I don’t know if I’ll find them here.” She turns and heads for the door.
Air rushes back into my burning lungs as I watch her go.
“Our show is on in an hour,” she tosses over her shoulder without breaking stride. Then she’s gone.
The room seems to breathe in her absence, like she was holding it hostage as well.
For someone so young to command a room the way she does… And she probably doesn’t even know how deadly her charm is.
Or does she?
I turn back to the mail, grabbing it with shaky hands. I can’t make sense of the letters on the envelopes, so I drop them down with a huff before running my hand through my hair and leaning against the desk.
Sloane Collins might be the death of me.
But she might also be the start of something great.
If only I can figure out why God saw fit to cross our paths.
An hour later, I’m showered, sitting beside Sloane, and way too comfortable for my own good as she settles beside me. I don’t even know the name of the show she’s coined as ours, but I know I’ll be here promptly at eight p.m. each Friday night as long as she’s here. I’m becoming addicted to this feeling—the feeling of her.
For the next hour, I laugh and banter back and forth with her about whichever girl has annoyed her in the scene. But before I know it, the show is over and the television screen is black.
The nightlight behind the couch illuminates the space, and Sloane hasn’t moved from beside me.
Her upper arm is pressed against mine as neither of us moves to turn in.
It feels much like confession, though there’s no screen between us.
“Are you alright?” I ask her. I don’t know why I do. It feels like she needs to be asked.
“I don’t think I’ve been alright for a very long time.” Her heavy reply makes my heart feel like it’s cracking open.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I hate to hear anyone say they’re suffering. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be happy to.”
Her soft chuckle makes goosebumps rise on my body. Like, I’ve just heard the most beautiful hymn. “Ever the humble do-gooder.”
I don’t know what she means by that, but I don’t want to rile her up, so I ignore the comment.
“Any news from Slate?” she asks, which cracks my heart because it signals she’s ready to leave.
Logically, why wouldn’t she be ready to return to her life? She’s gone from being a prisoner with Barone to being one with me. Even if it’s for her safety, it doesn’t mean that facts aren’t the facts.
“He said he needs more time.”
Silence rings between us as her presence begins to overwhelm me.
Her scent is intoxicating.
The feeling of her skin on mine trickles a delirium through my body I could bottle and use to get me through the dark days I know I’ll have when she’s gone.
“Father.” Her whispered words are close.
She’s turned to face me.
“Yes?” I resist the urge to meet her stare, needing to persevere and keep some semblance of calm.
“The other night in the kitchen?—”
I clear my throat to cut off her words. “Was a mistake. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have overstepped. While my words were true, I will protect you. I shouldn’t have… It won’t happen again.”
This time, the silence feels heavier, like she’s fighting words on the tip of her tongue that won’t come. That can’t.
Though I know I need to end this conversation, which can only lead to more tempting subjects, I don’t.
Meaning to grab her hand, I reach over, but my hand instead lands on her bare thigh.
The softest gasp comes from her, and my eyes close as her skin beneath mine burns into not only my hand, but my soul.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” Her hand comes over mine, soft and reassuring.
“Did you always want to be a priest?” she asks, and I’m so damned thankful for the subject change.
I ignore the idea that she’s done so to keep my hand on her thigh and my mind off it. “Since I was very young.”
“Seems like a lonely life.”
Do not take the bait.
Do not go down that path, Luca.
“It can be.”
Her fingers brush over my knuckles, and I feel each inch they trek and memorize how they feel.
“I’ve seen too much darkness in the world to believe in… well, anything.”
I open my mouth to tell her I completely understand her stance but clamp it back shut. My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thigh, and she shifts closer to me.
God, what are you doing to me?
No answer comes. One never does.
“Maybe you need to let the light in,” I finally manage through gritted teeth.
“Are you the light?”
My eyes flick toward the ceiling. Really?
“I’m merely a beacon of His light. A conduit.” My tone implies I no more believe my words than she probably does. I bite the inside of my cheek as she moves my hand up her thigh an inch.
My body burns. I fight the urge to tug my hand away. I fight the equal urge to drive it higher.
“You should come to Mass tomorrow. See for yourself. Maybe you’ll find something in the message that’s helpful.”
This has her hand pulling away from mine.
I put my hand back on my lap, where it always belonged.
“Maybe. I don’t really know if that’s the place for me. My place in the world isn’t as grand as yours, Father.”
This has me turning to face her. My eyes have adjusted to the room’s light enough to see a tear sinking down her cheek.
Capturing it, I let its gravity seep through me. “It’s grander.”
“You think too highly of me.”
“You think too little of yourself.”
For the longest moment, we stare at one another.
I’ve been teetering on a sharp edge for some time, and it seems so has Sloane.
I don’t know what that means for me.
I don’t know what it means for her.
I know it feels like a divine power brought us together for a purpose, and I’m confident that purpose isn’t for me to touch her whenever I can and dream indecently about her.
She’s been through so much. She doesn’t need me piling onto everything she’s going through.
Nor do I need to have thoughts of her plaguing me when I’m already down a rabbit hole of dissecting my faith. Or lack thereof, lately.
“Come to Mass.” I normally don’t press, but something about having her eyes on me while I give a sermon has my insides coiling into tight snakes.
“Okay.” Her breathy reply shoots through my body like a bolt of awareness.
“Okay.”
She leans in, and I’m helpless, frozen, and wondering what she’ll do next.
Her lips connect with my cheek. She lingers next to it after her kiss is long gone.
“Goodnight, Father.”
“Goodnight, Sloane.” My hand covers the tingling spot where she kissed me long after she’d gone to her room and slipped beneath her covers.
Long after I’ve slipped beneath mine.
The dream that comes after is how I know I’m screwed.
I’m not strong enough to fight the urge to touch that which I shouldn’t. I am not strong enough to resist doing anything in my power to make Sloane happy.
Whatever the cost.