Chapter 6 - Marcus
MARCUS
The church is supposed to be empty at midnight. I know this because I’ve walked these halls at every hour, memorizing the rhythm of St. Michael’s like a heartbeat.
The way moonlight filters through the stained glass at dawn.
The silence that wraps around you like a shroud when everyone else has gone home.
But tonight, the silence is broken by the sound of crying.
I find her in the third pew from the back, the one with the worn cushion where Mrs. Patterson always sits during Sunday Mass.
Charlie’s shoulders shake with sobs she’s trying to muffle, her hands pressed against her mouth like she’s afraid someone will hear.
Votive candles flicker in their red glass holders along the side aisle, casting dancing shadows across her face.
She’s still wearing her diner uniform, the polyester fabric clinging to her curves in ways that make my jaw clench.
Her auburn hair has escaped its messy bun, falling in waves around her shoulders. Even crying, even broken, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I should leave. Should give her privacy, maintain the distance that keeps us both safe. Instead, my feet carry me forward until I’m sliding into the pew beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
The contact sends electricity shooting through me. She gasps, her head jerking up, hazel eyes wide and wet with tears. In the candlelight, they look more green than gold, and I can see every freckle dusting her nose, every tremor in her lips.
“Marcus.” My name is barely a whisper, broken and desperate.
“Querida.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it. “What’s wrong?”
She laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. “What isn’t wrong?
” Her hands twist in her lap, fingers knotting together.
“I stole from this church. I’m working off a debt I can never really repay.
My grandmother is dying in a hospital bed, and I can barely afford to visit her.
And Adrian—” Her voice cracks completely. “He won’t even look at me anymore.”
The mention of Adrian makes my chest tight.
I’ve watched him transform back into Father Cross over the past two weeks, all ice and control, treating Charlie like she’s just another volunteer instead of the woman he claimed on his desk.
I’ve seen the hurt in her eyes every time he walks past without acknowledging her, every time he maintains that careful, professional distance.
I understand why he’s doing it.
The guilt is eating him alive, the fear of discovery making him retreat behind his priestly armor.
But watching Charlie break under the weight of his coldness is destroying me.
“He’s scared,” I tell her, my voice low. “Not of you. Of what he feels for you.”
“He regrets it.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. “That night in his office. He regrets touching me.”
“No.” I reach up, my thumb catching the mascara streak, wiping it away with a gentleness that surprises us both. “He regrets that he can’t stop wanting to touch you again.”
Her breath catches. My hand lingers on her cheek, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers. The air between us shifts, becomes charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
“Marcus.” My name sounds different in her voice. Softer. Needier.
I should pull away. Should remember Isabella, remember the priesthood I walked away from, remember all the reasons this is wrong. Instead, I let my hand slide into her hair, tilting her face toward mine.
“I’ve been watching you,” I confess, my voice rough.
“For weeks. The way you move through this church like you belong here. The way you hum that hymn when you’re nervous.
The way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry.
” My thumb traces her lower lip, and she trembles.
“I’ve been fighting this since the moment Adrian brought you into our lives. ”
“Fighting what?” Her eyes search mine, desperate for something I’m not sure I should give her.
“This.” I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. “The same thing that destroyed Adrian’s control. The same thing that made me leave the priesthood three years ago.”
She pulls back slightly, her hazel eyes wide. “Isabella.”
The name hangs between us like a ghost. I nod slowly, my hand still tangled in her hair.
“Tell me about her,” Charlie whispers.
I close my eyes, the memories flooding back.
“She was a parishioner. Married to a man who hurt her, who made her feel small and worthless. She came to me for counseling, and I—” My voice cracks.
“I fell in love with her. Or I thought I did. Maybe it was just the need to save someone, to be someone’s hero. ”
“What happened?”
“I was going to leave the priesthood for her. Had the papers drawn up, the plan in place. But her husband found out.” My jaw clenches, remembering that night.
“He put her in the hospital. Nearly killed her. And I nearly killed him.” I open my eyes, meeting Charlie’s gaze.
“Adrian stopped me. Pulled me off before I could finish what I’d started.
Isabella begged me to stay a priest, said she couldn’t live with destroying my soul too. ”
“So you became a deacon instead.”
“A compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.” I cup her face with both hands now, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I’ve spent three years telling myself I made the right choice. That walking away was noble, that sacrifice was holy.”
“Do you regret it?” Her voice is barely audible.
I look at her—really look at her.
The freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.
The way her lips part slightly when she’s waiting for an answer.
The vulnerability in her eyes that makes me want to protect her from everything, including myself.
“I regret nothing that led me to this moment,” I tell her, and the truth of it settles in my chest like a benediction. “Isabella was my past. You’re—” I stop, the words too big, too dangerous.
“I’m what?” She leans closer, her breath warm against my lips.
“Everything.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Charlie’s hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine, and every rational thought evaporates.
“Someone might be watching us,” she whispers suddenly, her eyes darting toward the shadows. “In the kitchen, with Elijah. I thought I saw a dark clothing disappearing around the corner.”
My blood runs cold. “Are you sure?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “Everything feels dangerous right now. Like we’re being hunted.”
If someone saw them, if someone is documenting this, we’re all in danger.
The Bishop could shut down St. Michael’s. Adrian could lose everything.
But before I can process the threat, before I can think about consequences or caution, Charlie’s other hand slides up my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath her palm.
“Marcus.” My name is a prayer and a plea. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.”
“Dios mío.” I stand abruptly, pulling her with me. “Come with me.”
I lead her to the confessional booth, the ancient wooden structure that’s heard a century of sins. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and suddenly we’re pressed together in the small space, her body against mine, her scent—vanilla and cinnamon and desperation—filling my lungs.
Unlike Adrian’s explosive passion, I’m deliberate fire. I take my time, my hands framing her face, my thumbs tracing the curve of her jaw. I want to memorize every detail, every gasp, every tremor.
“Eres tan hermosa,” I murmur against her lips. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
“I don’t understand Spanish,” she breathes, but her body arches into mine.
“Good.” My mouth finds the pulse point in her throat, and I feel it racing beneath my tongue. “Then I can tell you everything without you knowing how far I’ve fallen.”
My hands slide down her sides, feeling every curve through the thin polyester of her uniform.
She gasps when I grip her hips, pulling her harder against me.
The taboo of the location heightens everything.
We’re in a confessional, a sacred space meant for absolution, and we’re turning it into something profane.
“Te necesito,” I whisper against her skin. “I need you. Have needed you since the moment I saw you.”
“Marcus, please—” Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.
I lift her, pressing her back against the wooden wall of the confessional.
Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and the friction makes us both groan.
My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is nothing like the gentle touches before.
This is hunger, desperation, three weeks of watching and wanting finally breaking free.
“Tell me to stop,” I say against her lips, even as my hands slide under her uniform, finding bare skin. “Dime que pare.”
“Don’t stop.” Her voice is fierce, certain. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I work the buttons of her uniform with shaking hands, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath.
She’s not wearing anything fancy, nothing designed to seduce, but the sight of her makes my mouth go dry.
I trace the swell of her breasts with my fingers, watching her face in the dim light filtering through the confessional screen.
“Perfecta,” I breathe. “Every part of you.”
My mouth follows the path my fingers traced, and Charlie’s head falls back against the wood, her breath coming in short gasps.
I’m possessive in a way I’ve never been before, marking her, making sure she knows this isn’t just Adrian’s claim.
She’s ours—mine, Adrian’s, maybe even Elijah’s, though we never finished that conversation.
I free myself from my pants, and Charlie’s eyes widen as she feels me against her. “Marcus—”
“Mírame,” I command softly. “Look at me, querida.”
Her hazel eyes lock onto mine as I enter her slowly, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face.
Pleasure, surprise, something that looks like relief.
She’s tight and warm and perfect, and I have to pause, my forehead pressed against hers, fighting for control.
“Dios,” I groan. “You feel—” I can’t finish the sentence, can’t find words in any language for what this feels like.
“Move,” she whispers, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Please, Marcus. Move.”
I do, setting a rhythm that’s deliberate and deep, each thrust punctuated by whispered Spanish and English, prayers and profanity mixing effortlessly.
The confessional creaks with our movements, the sound obscene in the quiet church, but I can’t stop, can’t slow down.
Her body tightens around me, and I feel her climax building.
I reach between us, finding the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out, swallowing the sound with my mouth.
When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips and my rosary beads pressed between us like a brand.
I follow moments later, my body going rigid, a sound torn from my throat that’s half prayer, half curse.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies still joined, the weight of what we’ve done settling over us like a shroud.
Finally, I lower her gently, helping her straighten her clothes with shaking hands.
She’s flushed and beautiful, her lips swollen from my kisses, and I want to do it all over again.
“Marcus.” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “What does this mean?”
I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “It means I’m not letting you go. It means Adrian isn’t the only one who’s fallen. It means—” I stop, the words too big, too dangerous.
“It means we’re in trouble,” she finishes, but she’s smiling slightly.
“Sí, querida.” I kiss her forehead gently. “So much trouble.”
We emerge from the confessional, breathless and disheveled, my hand still holding hers.
The church is dark except for the votive candles, their flames dancing in some invisible draft.
Then I see him.
Elijah stands in the shadows of the nave, his blue eyes reflecting candlelight.
He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire, his golden hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
His angel face wears an expression that’s anything but innocent as he steps forward into the light.
Charlie gasps, her hand tightening on mine.
But Elijah’s eyes aren’t shocked.
They’re resigned.
Like he’d known we’d fall together one day.
Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“I think,” he says quietly, his French accent thickening slightly, “it’s time we all had a conversation about what’s really happening here.”