Chapter 14 Adrian
ADRIAN
The heavy wooden doors of St. Michael’s close with a satisfying thud, the sound echoing through the empty sanctuary behind me.
Evening Mass ended an hour ago, but I’ve been moving through the building slowly, checking windows, straightening pews, doing anything to avoid returning to my quarters where the silence will force me to think about everything threatening to destroy us.
The PI’s surveillance photos. Victory Life’s escalating attacks. The constant fear that someone will discover what Charlie has become to us. What we’ve become to each other.
My hands shake as I turn the key in the ancient lock, the metal cold against my palm.
The street is quiet, most of the neighborhood already settled in for the night.
Streetlights cast pools of yellow across the pavement, and I’m about to turn away when movement catches my eye.
A man stands across the street, half-hidden in shadow between two buildings. He’s watching the church. Watching me.
My blood runs cold.
Even from this distance, even after twenty years, I know that face.
The broad shoulders that come from years of physical labor.
The way he stands with his weight slightly forward, balanced on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to move.
The scarred knuckles visible even in the dim light.
Tommy “The Hammer” Delgado.
Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I watch recognition dawn in his expression.
A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and knowing.
He raises one hand in a casual wave, like we’re old friends who just happened to run into each other.
Then he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving me standing on the church steps with my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s coincidence, I tell myself, forcing my hands to steady as I finish locking the doors.
He’s just passing through. He doesn’t know I’m here. This doesn’t mean anything.
But my body knows I’m lying.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I pocket the keys. The rosary beads wrapped around my knuckles cut into my palm, and I welcome the pain.
It grounds me, reminds me I’m Father Adrian Cross now, not the man who used to destroy opponents with his bare hands for money and the sick thrill of violence.
I should go to my quarters. Should pray. Should do anything except what I’m about to do.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the parish hall kitchen, drawn by the scent of chocolate and the knowledge that she’ll be there. She’s always there when I need her, even when I shouldn’t need anyone.
Charlie stands at the counter, flour dusting her apron, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun that’s already coming loose.
She’s making brownies, I think, or maybe a chocolate cake. The mixing bowl is cradled against her hip, and she’s stirring with practiced precision, her whole body moving with the rhythm.
The domestic scene should calm me. Instead, I’m hyperaware of how the dress clings to her curves, how the neckline dips low enough that I can see the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
Her ass looks delicious in that dress, round and perfect, the fabric swishing around her thighs as she moves.
I remember how those thighs felt wrapped around my waist.
How her breasts fit perfectly in my hands. How she tastes when I kiss the pulse point in her throat.
Stop.
She looks up, and those hazel eyes find mine immediately. They’re more green than gold in the kitchen’s fluorescent light, and I watch them widen with concern as she takes in whatever she sees on my face.
“Adrian?” My name in her voice does something to me, makes my chest tight and my control fracture. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “Just tired.”
She sets down the mixing bowl and wipes her hands on a towel, moving toward me with that unconscious grace that makes me want to pull her close and never let go.
When she’s close enough that I can smell the vanilla and chocolate clinging to her clothes, she stops.
“You’re lying.” Her voice is soft, not accusing. Just stating fact. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”
My jaw clenches. She’s right. She sees through every defense I’ve built, every wall I’ve erected to keep people at a safe distance.
With Charlie, there is no safe distance.
There’s only this dangerous proximity that makes me forget I’m supposed to be a man of God.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and we both step back instinctively, putting necessary distance between us.
Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes immediately finding the tension crackling between Charlie and me.
“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, his voice low and rough. His dark eyes move between Charlie and me, reading the charged atmosphere with perfect clarity.
I force myself to nod, to unclench my jaw, to breathe like a normal person instead of someone whose past just materialized across the street like a ghost made flesh. “Fine. Just a long day.”
Charlie’s hazel eyes narrow slightly. She knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t push.
Not with Marcus watching.
Not with the weight of discovery hanging over us like a sword.
Elijah appears in the doorway behind Marcus, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire.
He’s carrying sheet music, probably coming from the choir loft, but he stops when he sees us.
His gaze tracks the tension crackling through the small kitchen.
“Did I interrupt something?” His French accent thickens slightly, the way it does when he’s tired or emotional.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Charlie was just stress-baking.”
“Again.” Marcus moves into the kitchen, and suddenly the space feels too small for all of us. He stands close to Charlie, not quite touching but near enough that I can see her body angle toward his instinctively. “What is it this time?”
“Brownies.” Her voice is steadier than mine. “Double chocolate. They’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
I watch her hands as she speaks, those graceful fingers that create such beautiful things.
I remember how they felt tangled in my hair, how her nails dug into my shoulders when I made her come on my desk.
The memory makes my cock throb painfully, and I shift my weight, trying to find relief that doesn’t exist.
Elijah sets his sheet music on the counter and moves closer to the mixing bowl, peering at the batter with genuine interest. “Can I taste?”
Charlie laughs, the sound breaking some of the tension. “It’s raw.”
“I’ll risk it.” He dips his finger into the bowl before she can stop him, bringing it to his mouth. His eyes close as he tastes, and the expression on his angel face is obscene. “Mon Dieu. This is incredible.”
Charlie’s cheeks flush as she watches him, her teeth worrying her bottom lip in that way that makes me want to bite it myself.
Marcus leans against the counter beside her, his tattooed arm brushing hers. “You’ve been baking a lot lately. More than usual.”
“Helps me think.” She doesn’t look at any of us, focusing instead on scraping the remaining batter into the pan. “Everything’s been so tense. I needed to do something with my hands.”
The way she says it makes me think of other things she could do with those hands.
Things that would make all of us forget about threats and surveillance and the constant fear of discovery.
“We’re all tense,” Elijah says softly. He’s watching Charlie with an intensity that makes my jaw clench. “But we’ll get through this. We always do.”
She slides the pan into the oven, sets the timer, then turns to face us. All three of us are watching her, and I see the moment she realizes it.
The way her breath catches.
The flush that spreads from her cheeks down her throat, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress.
I want to follow that path with my mouth, to taste every inch of skin until she’s gasping my name.
“You’re all staring,” she whispers.
“Can’t help it.” Marcus’s voice drops lower, more intimate. “You’re beautiful when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” But her hands shake slightly as she wipes them on her apron. “I’m just…aware.”
“Of what?” Elijah asks, though we all know the answer.
“Of you. All of you.” Her hazel eyes move between us, green and gold in the fluorescent light. “Of how close you’re standing. Of how you’re looking at me like…”
“Like what?” I hear myself ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work. “Like you want to devour me.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with truth and desire and the dangerous electricity that’s been building for weeks.
Marcus makes a sound low in his throat.
Elijah’s fingers curl against the counter.
And I…I take a step closer despite knowing I shouldn’t.
“We do,” I admit, the confession tearing from somewhere deep inside me. “Every moment. Every breath.”
Charlie’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly.
The kitchen feels too hot, too small, the air thick with everything we can’t say, can’t do, not here.
Not now.
Not with threats closing in from every direction.
The oven timer dings, breaking the moment.
Charlie pulls away to check the brownies, and I watch her move, memorizing every detail.
If this all falls apart, if we lose everything, I want to remember this.
Her.
Us.
This fragile, perfect thing we’ve built despite every reason we shouldn’t.
She pulls the brownies from the oven, and the scent of chocolate overwhelms the kitchen.
Domestic and normal and everything we’re pretending to be while our world crumbles around us.
Charlie sets down the pan and turns to face me, flour still dusting her dress, her hazel eyes fierce.
I look at the three of them, at their determined faces, and feel something crack open in my chest.
Love. Fear. Gratitude. Terror.
All of it mixing together until I can’t breathe.
But as I watch Charlie cut the brownies with shaking hands, as Marcus and Elijah exchange weighted glances, I can’t shake the image of Tommy Delgado’s predatory smile.
Can’t forget the way he looked at me across the street, like he knew exactly what I had to lose.
My past is coming for me.
And I’m terrified it will destroy everyone I love in the process.