Chapter 24 Charlie
CHARLIE
I find them in Adrian’s quarters near midnight, drawn by the light spilling beneath his door and the weight of everything threatening to crush us.
The architectural rendering of St. Michael’s gutted and modernized still burns in my mind. Whitmore’s forty-eight-hour ultimatum ticks down like a bomb, and I can’t bear to be alone with my fear anymore.
Adrian opens the door before I can knock, his gray eyes dark and stormy in the dim light.
He’s still wearing his cassock, but his rosary beads are wrapped so tightly around his knuckles they’ve left red marks on his skin.
Behind him, I see Marcus leaning against the desk, his tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
Elijah sits on the edge of Adrian’s bed, his golden hair mussed, his crystalline blue eyes tracking my entrance with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Charlie.” My name sounds rough in Adrian’s voice, like it costs him something to say it. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.” I step inside anyway, and he closes the door behind me with a soft click that sounds like surrender. “But I can’t stay away. Not tonight. Not when everything feels like it’s ending.”
The air in the small room crackles with desperate energy.
I watch Adrian’s jaw clench, see the way his eyes drop to trace the curve of my body beneath the simple dress I’m wearing. His gaze lingers on the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the bare legs visible below the hem.
When his eyes meet mine again, they’re burning with barely restrained hunger.
Marcus pushes off the desk, moving closer. “We’ve been trying to figure out what to do about Whitmore’s threat.” His accent thickens as his dark eyes trace the same path Adrian’s did, cataloging every detail. “But all I can think about is you.”
“All any of us can think about is you,” Elijah adds softly, standing from the bed.
His lean body moves with that fluid grace that makes everything look like choreography, and I watch the muscles shift beneath his thin t-shirt.
“We’re supposed to be planning, strategizing, protecting what’s ours. Instead, we’re just…wanting.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I look at each of them in turn, these three men who’ve become my entire world.
Adrian with his severe beauty and barely controlled violence.
Marcus with his protective fury and Spanish whispers.
Elijah with his angel face and filthy imagination.
They’re all watching me like I’m something precious and dangerous, like they’re fighting themselves and losing.
“Then stop fighting,” I whisper. “Just for tonight. Let’s forget everything except this.”
Something breaks in all three of them simultaneously.
Adrian’s mouth crashes against mine, desperate and possessive.
I gasp into the kiss, and Marcus’s hands find my waist from behind, his body solid and warm against my back. Elijah’s fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head so Adrian can kiss me deeper.
“Eres nuestra,” Marcus murmurs against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “You’re ours, Charlie. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathe, and the confession makes all three of them groan.
They move me toward Adrian’s bed with coordinated precision, each touch deliberate and claiming.
Adrian strips my dress off, his gray eyes tracking every inch of exposed skin.
Marcus works my bra clasp, his calloused fingers trailing fire down my spine.
Elijah kneels before me, pressing kisses to my thighs as my underwear pools at my feet.
What follows is overwhelming in the best way. Adrian is possessive and commanding, his control finally shattered as he claims my mouth while his hands explore every curve.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I welcome the marks, the proof that this is real.
Marcus is deliberate fire, speaking to me in Spanish and English, his tattooed hands marking my skin with touches that promise I’ll remember this tomorrow. “Tan hermosa,” he whispers against my throat. “Tan perfecta.” So beautiful. So perfect.
Elijah is playful yet filthy, praising me with that angel face while his fingers and mouth do sinful things that make me cry out. “That’s it, chérie,” he murmurs against my inner thigh. “Let us hear you. Let us know we’re making you feel good.”
They edge me, bringing me closer, switching when I’m on the cusp and whimpering at the loss of one of them inside me, only to be filled once more. When they finally let me shatter, all three of them surround me, touching, tasting, fucking until I’m boneless in their arms.
We lay together in Adrian’s bed, my body deliciously sore and my mind still spinning.
Adrian’s arm is around my waist, Marcus’s hand rests on my hip, and Elijah’s fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
For a few hours, we pretend the world outside this room doesn’t exist. That Bishop Carmine isn’t arriving in the morning.
That Victory Life isn’t circling like vultures. That we’re not about to face an investigation that could destroy everything.
But morning comes anyway, brutal and unforgiving.
I slip back to my apartment before dawn, my body still humming with the memory of their touches. I shower quickly, trying to wash away the evidence of what we did, but I can still feel them on my skin. Can still taste Adrian’s kisses, feel Marcus’s hands, hear Elijah’s whispered praise.
The Bishop’s car arrives precisely at nine, a sleek black sedan. I watch from my window as Bishop Vincent Carmine emerges, tall and imposing with steel-gray hair swept back from a high forehead.
He’s wearing traditional clerical attire, a pectoral cross catching the morning light, and everything about him radiates authority.
Sister Margaret follows, tall and angular in full traditional habit, her sharp blue eyes already cataloging everything she sees.
Adrian greets them at the church entrance, his cassock perfectly pressed, every line crisp. From this distance, he looks like the austere priest everyone expects him to be. No one would guess that hours ago, he was buried inside me, groaning my name like a prayer and a curse.
The opening dinner that evening is suffocatingly formal. I’ve been asked to serve, and I move through the rectory dining room with trembling hands, hyperaware of every movement.
The Bishop sits at the head of the table, his deep-set gray eyes missing nothing. Sister Margaret sits to his right, her posture rigid, her gaze sharp as she watches me pour water into crystal glasses.
Adrian sits across from the Bishop, with Marcus and Elijah flanking him. All three are carefully neutral, maintaining appropriate distance, but I can feel the tension radiating from them.
I know their bodies intimately now, know the way Adrian’s jaw clenches when he’s fighting for control, how Marcus’s hands flex when he wants to touch me, how Elijah’s fingers drum against his thigh when he’s anxious.
I’m serving the main course when it happens. Adrian reaches for the serving dish at the same moment I do, and our hands brush.
The contact is brief, innocent, but electricity shoots up my arm. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and I see the hunger there, the memory of last night burning in his gray eyes.
Sister Margaret’s gaze sharpens. I watch her eyes narrow, see her make a mental note of the interaction.
My stomach drops as I realize how carefully we’re being observed, how every gesture is being cataloged and analyzed.
The Bishop makes pointed comments throughout the meal, his voice measured and deliberate.
He speaks of modern permissiveness, of priests who forget their vows, of the importance of maintaining appropriate boundaries.
Each word lands like an accusation, and I watch Adrian’s knuckles go white around his fork.
“The Church has always been clear about the dangers of particular friendships,” Bishop Carmine says, his steel-gray eyes moving between Adrian and me. “Especially between clergy and young female parishioners. Such relationships, even when innocent, create the appearance of impropriety.”
Marcus’s hand tightens on his fork, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Elijah’s angel face goes carefully blank, his gaze fixed on his plate.
Adrian’s voice is steady when he responds, but I hear the strain beneath it. “St. Michael’s maintains appropriate professional boundaries, Your Excellency.”
“I’m sure you believe that, Father Cross.” The Bishop’s tone suggests he believes otherwise. “Which is why I’ll be conducting private interviews with staff and parishioners over the next week. To ensure everyone understands and adheres to proper conduct.”
Sister Margaret speaks for the first time, her voice cold and precise. “We’ll need access to all parish records, financial documents, and correspondence. Standard procedure for pastoral visits.”
I clear the dinner plates with shaking hands, feeling the weight of their scrutiny with every movement.
The Bishop’s eyes track me as I move around the table, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how my dress clings to my curves and how my hair has escaped its bun.
When I return with dessert, the Bishop is discussing his interview schedule.
He lists names methodically, each one making my stomach clench tighter.
Mrs. Delacroix. Deacon Paul. Sarah Chen. Marcus. Elijah. Adrian himself.
Then he looks directly at me, his deep-set eyes holding mine with unnerving intensity.
“And Miss Davis, of course. I don’t want her left out either.”
The air goes cold.
I watch Adrian’s jaw clench so hard I hear his teeth grind.
Marcus’s hand tightens on his fork until his knuckles go white.
Elijah’s angel face remains carefully blank, but I see the fear flickering in his eyes.
The Bishop’s gaze never leaves mine as he adds, “I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time at St. Michael’s. I’m very interested in hearing about your…volunteer work.”