Chapter 39 Marcus
MARCUS
The envelope slides under my door before dawn, the sound of paper against tile pulling me from restless sleep.
I stare at it from my bed, my heart already hammering before I even see the diocese seal embossed in red wax. Nothing good comes in envelopes like that. Not anymore.
My hands shake as I cross the small room, as I bend to retrieve it. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind the diocese uses for official correspondence.
I turn it over, seeing my name written in formal script: Deacon Marcus Reyes.
I should wait. Make coffee first, pray, do anything except open this alone in the pre-dawn darkness. But my fingers are already breaking the seal, already unfolding the letter inside.
Dear Deacon Reyes,
After careful consideration and consultation with your spiritual director, I am pleased to offer you the opportunity to pursue reinstatement to full priesthood. Your three years of service as a deacon have demonstrated renewed commitment to your vocation...
The words blur as I read them again. Reinstatement. Full priesthood. Everything I thought I wanted three years ago when I left for Isabella, when I was prepared to destroy my vows for a woman I couldn’t have. Father Castellano is offering me redemption, a second chance, the vocation I abandoned.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the letter trembling in my hands. The timeline is outlined in careful detail. Six months of additional formation.
Psychological evaluation.
Spiritual direction.
Then ordination, probably at a different parish to avoid complications.
Father Reyes instead of Deacon Reyes.
The authority to consecrate the Eucharist, to hear confessions, to perform marriages and baptisms.
My chest tightens with something that feels like panic rather than joy.
I imagine it. Standing at the altar in full vestments, my hands raised in consecration.
The weight of the priesthood settling over me like armor.
The celibacy vows renewed, this time permanent, unbreakable.
Never touching Charlie again. Never hearing her whisper my name in the dark.
Never feeling her body arch beneath mine while I speak to her in Spanish and English.
The thought is physically painful.
I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into my pocket where it burns against my chest like a brand. I go through my morning routine on autopilot.
Shower. Shave. Black button-down and slacks.
The rosary beads I wrap around my knuckles feel heavier than usual, like they know what I’m hiding.
Mass preparation finds me in the sanctuary, setting out communion vessels with movements I’ve performed thousands of times.
My mind won’t stop spinning through implications.
This is what I’m supposed to want. What every deacon dreams of. The culmination of years of discernment and sacrifice.
So why does it feel like a death sentence?
Charlie enters through the side door, carrying an armful of fresh flowers for the altar arrangements.
She’s wearing her favorite vintage dress that clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s humming that hymn her grandmother taught her, the melody drifting through the empty sanctuary.
I watch her move between the vases, her hands working with practiced precision.
She bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating on getting the stems just right, and I remember how that lip feels beneath my teeth. The way she gasps when I trace it with my tongue.
The sounds she makes when I kiss my way down her throat to the pulse point that races beneath delicate skin.
Dios mío. I force my gaze back to the chalice I’m polishing, but my body has already responded. I shift my weight, trying to find relief that doesn’t exist.
She glances up, catching me watching. Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in the morning light, hold mine for a moment too long. I see the flush creep up her neck, see the way her breathing changes. She knows what I’m thinking.
She can probably see it written across my face despite my attempts at control.
The letter in my pocket feels like it’s burning through the fabric.
I imagine accepting the priesthood.
Imagine being transferred to some parish three states away where I’d never see her again.
Never watch her arrange flowers while humming off-key.
Never taste the cinnamon rolls she stress-bakes at midnight.
Never hold her between Adrian, Elijah, and me while we claim her as ours.
The thought makes my hands shake so badly I nearly drop the chalice.
“Marcus?” Adrian’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s standing in the doorway, his gray eyes sharp with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “Just tired.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. Not here. Not with Charlie watching from across the sanctuary, her hands stilled on the flowers.
That afternoon, I find myself in the choir loft with Elijah and Charlie, helping organize sheet music while trying to pretend my entire world isn’t tilting sideways.
The letter sits in my pocket like a stone, pulling me toward a future I no longer want.
Or do I?
Elijah sits at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys in something soft and melancholic.
The music fills the space, beautiful and haunting, and I watch Charlie sway slightly to the rhythm as she catalogs hymn books.
Her body moves unconsciously, gracefully, and I’m transfixed by the curve of her hip, the way the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass paints her skin in jewel tones.
This is what I want.
This domestic simplicity.
This family we’ve built in shadows.
Not the priesthood.
Not the authority or the vestments or the vows.
Just this. Just them.
Charlie sets down the hymn book she’s holding and moves closer to where I’m standing. The music shifts, becomes something with more rhythm, more heat. She looks up at me, and the invitation in her hazel eyes is unmistakable.
“Dance with me,” she whispers.
I should say no, should maintain the distance we’re supposed to keep. But the letter in my pocket is a countdown to losing her, and I can’t waste whatever time we have left.
My hand finds her waist, pulling her close.
She fits perfectly against me, her body warm and soft in all the right places.
We move together, swaying to Elijah’s music, and the sexual tension that’s been simmering all day ignites.
Her hands slide up my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath her palms.
I watch her teeth worry her bottom lip, see the pulse racing in her throat.
My fingers trace the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress, and she arches into my touch.
“Marcus.” My name on her lips makes the letter in my pocket feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
I pull her harder against me, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. Her breath catches, and I watch her pupils dilate.
The music builds, Elijah’s fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity, and our movements become less like dancing and more like foreplay.
My mouth finds her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point.
She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.
I can feel Elijah watching us, can sense Adrian’s presence in the doorway though I don’t look to confirm.
The knowledge that they’re witnessing this, that they want this too, makes everything more intense.
“Te necesito,” I murmur against her skin. I need you. “Ahora.” Now.
Charlie’s hands find my belt, her fingers trembling as she works the buckle. I help her, my movements urgent, desperate. The letter in my pocket crinkles with the motion, reminding me that this might be one of our last times together.
I lift her onto the piano bench, settling between her thighs.
Elijah’s hands still on the keys, but he doesn’t move away.
Just watches with those crystalline blue eyes dark with hunger.
I can hear Adrian’s ragged breathing from the doorway, can feel the weight of his gaze as I push Charlie’s dress up her thighs.
What follows is desperate and claiming. I take her on the piano bench while Elijah watches from inches away, while Adrian stands frozen in the doorway fighting himself.
My hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise, and she welcomes the marks.
Proof that this is real, that we exist, that what we have matters.
“Eres mía,” I growl against her throat. You’re mine. “Siempre.” Always.
But even as I say it, even as her body tightens around me and she cries out my name, the letter burns like a brand. A reminder that always might have an expiration date. That Father Castellano’s offer could tear me away from this, from her, from everything that matters.
When we’re both spent and trembling, when Charlie’s collapsed against my chest and my heart is still racing, I catch Adrian’s eyes across the loft.
He knows something’s wrong.
He can probably see it written across my face despite the afterglow.
The letter feels like it’s burning a hole through my pocket, through my chest, straight to my heart. I have six months to decide.
Six months to choose between the vocation I abandoned and the woman who’s become my entire world.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.