Chapter 41 Adrian
ADRIAN
The silence stretches until I can’t bear it anymore.
Charlie stands in the center of my quarters, her hands twisted together, her hazel eyes swimming with tears she’s trying not to shed.
The words she just spoke hang in the air like thunder cloud.
“I’m pregnant. And I don’t know which of you is the father. ”
My chest tightens with emotions too complicated to name. Terror. Wonder. Fierce protectiveness. And underneath it all, a possessive certainty that makes my hands shake. Mine.
She’s carrying my child. Or Marcus’s. Or Elijah’s.
The uncertainty should bother me more than it does, but all I can focus on is the way her hand moves unconsciously to rest on her still-flat stomach, protective and tender.
“Charlie.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I cross to her, my hands framing her face despite knowing I shouldn’t touch her, shouldn’t give in to the need burning through my veins. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Will we?” Her laugh is bitter, broken. “The Bishop is investigating us. Sarah Chen is accusing Elijah of grooming. My mother is threatening blackmail. And now I’m pregnant with a baby that could belong to any of you.” Her voice cracks completely. “How do we figure that out?”
Marcus moves closer, his tattooed arms reaching for her before he catches himself. I watch the battle play across his face, the need to comfort her warring with the careful distance we’re supposed to maintain.
His dark eyes find mine, and I see my own conflict reflected there. We’re priests and deacons and brothers, men who took vows of celibacy. And we’re about to become fathers.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel something that looks dangerously like joy trying to break through the fear.
Elijah stands from the bed, his gaze tracking Charlie’s every movement. “We protect you,” he says quietly, his French accent thickening with emotion. “Both of you. Whatever it takes.”
Before any of us can respond, a sharp knock on my door makes us all freeze. Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Father Cross? The Bishop needs to see you immediately. All of you.”
My stomach drops. Charlie’s face goes pale, and I watch her hand tighten protectively over her stomach. Marcus’s jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind. This is it.
The moment we’ve been dreading. The Bishop has made his decision, and we’re about to face the consequences of everything we’ve done.
We file into my office like condemned prisoners walking to our execution.
The Bishop sits behind my desk, his steel-gray hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the window. But something about his expression makes me almost falter. He doesn’t look angry or disappointed.
He looks…calculating. Like a man who’s just solved a complicated puzzle.
“Please, sit.” His voice is measured, but there’s an edge underneath I can’t quite identify.
Once again, there aren’t enough chairs. Charlie and I take the two facing the desk while Marcus and Elijah stand behind us. I’m hyperaware of Charlie’s presence beside me, of the way her dress clings to curves that will soon change with pregnancy.
I imagine her body swelling with our child, imagine my hands spanning her growing stomach, imagine claiming her while she’s round and full and mine.
Stop. I force my thoughts back to the present danger.
The Bishop pulls a manila envelope from his briefcase, setting it on the desk between us.
“I received an anonymous letter three days ago. Detailed allegations about inappropriate relationships between clergy and a young female parishioner.” His steel-gray eyes move between the four of us.
“The letter included dates, times, and locations. Very specific information.”
My hands curl into fists on my lap. This is it. We’re done.
“However,” the Bishop continues, and the word makes me look up sharply, “I’ve been a priest for forty years.
I know when I’m being manipulated.” He opens the envelope, spreading photographs across the desk.
“These images were included with the letter. They show the four of you in various compromising positions. Or they appear to.”
I lean forward, studying the photos with growing confusion.
There’s one of Charlie and me in the garden, standing close enough that it looks intimate.
But the angle is wrong, the perspective distorted.
Another shows Marcus’s hand on Charlie’s during communion preparation, but the timestamp doesn’t match our actual schedule that day.
A third captures Elijah and Charlie in the choir loft, their bodies angled toward each other in ways that suggest more than professional interaction, but I know for a fact Elijah was at a diocesan meeting when that photo was supposedly taken.
“These are doctored,” Marcus says, his accent thickening with barely contained rage. “The timestamps are wrong. The locations don’t match.”
“Precisely.” The Bishop’s expression shifts to something that might be approval.
“Which led me to investigate Victory Life Church’s involvement in your parish’s difficulties.
” He pulls out more documents. “Pastor Whitmore has been targeting St. Michael’s for months.
The website hack, the inspection complaints, the negative reviews.
All coordinated attacks designed to force you into selling your property. ”
Charlie leans forward, her hazel eyes sharp with intelligence as she studies the documents.
I watch her mind work.
Even now, even pregnant and terrified, she’s brilliant.
The realization makes my chest tight with something that feels dangerously like love.
“But why manufacture evidence about us?” Elijah asks quietly. “What does that accomplish?”
“Scandal,” the Bishop says simply. “If St. Michael’s clergy are embroiled in a sex scandal, the diocese would be forced to shut down the parish immediately.
No investigation, no appeals. Just closure.
” He taps one of the doctored photos. “Whitmore was counting on me accepting these at face value. He didn’t expect me to actually investigate. ”
The relief flooding through me is so intense it’s almost painful. We’re not being condemned. We’re being…what? Recruited?
“Your Excellency,” I start carefully, “what are you proposing?”
The Bishop leans back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“I’m proposing an alliance. Victory Life is corrupt, and I have evidence to prove it.
But I need your help gathering more. Someone inside St. Michael’s has been feeding Whitmore information, helping him coordinate these attacks.
” His steel-gray eyes move between us. “I need you to help me identify who.”
Charlie’s hand finds mine beneath the desk, her fingers cold and trembling. I squeeze gently, trying to offer comfort I don’t feel.
The Bishop’s gaze drops to our joined hands, and I watch him make a note in his leather-bound journal. But he doesn’t comment, doesn’t pull us apart. Just continues as if he hasn’t seen anything.
“We have already been looking into Victory Life. We’ve found unsettling speculations, but we’re hoping to find hard evidence,” Elijah explains.
“Continue doing so.” The Bishop pulls out a list. “And see who may have connections with them as well. Mrs. Delacroix, Deacon Paul Hendricks have both shown unusual interest in your activities.” He looks at Charlie. “Including your mother, Miss Davis.”
Charlie’s face goes pale, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “Diane would absolutely sell information for the right price.”
I watch her profile as she analyzes the situation, see the way her teeth worry her bottom lip when she’s thinking.
The Bishop spreads more documents across the desk, surveillance logs and financial records that paint a damning picture of Victory Life’s operations.
We spend hours reviewing everything, showing him what we’ve found as well, the five of us working as a team for the first time.
Charlie’s sharp intelligence surprises the Bishop.
I can see it in the way his eyebrows rise when she points out discrepancies in the timeline.
Marcus’s tactical experience proves invaluable as we plan how to feed false information without raising suspicion.
Elijah’s attention to detail catches things the rest of us miss.
And through it all, I watch Charlie’s hand return again and again to rest protectively on her stomach.
The gesture is unconscious, instinctive, and it makes something fierce and possessive surge through my chest.
Marcus catches me watching her, and our eyes meet across the desk. I see the same possessive certainty reflected in his dark gaze.
He’s thinking the same thing I am.
That baby is ours, regardless of biology. We’re in this together.
Elijah’s gaze tracks Charlie’s every movement with an intensity that makes my jaw clench. Not with jealousy, but with recognition.
He’s falling just as hard as Marcus and I have.
Maybe harder.
He looks at her like she’s a symphony he’s desperate to play.
The Bishop’s voice pulls me back to the present. “We’ll continue looking for hard evidence tomorrow.”
Charlie shifts in her chair, and the movement draws my attention to the way her dress rides up slightly, revealing more of her thighs.
I force my gaze back to the Bishop, but not before Marcus catches me looking.
His jaw clenches, and I know he’s fighting the same battle. The need to touch her, claim her, forget everything except the way she feels beneath us.
“There’s one more thing,” the Bishop says, his tone shifting to something more serious. He pulls out another document, this one sealed in a separate envelope. “I received this yesterday. Another anonymous letter, but this one is different. More detailed. More…personal.”
My stomach drops as he opens it, revealing pages of handwritten notes. Dates. Times. Specific conversations. Details that could only come from someone who’s been watching us very closely. Written in a slanted penmanship that I’ve read in reports my entire stay at this parish.
Acceptance settles deep inside.
“I’ve been reviewing the evidence all night,” he says quietly. “Cross-referencing the information in this letter with the surveillance logs, the doctored photos, everything.” He closes his notebook with deliberate precision. “And I think you should know who sent it.”
Charlie tenses beside me.
“The person who sent this letter,” he says, his voice dropping to something cold and precise, “is Sister Margaret.”