Chapter 19 Callahan
“With my whole heart have I sought thee: O let me not wander from thy commandments.”
— Psalm 119:10 KJV
Callahan could not empty his mind the way he emptied his lungs. The memory of Dorian’s body pinned against the alley wall, the wet heat of his own mouth drawing blood to the surface of that throat, the shuddering release he had coaxed through nothing more than a thigh and a whispered command—it all circled him like smoke he could not wave away. Sin, yes. Mortal sin. Yet beneath the shame ran a quieter current of regret: he had left the boy trembling and sticky without a single gentle touch afterward. If the Lord granted him another chance, Callahan swore silently, he would do better. He would tend the bruises he made. He would give Dorian the care he pretended not to need.
Mass would begin soon. He could not afford distraction. Especially not with Rier already watching him like a hawk circling carrion.
“Something troubling you, brother?” Rier murmured as they took their places in the procession. His voice carried that familiar edge of satisfaction, as though he had been waiting for signs of weakness.
“Nothing beyond the ordinary,” Callahan answered, folding his hands. “The shelter’s roof leaks again. The stove is on its last legs.”
Rier’s mouth tightened. “Try not to let your little charity distract you from your true purpose today.”
Anger flared—sharp, familiar thorns beneath the ribs. Callahan swallowed it. “My purpose is clear, Rier. I intend to deliver the sermon our congregation needs.”
“As you should. The church must be your sole focus at all times. Saint Jude’s is—”
“Rier.” Callahan’s voice cut low, steady. “Not now. Please.”
The organ swelled before Rier could reply. They stepped into the aisle. Callahan felt the weight of eyes at once—familiar faces, devout faces, faces that saw only the collar and the calm mask. None of them knew the man who had bitten a bruise into a parishioner’s throat two nights ago. None except one.
Dorian sat three rows from the back, dark gaze fixed forward. The rosary around Callahan’s neck seemed heavier, each bead a link in a chain he had forged himself. He mounted the pulpit, opened the lectionary, and began the sermon on temptation he had prepared weeks earlier. The irony tasted like ash.
After the final blessing, Callahan stationed himself at the doorway to the narthex, murmuring farewells. His eyes kept drifting, searching. Then he saw him—Dorian in a short-sleeved button-up, arms bare for the first time in church. Ink wrapped his skin in deliberate, beautiful defiance: a skeletal wolf jaw circling the right elbow, a serpent coiled around the forearm with an apple clenched in its fangs. On the left bicep a rat curled its tail into a heart, the words love the unloved in lowercase beneath. And on the inner wrist, stark capitals: ETERNITY, followed by the quieter question where will you spend it.
Desire twisted low in Callahan’s gut. Dorian glanced his way—just once—mouth curving faintly before returning to his conversation with Elara. Her eyes flicked to Callahan too, bright with something that looked disturbingly like understanding. His stomach dropped.
A small woman whose name he could not summon trapped him in polite chatter. He nodded, offered a verse, smiled. Over her shoulder he caught Dorian’s smirk, patient and wicked. When she finally moved on, Dorian stepped forward.
“Father Callahan,” he said, voice perfectly neutral, as though they had never met in an alley.
“Dorian.” Callahan prayed his own mask held. “Always a pleasure to see you here.”
Up close the tattoos were even sharper. Callahan catalogued them helplessly, wondering which carried stories and which were simply beautiful. He knew the weight of hidden ink himself.
“I wondered if we might speak privately,” Dorian continued, rubbing the back of his neck. The motion exposed the wrist tattoo fully. Eternity. Callahan forced his gaze upward.
“Of course. My office is quieter.”
He felt Rier’s stare as they crossed toward the stairs. Let him stare. Callahan would deal with questions later.
The office door shut with a soft thud, muffling the lingering voices below. Callahan took his chair; Dorian took the one opposite. Silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.
“I didn’t know you read so much,” Dorian said at last, nodding toward the cluttered bookshelf.
“When the church is quiet and the shelter doesn’t need me, I lose myself in pages.” Callahan shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “What did you wish to discuss?”
Dorian leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Tuesday. What you said about distance. I’ve been thinking we should set clear boundaries if we’re going to keep… seeing each other.”
Seeing each other. The phrase landed warm and dangerous in Callahan’s chest. Reality and want collided again. Reality, for once, seemed the weaker combatant.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Callahan admitted quietly. “Continuing this would be unwise. My position—”
“You enjoy it, though,” Dorian cut in, eyes steady. “Don’t you?”
Callahan exhaled through his nose. “Enjoyment isn’t the issue. The consequences are.”
“Because of the church?”
“Partly. But also…” He touched the rosary beads, felt the phantom slick of saliva that was not there. “I wasn’t always kind to the men I—” He stopped. “It took years to become the man I am now. I’m afraid of what I might do to you.”
Dorian’s expression softened, surprising him. “Would it matter if I said I trust you?”
The words struck like a bell. Callahan searched his face for mockery and found none.
“You trust me,” he repeated, tasting the idea.
“Why else would I keep coming back?” Dorian gave a small shrug, almost shy. “I know my limits. I have a mouth on me, sure, but I’ll tell you if something’s too much.”
Callahan studied him a long moment. Old instincts—negotiation, control, the calm that came before a scene—rose smoothly to the surface.
“If we continue,” he said at last, “there must be precautions.”
“Agreed.”
“First, absolute secrecy. In public we remain polite but distant. No lingering glances, no special treatment.”
Dorian nodded.
“Second, you must understand my vows limit how physical this can become.”
A flicker of heat in Dorian’s eyes, quickly banked. “Understood.”
“Third, you speak immediately if anything feels wrong. No hesitation.”
“Deal.”
Callahan rose, circled the desk, and leaned against its edge directly in front of Dorian. The position forced Dorian to tilt his head back. Callahan traced a single fingertip along the sharp line of his jaw, stopping beneath his chin to lift it higher. Dorian’s throat worked; a soft sound escaped.
“You blush so prettily,” Callahan murmured. “How far down does it go?”
Dorian’s cheeks darkened further. “You’d like to find out.”
Callahan’s thumb pressed lightly, holding the angle. “Chin up. I didn’t give permission to move.”
Dorian rolled his eyes but obeyed. Callahan’s hand slid forward, palm settling over the warm column of Dorian’s throat. The pulse leapt against his skin.
“One thing you should learn quickly,” Callahan said, voice low, “is that I rarely play fair.”
Three sharp knocks rattled the door.
Callahan withdrew instantly, heart slamming. Dorian lowered his chin, composure snapping back into place. Callahan opened the door to find Rier framed in it, gaze sliding past him to Dorian.
“My apologies,” Rier said, insincere. “I didn’t realize you were occupied.”
“Dorian was just leaving.” Callahan stepped aside.
Dorian rose smoothly. “Thank you for your time, Father. Have a blessed day.”
The footsteps faded down the stairs. Rier’s stare returned to Callahan, cold and measuring.
“Care to explain the private audience?”
“Dorian sought counsel about family difficulties,” Callahan answered. The lie tasted sour.
Rier’s lip curled. “Be careful, brother. Rumors spread easily. I’ve known that boy since he was a child. Trouble clings to him.” His gaze sharpened. “And given your own history, it would be unwise to make a habit of closed-door meetings.”
The door shut behind Rier with deliberate quiet. Callahan leaned his forehead against the wood, breath shallow. Lord, forgive me. I am weak with anger and lust. Grant me strength.
No comfort came. Prayer had not truly comforted him in years—not since the night everything changed. Not since Dorian had walked back into his life and made the old hunger feel like coming home.