Chapter 2 #2
Not true. He confessed in the car when he rescued me, I lay with men. I lay with women. I have some very dark needs when I do.
That means he’s not celibate. Quite the opposite.
And pretty? Oh, God, it wets the part of my body that’s been imagining him all week.
After the hell I’d been through, I closed my eyes at night, needing to fantasize about the heaven we could share. The Pastor’s hot body, tangled with men. His lips, his fingers, his … God yes, every part of him claiming me, too.
Sure, I’m a virgin, but I’ve watched porn. It’s been my only exposure and education, and now all I can do is picture this man doing every sweet and salacious thing to me.
For the rest of my life.
Standing so close to him, my cheeks burn. The intense way he stares at me, heat drips down my body. Pooling wet and warm, between my thighs like never before.
I force them not to shake in his holy presence.
The Pastor is the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying a lot considering his smoldering sibling beside me.
“This isn’t a monastery.” I glance around.
Mr. Muscle led us through buildings and hallways.
This church takes up a city block. “I’m sure there’s a room for me somewhere.
I can cook, clean, pull weeds, and babysit kids.
I can also get a job nearby and save money.
I just need to stay safe and stay with you. ”
“Me?” He steps into my air. “Why? Who’s after you?”
His cologne—amber, oak, and musk—grabs me. He’s so close, I discern the tattoo on his high cheekbone, too. A small, broken heart. And his indigo eyes are changing, softening. He’s worried.
“It’s not safe to say.” I soften, too. “The less you know, the better.”
“Ahem.” Mr. Muscle mutters, “Sounds familiar.”
“This isn’t a monastery or an apartment building.” The Pastor ignores his brother. “Parts of this church were built centuries ago. No one lives here. It’s a historic landmark.”
“But you live behind it.” Mr. Muscle pushes from the doorjamb. “On the other side of the old graveyard.”
“Why, thank you, Charleston tour guide,” he mocks his not-so-little brother, who doled out the deets. “Wanna give her a horse-drawn carriage ride while you tell her all my shit? Maybe point out where I grocery shop, too?”
Okay.
Now they’re colossal and cute, and I suspect The Pastor wouldn’t curse if the playful boy in his arms understood English. He keeps calling him Padre and poking his face.
And what a face.
Strong brows. Perfect nose. Full lips. Especially that bottom one.
The dark brown scruff on his angular jaw threatens to be a beard.
It mirrors his dark brown hair, kissed by the southern sun.
Black ink crawls up his thick neck, snaking down his thick fingers, too.
His thin T-shirt can’t hide his wide, ripped form.
He’s tall, but everyone’s taller than me. That’s not amazing.
But it’s his eyes.
They’re amazing.
They remind me of my favorite flowers—blue hydrangeas. How they draw from their roots, changing their color depending on how they’re nourished.
So, can I change his mind, too?
Hopefully … because I won’t change mine.
“Keep me safe.” I step into his shadow. “You’re my gift from God. You said it yourself before you let some asshole cut off your pinky for me. Don’t tell me something didn’t speak to you then.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “an evil sex trafficker spoke to me, and it was the only way to get you and that little girl out of there.”
“And this one won’t tell us where she was kidnapped,” Mr. Muscle adds, frustrated by my silence this past week.
“All the other girls? We found their families. They’re from every rural town across Appalachia.
But her? She won’t tell us where she’s from, just that she’s not a kid.
She’s nineteen, and not safe if she goes home, so she’s staying here. With you.”
I feel vindicated.
Mr. Muscle is on my side.
“You have a spare bedroom,” he continues. “You know why we do what we do, so protect her.”
“Until when?” The Pastor fumes, “Until the truth sets her free?” His glare slices to me. “When will you tell us how you wound up trafficked? What happened, and who’s after you? And how long will you need my protection?”
“When will you tell me who you really are?” I point between them. “Both of you. No church does what you did for me and those girls. It was a group of you guys working for Ms. Faye. I counted five of you when we got in the van. So, who are you?”
Silence turns their stunning faces to threatening stone.
Common sense would tell me to stop asking questions. These men look like they could kill me in one smack.
But we know my record with common sense.
“Okay, fine.” I tap my foot. “Names. At least give me those and I’ll finally give you my full name.”
Mr. Muscle offers his bear paw, his smile dazzling. “Jace Ryan.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jace. But can I still call you Mister Muscle?”
He winks, nodding yes.
Next to these two, I’m a Polly Pocket doll, but they won’t break me. They won’t even toy with me. They’re not like the men who tormented me for a year.
The Pastor comforts the boy in his grasp with a pat on his back. But I don’t miss the demonic tattoos smoking over his corded forearms. Or how he stares at me, his gaze flicking to my exposed waist in this crop top, before he rips it away, forcing his glare back to mine.
He doesn’t want me here.
But he doesn’t want me hurt.
He doesn’t want me to stay.
But … he wants me.
Yes, that’s this feeling making everyone else in the room disappear while his eyes lock with mine. There’s something powerful between us. It’s making my pulse race, too.
We feel it.
And I won’t break our standoff.
Yes, stubbornness serves me well. I’ve stared down too many people who had the power to help or hurt me. I’m not afraid to let the silence get so powerful between us, he finally breaks.
“I’m Pastor Sire Rutledge.” He nods. “And you’re Wren…?”
Hope makes me smile. I haven’t told anyone my last name yet, and Sire wants it so he can send me back to where I belong, but…
“I’m Wren. Wren Chapel.”
I’m not going anywhere.
The Pastor’s lips part, realizing I’m right.
I belong with him.