Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
It’s a failing, I realize, if I’m truly to be a good dom.
Because I don’t know what this is between me and Moira.
I don’t know if I can call it serious because I don’t even know if I have the right to hold it in my hands.
But I know it’s something. Something that pulls at me, that makes my blood run hot and my prayers falter.
The silence stretches too long. I swallow, my voice low, when it finally comes. “It’s new.”
The bishop’s expression doesn’t change, but the sharpness in her gaze deepens. “Well, figure it out.” Her words are steely, as is her gaze. “And I’m sure you understand that sleepovers are inappropriate on church property.”
A fresh wave of heat rushes through me. Not shame. Not guilt. Just anger.
She doesn’t understand what this is. She can’t. And yet, she has the power to destroy it before I even know what to call it. Not to mention, we aren’t in the twentieth century anymore. The church has evolved. It’s infuriating that we’re still supposed to live by puritanical nonsense just because some elderly women in the congregation like to gossip. It’s not what we preach but it’s still a standard we’re held by?
Still, I manage to nod once. “I understand.”
Bishop Caldwell watches me like she’s trying to peel me open and figure out what’s ticking underneath. Maybe she is. Maybe she always is.
“Good.” A long pause. Then, a slow exhale, like she’s letting something go. “I heard you’ve been spending time at the correctional facility again.”
I shrug. “A few times a week.”
She gives a knowing hum, fingers steepling. “They need someone willing to see them. To remind them they aren’t lost causes.”
“They’re not.” My voice is steel. “They don’t get visitors. They don’t get forgiveness. They don’t even get a phone call from the outside. Most of them got thrown away long before they ever ended up behind bars. The least I can do is show up.”
Her lips press together, thoughtful. Then, “It’s good work. Just don’t neglect the ones who sit in your pews every Sunday, the ones looking to you for guidance.”
I roll my shoulders, letting the tension settle. “I’m aware.”
She studies me another beat, then nods. “And Advent preparations?”
I lean back in my chair. “The choir’s rehearsing, the volunteers will handle the decorating after Sunday’s service, and I’ve got midnight Mass lined up.”
She hums. “And the food drive?”
“It’s happening,” I confirm. “But I’m expanding it. A lot of the guys inside have families barely scraping by. I want to make sure they get something too: care packages, food, supplies, whatever they need to get through the season.”
Bishop Caldwell leans back. “Good. The church should serve more than just those who walk through its doors.”
I nod once. “Agreed.”
“Then I suggest you stay focused on the work. And don’t get waylaid by… distractions.”
She watches me carefully, as if waiting for me to falter, as if she expects some further admission. But I give her none.
The conversation shifts back to logistics and schedules, but the weight of her words lingers.
Long after I leave the cafe, long after I walk the familiar streets back to my home, her voice echoes in my mind.
I took a risk on you.
Figure it out.
Your heart is not yours alone.
TWENTY
MOIRA
The neon red glow of Carnal’s sign flickers against the rain-slicked pavement as we pull up to the club. My heart is already tap-dancing in my chest, a wicked little beat of excitement. It’s been too long since I’ve been here, too long since I’ve felt this rush, and even longer since I arrived on the arm of someone who actually meant something to me. Oh, wait. I’ve never arrived on the arm of anyone who actually meant anything to me.
I giggle at myself, feeling flushed with happiness as I suck on my signature cherry lollipop. Bane bought me a bagful the other day to help satiate my oral fixation.
He steps out first, the heavy door of the sleek black car swinging open with practiced ease. I was a good girl all day at the shelter, and now I get my reward.
Bane’s always in control and composed. But I see the slight pause in his breath and the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides. He might be cool, but he’s feeling this too.
I know sometimes his control is just a front. Like earlier when I’d all but burst through the front door of the parish house, practically vibrating from the afterglow of a good deed. “You should’ve seen me!” I announced, kicking off my shoes. “I was a damn angel today.”
Bane was already home, rolling his big, stupid, unfairly sexy shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the world. He barely glanced up. “That so?”
I sauntered toward him, still high on my own self-satisfaction. “Mm-hmm. Spent all day at the shelter. Scrubbed some toilets. Didn’t get into a single fistfight. I’m practically a saint myself. How ‘bout you?”