Page 19 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“You are angry,” he grumbles.

The accuracy of it stuns me into silence long enough for him to rush through an explanation.

“I was in the kitchen. Tawny and Leila have baked…” He slips into Italian and rambles something about cookies, scones, and lemon tarts, but it’s hard to follow. He throws up his hands, as if he’s under siege. “Dio mio! They told me to taste test for evil in each batch. I have done this eight times.” Another helpless look. “I can’t taste evil. This is not how it works.”

A thousand thoughts hurtle through my mind, but the most prevalent is the image of this man, all inked forearms and stoic manliness, forced to sample pastries on repeat?

I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard that it echoes off the walls. Here I was thinking he’s some kind of mastermind at subterfuge—the Great Vatican Pretender. Our Sisterhood was doomed because he tattled on us to his Daddies. But he’s all show. I wouldn’t be surprised if his bad-boy backstory is a fabrication.

“This is not funny.” He blinks, affronted.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Two dark brows slam down, and I’m once again in the presence of a man with an intense, almost suffocating aura. One I almost dismissed.

He only needs to glare at me, and I feel like the lamb to his wolf. My laughter dies to a throaty chuckle. When that dies too, I’m left only with the sound of my pounding heart. Not once did he break eye contact.

Oh, he’s good.

Okay. Maybe there’s some truth to his backstory. Whatever the case, he is a walking contradiction. It intrigues me.

His gaze drops briefly to my shoulders, and something in his expression eases.

“Better,” he says.

I don’t realize my shoulders have dropped until he points it out. The fact that he was tracking the tension in my body this whole time makes my skin prickle with something I refuse to name.

Eventually, his expression smooths out, and he adds begrudgingly, “You would not like this if they made you eat so many cakes in one day.”

“Agreed.” I let my voice go husky and add, “My thighs don’t need the encouragement.”

Now we’re back to staring and sizing each other up.

He clears his throat. “I … I kept the confessional unlocked.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

“I was there for two nights.”

“Good for you.”

“Waiting.”

“You want a medal?”

His lips pull tight at his scar. “You have not come to confession, Misericordia.”

My breath hitches at my name in Italian on his lips. It’s so like the word in French. La relique requiert miséricorde parfaite.

Except that with him, my name sounds sad. Miserable and forlorn. Like an uttered curse. Like someone who will regret me later.

“My name is Mercy.” Acid edges my tone. “And, why the hell would I bother coming to confession now? Things have changed since I made that promise. You’re Entity, and soon they’ll be here to erase our very existence.”

His cheekbones go hard. The air in the reliquary vibrates with tension. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try.