Page 37 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

And again, she asks, “Why?”

“Because—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jasmine’s shrill voice comes from inside their room.

Nostrils flaring, I ground my teeth.

“What now?” Mercy rolls her eyes and pivots.

Jasmine opens her door and throws something. I yank Mercy to me, and she narrowly misses a projectile that lands in my room with a hollow thud.

We have but a moment to share a look before the attack continues.

“What now?” Jasmine’s high-pitched voice is slightly muffled as she backs into her room. “I’ll tell you what now.” She returns. Something hits the wall above me. Another thud on the opposite side of the hallway. “I’m not sharing a room with all this … this … argh!”

“Calm your farm, Jaz,” Mercy drawls.

Another projectile flies at us, and this time, she deflects it like a bro baseballer, barking something at the other Sinners I miss because she’s shoving me into my room as though it’s a fallout shelter.

I catch a glimpse of blue eyes, and then she closes the door, locking it.

Two seconds later, the door opens, and I step back to avoid being hit as Mercy rushes in.

“Almost forgot,” she says, advancing on me.

Before I know it, she has me against the wall, body pressed against mine, and then nothing else registers except the weight of her hands on my hips. The closeness. The heat.

“What are you—?” I gasp as she reaches inside my trouser pockets, each hand digging around. Sensation erupts around my groin. Travels up my abdomen. Burns my logic.

A part of me knows what she’s looking for.

It’s obvious.

But a larger, aching, and lonely part silently begs her not to be so efficient.

To linger.

Mercy pulls out my phone and steps back from me.

Still a hot, breathless mess, I try to hide it. Swallow. I’m thankful that she’s not staring into my eyes anymore, but down at the items she stole, because if she weren’t, she’d see the feral edge of desire brimming beneath the surface.

She’d know how hungry I am.

“I’ll take these,” she announces, voice buttery sweet, lashes sweeping down.

She pockets my phone, but stares at the rosary beads. They click-clack when she lets the crucifix dangle. The sound snaps me out of my deluded state.

“Put them back,” I growl.

“Oh, you mean these?” Plump lips pout with mock innocence. She lifts her fist before her eyes and inspects the rosary closely. “These are sharp. I’ve seen you bleed using these during confession. Wouldn’t want you to open your veins with them or something when I turn my back.”

“There are far sharper things in this room, Misericordia.”

My veiled threat only makes her lips curve as if it’s a challenge.

For a moment, neither of us inhales, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Then she asks as casually as if it’s a Sunday sermon, “If you could choose one—the phone or the rosary—to keep, which would it be?”