Page 74 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Yes.”

“Cisco,” I grind out.

“Father.” He gestures at his collar. “When it’s on, I am the priest.”

Well then, taking it off just made the top of my To-do list.

Shit, I’m horny. I know I shouldn’t be. I know this is the danger zone, and if we cross that line, there’s no going back, but a part of me is already rationalizing it.

This is just me enjoying the ride to Hell.

This is just finding a friend to tag along.

A friend with a very nice butt … who just strolled out of lockdown, who I’m supposed to be grilling, who could still be the enemy.

“I’m not … I’m not done interrogating you.” Lame attempt, Mercy.

“Agreed. I am not done telling you secrets.”

“This undermines my authority.”

“What will happen when you explode in their face?”

Now, wait just a minute. Anger flares again.

“It was a lapse,” I growl. “I’m not wearing the⁠—”

He stops mid-flight and rounds on me, brown eyes blazing as they search mine. “You will throw them in the trash.”

I pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His gaze flicks down to my thighs. “You do.”

Oh, fuck no. I try to push past, but he blocks me.

“It’s none of your business,” I hiss.

“I promised I would help you manage, and I have not.” He thumps his chest. “Mea culpa, Mercy. If something were to happen, it would be my fault.”

“That’s egotistical and ridiculous.”

“No, it is a broken promise.” An intense, quiet darkness settles over him. From the taut line of his shoulders to the curl of his white-knuckled fists. “I am a priest now, but before I was a man in a dangerous world where broken promises meant death.” His voice becomes gravelly. His words, deliberate. “I never break a promise.”

This man’s charisma and aura are all-encompassing. When he uses that commanding voice, I feel small and frozen, pinned yet contained. I am like one of the butterflies pinned in glass cabinets behind him on the wall.

“So?” he asks. “You allow me to keep my promise?”

“By fighting you?”

“Yes.”

Without waiting for my answer, he continues the last few steps down to the ground level and pauses by the double door entrance. He swipes his hands through his hair as he waits for me and looks out the window.

I descend slowly, studying the behavior. Jaw tight. Tendon feathering in his temple. Nostrils flared, and muscles tensed. The swipe of his hair isn’t a quick grooming fix, despite how it looks. He’s checking his reflection in the door’s window pane, and now running a trembling finger inside his collar, tugging it for air.

The priest is shaken.

Because I refused his help?