Page 22 of Broken

I can feel her attention. Wherever the touch of her eyes lands, it burns.

The pain is excruciating.

The pain isdelicious.

“Lead us not into temptation,” I rasp under my breath, the prayer a silent susurration. “Deliver us from evil; For thine is?—”

“Padre?”

I jerk in surprise at the soft voice and twist to see Junia Lorenzo staring at me with concern.

As usual, the faint lingering of bruises mars her cheeks.

Her husband is someone I’m keeping my eye on. He’s dancing on the knife’s edge and he doesn’t even know it.

Neither does she.

Junia’s gaze is limpid as she studies me worriedly. A gentle woman, too good for that bastard of a spouse, I grace her with a kind smile even though my body almost rebels. “All is well, my child.”

It isn’t.

Nothing is well.

Andrea is there and she is watching me and I want to press my mouth to those faintly smiling lips, want to run my hand over that silken hair, taste that?—

No.

Balling my hands into fists until my knuckles ache, I move on, lest I cause any more curiosity. Despite the incessant urge to watch Andrea, I forge ahead, not stopping until I’m at the doorway.

The intense cold from inside the church is brisk, and bracing. Outside, though, it’s still technically winter, but the sun has been hot, so I know Lara’s driver must be melting in his formal suit and cap.

When he sees me, he dips his chin, eyes darting over the small crowd as he makes his way inside and helps his mistress back to the car.

Standing by the door, I give my parishioners thanks for their attendance as they leave and wish them well until the next time we meet.

Six wait for confession.

My gaze darts over the pews, taking note of the familiar faces, and while Junia remains behind to deal with some flower arrangements, her husband stays seated.

Inwardly, I sigh—I hate my time with him.

Andsheis still there, sitting relatively close to the confessional too.

But she’s American, and from my experience, they never speak other languages.

The booth is far away enough for me to have no fears over privacy, but the beast inside demands to know why she’s here, in my church.

As far as I can tell, she seems to be doing nothing.

Just sitting.

Perhaps I imagined the intensity of her regard because her eyes appear almost closed. I’d go so far as to say she’s napping.

Is that because of her illness?

For a second, I wonder if I should go over and help her, but I’m hesitant to do so.

I don’t want to approach her.

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