Page 23 of Broken

I really, truly don’t.

And I know that’s the exact opposite of being Christian, but getting close to her would be like shoving my hand into an open fire.

So I step away from the flames, refuse to look at her, and pretend she isn’t there.

I sense her as I pass, even though I do my best to ignore the temptation she represents—and trust me, I’ve become pretty adept at ignoring things, people, as well as situations that make me uncomfortable.

I instantly fail.

Lord help me, she’s magnetic.

Andrea Jura is impossible to evade.

Her scent hammers into me. Sweet and light—like her. I want to roll in it. Bathe in it. Glory inher?—

NO!

The bizarreness of my situation has me hiding in the confessional. After seating myself, I take a deep breath, the burden on my back lighter once I push my spine into the ungiving wooden wall behind me.

Today, I even find comfort within the booth that’s as much of a prison to me as the cage back in Oran. Its shadows provide me with a sense of security as I go about my afternoon chore.

It’s here where I find the sinners, and it’s here where I loathe the calling I’ve taken.

I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I must.

If they prey on an innocent, I can no longer sit idly by and wait for them to escalate. I’ll accept no more blood on my soul.

Unless I’m the one shedding it.

A tap sounds at the door, and I grow tense, expecting to hear her voice after I rasp, “Enter.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The voice is sweet. Young.Innocent.

Well, his parents would disagree, but I don’t.

My lips curve of their own volition as I greet Carlo and begin the Sacrament of Confession. Relief settles on my spine, allowing me to relax. Something he exacerbates with:

“I didn’t mean to.”

His morose start has me grinning, and I take a second, close my eyes, and force my voice to behave—even ifIfind his antics hilarious, his parents don’t.

“Let me decide if what you did is a sin.”

“Mama said it is. That’s why I’m here.”

Carlo, not unsurprisingly, doesn’t appreciate being dragged to church every time he misbehaves.

He’s only twelve, and his parents are older. He was a late baby, and they never seem to know what to do with him. His mother often wails about the sins she must have committed for him to have been born with ADHD.

Tone deaf is an understatement.

“Tell me. Let me decide,” I coax.

“It was an accident. I never meant for all the glue to get wasted.”

Glue?“Start at the beginning.”

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