Page 85 of Unholy Obsession

Her brows knit tighter. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. Do you trust me?”

She hesitates, searching my face, and then—so slowly, so cautiously—nods. “I trust you. Even though you have secrets.”

The words punch through me, landing somewhere deep.

She swallows, glancing away. “Some things have… happened recently. I don’t want you to think I’m lying. I just—I want it to be like what you haven’t told me about your life before you became a priest. So you know those things are there, but I’m just not telling them to you right now. Is that okay?”

Her eyes find mine again, open and raw.

I wasn’t expecting this.

And I feel, with a quiet kind of horror, how unfair I’ve been. Keeping my own secrets close to my chest and not telling her about my past. But now that the shoe is on the other foot, I feel it—the clawing questions that rise in my throat, demanding to be asked.

What happened? When? Why can’t she tell me?

I know my reasons for keeping my secrets. They’re harmless. At least… I think they are.

But hers?

No, my mind rejects the suspicion immediately.

It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s me and my own judgment. My ability to put my faith in the right person.

I spent decades trusting the wrong one.

“I’m such a fool,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen with concern. “What does that mean? You’re acting weird. Tell me the truth—are you mad that I came tonight after you told me not to? Or about what I did outside?”

“No.” I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I think I’m just… seeing some things clearly tonight.”

“Like what?”

“Like how fucking stunning you are.” My voice drops, and I take her chin between my fingers. “The world has it backward, Moira. They look to men who hoard money and call themselves kings and make gods of them. But those men are usually liars and thieves, so lost in their own goddamn hype they wouldn’t recognize the truth if it was splashed in neon right in front of them.”

I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, memorizing the softness.

“But you,” I murmur. “You shine from within. You’re worth so much more than any of them with their stupid fucking gold.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “How much of the communion wine did you get into tonight, Father?”

A laugh bursts out of me, startled and real.

There she goes again, making my point for me.

I shake my head and take her hand, tugging her with me down the center aisle of the church. I lit every standing candelabra at the front of the church and the one on the altar. The candlelight flickers over us, casting a soft, golden glow.

The altar is clear of everything but the altar cloth, the candles, a fresh cruet of wine, the plate of leftover wafers, and a tincture of sacristy oil.

“Tonight, you see the truth,” I tell her.

We’ve reached the altar.

“Do you give yourself to me tonight?”

She studies me now, sensing the shift in my mood. Her posture straightens, and the last of the tension drains from her face.

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