Saxon’s large hand brushes my back before yanking away just as abruptly. “Come.”
I tear my gaze from the awe-inspiring organ and follow Saxon down the nave’s left flank. With each step toward the unknown, my pulse drives a little faster. Unease quickens my breathing, and the sensation of being watched doesn’t fade—especially when Saxon stops beside a confessional and cracks open the wooden door.
My jaw falls open. “Absolutely not.”
“Get in.”
“This is the third time in less than twenty-four hours you’ve told me that, and each time I’m struck with the resounding realization that you’ve taken my good sense and tossed it into a blender of utter destruction. First, the car and now—”
Movement snags my attention and I turn, just in time, to see the heavy, black robes of a priest swish around the corner. Gray-haired and balding at the crown, the man keeps his head down, eyes rooted to the floor. And yet, there’s no denying the small, telling pause he gives us before slipping silently into the confessional.
I haven’t been inside a church in nearly a decade but even I know this is highly irregular. Nor can I recall the last time that I saw a confessional booth inside an Anglican church, if I ever have.
Something isn’t right.
Adrenaline turns my palms clammy as I back up, guided by instinct alone.
A solid male hand collides with the center of my spine. Then, in a voice carved from devilry itself, Saxon orders, “In, Isla.”
Damn him, I go in.
And he—Saxon—follows right after before promptly clicking the door closed.
Oh, bollocks.
His left thigh is plastered to my right, his elbow digging into my side. His massive frame seems that much larger, that more brutish, when confined to a small place meant for only one. Not that he makes an effort to keep to his side of the bench. I’m sandwiched between a stationary wall and the mountain of a man that is Saxon Priest. Even if I tried to escape, I’d be forced to climb over his lap, and where would I be then?
His hand gripping my knee, perhaps, to draw me back. His touch brazen and hot on my flesh, that cold, dark voice of his growling a domineering order in my ear. Something like, “Don’t even think about moving,” or “No matter how far you run, I’ll find you. Catch you. And drag you right back.”
My imagination is a dreadful, dreadful place.
I squirm in my seat, seeking space from everything that he is—and find no reprieve. His thigh kisses mine, his elbow remains firmly planted in place, and I . . .
Saliva sticks in my throat as I try to swallow.
Beside me, Saxon rumbles, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last confession.”
Four days?
Eyes widening, I grip the hem of my coat between white-knuckled fingers.
A brief silence, and then, “What of your friend?”
Saxon’s head turns, his chin lowered. He eyes me like I’m a selection of cheese at the local outdoor market. But whereas I fancy cheese, all cheese, like it’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, Saxon dismisses me easily, severing eye contact on my next breath. A chill spreads through me when he replies, “Never, Father. She’s new . . . but useful.”
Useful. That word again.
It’s beginning to feel like less of a compliment and more like a threat.
“Ah,” the priest murmurs softly, thoughtfully, “and does she pray?”
Instead of hurling myself over Saxon to flee, instinctive reflex has me gripping his thigh, rather murderously, as I wait for his answer. I don’t know what sort of game he’s playing, and even if I knew, I wouldn’t partake. I don’t pray. Don’t attend church. If Saxon thinks he can wipe all my sins away, he clearly doesn’t realize that he has his work cut out for him.
“Faithfully,” Saxon finally says, his gaze trained on the shuttered screen dividing the confessional.
I squeeze his leg again, nails digging into his hard muscles, and the blasted man doesn’t even hiss in pain. As though women regularly try to maim him, Saxon only plucks my hand off his leg and flattens it against my thigh, growling, “Patience. Find some.”
With a warning squeeze, he releases me and casually reclines on the bench, his shoulder propped up by the door, his long legs spread wide like he owns the air we breathe, as well as the plank of cushioned wood beneath our arses. His foot finds mine, but not to play footsy and certainly not to flirt. Catching my gaze, he slowly applies pressure.
A clear order to step back in line and follow his lead, if I’ve ever felt one.
“She hopes to better herself—shed societal judgments.”
I want absolutely none of that.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Saxon to sod off when the priest’s smooth London accent catches my full attention. “The congregation grows wary, my son.”
Grows . . . wary?
It’s an odd comment but no odder than Saxon dropping his elbows to his knees, his head bowed as if in prayer. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only being he worshipped is Satan. Figures the two of them would be best chums. “We continue on our path to salvation,” Saxon says, “no detours, no change in plans.”
My eyes narrow.
A soft chuckle echoes from the other side of the screen. “Youth gives you ambition.”
“Age gives you foresight,” Saxon replies evenly.
“Touché.” Another genteel laugh and then the priest sighs heavily. “You vouch for her fidelity, then?”
For the first time since we met, Saxon visibly hesitates. With one elbow still planted on his knee, he scrubs a palm over his scarred mouth and flicks his gaze in my direction. Muted sunshine, from the slatted wood of the confessional, slants across his face in stripes of shadowed black and golden warmth.
I feel the weight of his stare like an iron anvil chained to my ankles, seconds before I’m thrown overboard into a swirling sea.
Opening my mouth, I’m fully prepared to take my fate into my own hands when Saxon cuts me off with a firm, “I do.”
The priest hums his approval. “Very well. Your friend will come to confession in your place, then, yes?”
Words of protest bubble to the surface, threatening to jump to freedom, but I stifle them at the last second . . . and wait.
Instead of responding, Saxon reaches down and tugs at the hem of his trousers. Fastened to his calf is Dad’s knife, which he removes from the leg holster with a familiarity that speaks to years of handling weaponry. A good thing to know, considering we find ourselves at odds more often than not.
With his knees spread wide, he balances the knife on a single finger, as if testing its craftsmanship. The blade wavers, straightens out once more, and then Saxon tosses it up in the air, catching the knife by the hilt, and holds out the only possession of Dad’s that I allowed myself to keep after his death. Tantalizingly within reach and yet feeling farther away than ever.
Stomach tightening, I make a swift move to grab the knife, only for Saxon to pull back. “Give the holy father your answer,” he says, his voice pitched low for my ears only.
That patience he told me to find? It snaps like a twig.
My hand shoots out to circle his wrist, and it’s only thanks to years spent training in martial arts that I catch him off guard. I tilt my father’s knife toward Saxon’s throat, bending his wrist at an angle that I know must ache like the very devil. The sharp tip punctures his skin and I despise the prick of guilt that echoes in my heart. King assassination aside, I don’t find a thrill in hurting people.