He releases a shaky breath, one loaded with relief, then he turns to me and catches me humming as I rub my cheek into the fabric beneath us.
Though his scowl is back once more, he doesn’t stop me. Instead, he asks, “What hymn is that?”
“Au coeur de ma vie,” I answer easily, wondering why he asks when he has to know it.
“That used to be my favorite.”
His thickly uttered response has me whispering, “I learned it for you.”
“You sing?”
“I used to. Not so much now.” I clear my throat. “I used to be in a choir at our church.”
“You truly were Catholic?” he questions, his surprise clear.
I huff, annoyed he didn’t believe me. “I haven’t told you a single lie, and I won’t either,” I tack on, wanting him to know that.
Damn nerve.
Something shifts in his eyes, and he shakes his head as a smile blossoms on his lips.
“You truly are peculiar.”
“Thank you.”
Savio
For anyone else, I knew that would be taken as an insult. And maybe, from anyone else, it would have been offered as one. But it wasn’t. I didn’t mean to offend. It was just a truth.
As I watch her coat her cheek in my blood, as I watch her hum a hymn that used to be my favorite, something she had to have learned during her ‘tracking’ of me, I can’t deny there’s no one like her.
No one.
And I’ve met some fruit loops in my time.
But at the heart of her, she’s innocent.
I can see that.
She’s naive and pure.
Maybe a tad naughty, but good.
It gleams out of her. It’s like her soul calls to the dark, empty shell of mine, reminding it what it used to feel like to be that way.
But I stopped being pure when I was thirteen.
A stupid bully changed everything, changed my life, changed me.
Memories crowd me, and she starts to hum again, like she knows the past has consumed me.
Like she knows something changed.
The old song resonates deeply. It reminds me of the first time I heard it—when I entered Seminary.
My parents had been the exact opposite of pleased about my becoming a priest. My mother had cried about it for two days straight, and every time my father had looked at me, he’d shaken his head.
In France, where I was raised, the state and church were not close entities. People weren’t ashamed of their religion, but neither was it embraced as maybe it was in other countries.
The first day of Seminary, my mother’s weeping echoing in my ears, I’d heard the hymn.
You are at the heart of my life.
And He was.
That had been my feeling at the time.
Now?
The hymn is a reminder of how I’d been once upon a time.
“Please,” I whisper gutturally. “Don’t hum that.”
She stops. Instantly.
Just like she does every time I ask her to—or don’t ask, just make her. There’s no rebellion.
None whatsoever.
That’s why it’s easy to let my temper fall away.
She’d touched herself.
In my bed.
Her whimper had awoken me, and for a scant second, I’d watched her, heard her. Felt her response.
Then I stopped her. I had no choice. Because I wanted to see more. I wanted to know more.
Just the thought of the taste of her pussy on my tongue is enough to make me salivate. It’s been so fucking long since I did anything remotely sexual that I can’t even remember when it was.
I’d been thirteen when I killed Luc Roussillon. I’d gotten a suspended sentence at fourteen, and a mountain of community service until I was eighteen.
Everything had changed when that community service had taken me to a church.
To a priest who’d changed my life.
At the time, I’d felt certain it had been for the better. But looking back, I know I’d have been better off sticking to the path I’d been on.
“I’ve lost you again.”
There’s a sadness to her tone that has me blinking, even as I register her.
Her words have me shaking my head. “I’m here. I’m found.”
Her smile is twisted. “I’ve never known anyone as lost as you, Savio.” She squeezes my wrist. “But I see you, and I want to make things better.”
She wants more than she’s telling me, more than she wants to verbalize, but she is, I sense, harmless.
I’d known that earlier though. It was the only reason I allowed her to stay.
Hearing it now, after catching her touching her pussy, after her seeing me during a night terror… well, it changes things.
“Were you really feeling ill earlier? Or were you lying?”
“I told you, I won’t lie to you. I was feeling...” She hesitates, and for a second, I think she’s going to get creative. “Fragile.”
I repeat the word in my head, frowning over it for a second. “Fragile?”
She sighs, reaches up with her free hand and rubs at her temple. “Yes. I pushed it today. I’m supposed to nap and take cabs instead of walking places.”
My eyes narrow as I read between the lines. “You discharged yourself too early, didn’t you?”
Andrea licks her lips. “Maybe.”
“Why did you do that?”
“My parents returned home to California to clear up their house because it had sold. I knew if I didn’t leave then, they’d never let me out of their sight.”
Whatever I’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.
“They know where you are, don’t they?”
She shrugs. “I send them texts. I tell them I’m fine.”
“How kind of you,” I say dryly, but even so, I’m taken aback. When she doesn’t say another word, I query, “Why are you obsessed with me?”
She furrows her brow at that. “’Obsess’ is a harsh word.”
Her huffing makes me smile. “I don’t think you’re a danger to me—”
“Good, because I’m not.” She rolls her eyes.
“But why are you?” What about me is so special that I’ve gained the attention of this beautiful woman?
I’m not sure she’ll answer, and because I know she responds to sharp, stern commands, I’m about to break out that voice, but she mutters, “Your story connects with mine.”
“Explain.”
She purses her lips. “I’ll explain if you tell me what happened to you too.”
I’d prefer to dance in sulfuric acid than share that particular story, but she’s right. She doesn’t have to tell me anything. Not unless I’m willing to open up to her also.
I know I could toss her out, know that I could discredit every word she could say to the police about Paulo, but something about her... I don’t feel as alone when she’s here.
And I’m not talking physically.
I’ve shared the house before. I still felt isolated.
She tears through that haze, and I have no idea why.
“I’ll tell you what I can bear to share.”
My qualification seems to appease her, because she grabs some of the cover off me and nestles it around herself like she’s getting ready for a long story time.