Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men 6)

“You good?” he said finally in a tight voice vibrating like a plucked string.

Bat reached out to squeeze his shoulder, and I noticed they were exactly the same height. “Good, man.”

The tension in Dane’s shoulders eased, then fell slack entirely when Tempest stepped forward to give him a hug. Steele and Shaw, not wanting to be left out, hugged them too, then dragged Bat into the fold. The group hug made the back of my eyes burn, and my throat itch.

Everywhere around me, scared people were being consoled by their loved ones.

Except for me.

I turned to find my grandpa and saw him with Phillipa hugging him slightly awkwardly because she was not a hugger.

My throat closed up.

Tears threatened to overtake me, and I tried to breathe through the flux of emotion, reminding myself I am not weak.

But that voice was Priest’s, and it didn’t help.

I closed my eyes to count my breaths and my blessings.

I was safe. I was loved by so many. I was healthy.

I was alone.

Instinctively, I went back to the door of the church, needing the solace of its embrace to soothe me. Firemen had arrived out front and were going through the front doors to survey the damage, but I slinked through the back. The back corridor was empty, only a faint twinge of smoke polluting the air. I trailed my fingers along the stone wall, the rough rock like Priest’s strong, calloused fingers. I pulled away, chastising my thoughts for always leading like a one-way track back to that man.

The main chapel was coated in soot the length of both walls, and some of the pews were damaged, but otherwise, it was blessedly intact. Firemen filtered in and out of the now wide-open front doors.

Out them, framed like a disciple of Christ in the wintery blue light, was Priest.

He stood on the sidewalk a few metres from the entrance staring into the hallowed space as if it was doomed to the foulest reaches of hell.

But he was there.

I blinked, wondering if he was a mirage conjured by shock.

The image of him remained, the long, dark-robed length of him stark against the snow-capped street tableau. He was too far away to see his eyes, but I knew somehow that they were pinned on me.

Deliberately, a booted foot lifted and stepped forward. He shuddered as if even this slightest movement closer to the holy place burned in him.

I’d never seen him within a block of First Light, and he was there, determinedly waiting outside, standing sentry as he had every night for weeks to make sure I was safe from harm, even if that duty brought him his own measure of pain.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes again, but this time they stemmed from the well of surging happiness and hope in my belly.

I ran.

Slipping slightly in the wet that put out the fires, stumbling over the uneven flagstones in my high heels, dodging past chastising firemen, I ran out the doors of the church heading straight into the arms of the devil.

And you know what he did?

After a brief, painful expression seized his stern face, he opened his arms and caught me.

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the leather, clove, and sharp, bracing scent of fresh air imbued in his beard and skin. Vaguely, I was aware of him taking a deep drag of fragrance from my hair.

“You’re good,” he declared, strong hand flexing on my bottom, one of them tracing the notches in my spine from tailbone to neck beneath my open coat where it fisted in my hair to bring my face out of hiding. His eyes burned on my skin as he searched my features for lingering fear and pain. “You’re fine.”

“Good,” I agreed, squeezing myself tighter around him to confirm it. “Fine.”

He nodded curtly, but that hand in my hair loosened so he could dive underneath the locks to find my pulse point with his thumb. His ruddy brow furrowed as he took a moment to feel the patter of my heartbeat.

“Fuck, mo cuishle,” he muttered on a staccato sigh that fanned minty air over my mouth. “Not lettin’ you outta my sight again. Not till this motherfucker is put down.”

“Okay,” I agreed easily, smoothing his messy hair down with my hands, staring into his gorgeous face with awe because I was currently living a miracle. A miracle where I had the right to touch him. “I’m good with that.”

“Should’ve known you’d be here,” a gruff, deeply unimpressed voice said from over my shoulder.

Priest didn’t put me down to address the man. Instead, he tucked me slightly to one side of his body so I could face the man too. There was a dangerous glint in his pale eyes, a promise that whoever was speaking to him was this close to being ripped to shreds.