It’s not Arthur’s fault Trefor died. It’s mine.
I kiss the cool metal crucifix, as I saw Trefor do so many times, then slip the chain around my neck and settle it beneath my T-shirt. Not for God, or Jesus, or the Madonna. For Trefor. Only for Trefor.
I shove the box with the finger into my pocket and head out of the office and to my car. It’s an eight-hour drive from New Orleans to San Antonio and I’m getting straight on the road.
I’m coming for you, Branwen Lange, and I’m going to get what I need from you. Even if I have to give you to your father piece by fucking piece.
Branwen
Dear Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done.
The cold stone floor is as hard as ice beneath my bare knees. I’ve been here for hours, praying silently, the rosary beads falling one by one through my fingers.
Forgive me. Forgive me.
I keep waiting for it to happen, like they say it will. For God’s love to fill me and for all my sins to be cleansed. If I repent, then He will forgive me.
When, though? I’m trying so hard to be sorry. I should kneel on a sharp stick tomorrow night. A few hours in severe pain. Yes. I think He would like that. It’s what I deserve.
At the back of the church, a door opens and closes. It’s late, but I understand them. They probably couldn’t sleep and instead, they’re chasing forgiveness like a dream that is always out of reach.
Heavy footsteps approach down the long center aisle. The air seems to shimmer behind me and my neck prickles with awareness. I try to force my mind back to prayer. My lips move silently and another bead falls through my fingers. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…
The footsteps stop beside me. There’s a dark, rich chuckle over my head. “I always liked a good girl on her knees.”
The voice rings through me like someone has struck a bell. He’s standing over me, overwhelming from this angle, his broad back blocking my view of the soaring roof overhead. I can’t see his face. Candles flicker over his shoulder and his features are cast in shadows. All the same, I know him. The memory of his face is carved into my mind. Hard, angular jaw. High, proud cheekbones that slice away to lean cheeks. Eyes that glimmer like liquid metal. I remember his short, rough stubble rubbing against my cheek. My arms wrapped tightly around his neck. His scent is enfolding me again, even through the heavy incense of the church. He smells like gunpowder, dark chocolate, and treachery. Sweetness and illicitness, entwined together.
My savior.
Except he’s not. I’ve learned a lot about saviors since coming to Our Lady of Sorrows, and they don’t come with bloodstains and hard muscle.
When I don’t say anything, he snaps his fingers at me, the sound like a gunshot in the empty church. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
I stare at him, dumfounded.
“And close that pretty mouth, or I’ll start getting ideas.” His eyes travel down over the crisp white headscarf covering my dark hair, my gray pinafore dress, the little silver cross resting on my breastbone.
I shake my head. My place is here. I don’t want to go anywhere with this man. He’s a bad person. I can see his sinfulness outlining him like the tarnished halo of a fallen angel.
“Branwen. I said, get up. I’m calling in that favor you owe me.”
How does he know my name? There’s a vein at the side of his strong throat and his clothes cling indecently to his body. The leather jacket hangs open to reveal a white T-shirt, the outline of his muscled chest and the tight curve of his black jeans over his…around his…
He bursts out laughing. “Been locked up too long without a man, baby?”
My face burns and I fasten my eyes quickly on the floor. I didn’t mean to look. I just haven’t seen a man like him in a long time. No, I’ve never seen a man like him, not before that night. He seemed scary enough to keep away everything I was afraid of. With his arms around me, I didn’t want to run anymore.
He leans down and a large, strong hand curves around the back of my neck. Fingers compel my chin up and he studies my face. “What were you praying for?” he murmurs, his eyes luminous with curiosity. “What have you done?”
I feel like he will learn the truth that I don’t want anyone to know, with just his eyes. Panicking, I pull away from him, landing hard on my behind.
“You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.”
I couldn’t even tell him if I wanted to because I’ve taken a vow of silence. Not properly, not officially, as the nuns won’t let me because I’m not one of them yet. I’ll speak when I’m forgiven. If I’m never forgiven, I guess I’ll never speak again.
“Don’t say much, do you? Doesn’t matter. I don’t need you to say a word.” He wraps a hand around my upper arm and hauls me to my feet. “We’re going on a journey, baby.”
My legs feel like rubber after so long on my knees, and I sag against him. His body is so large and solid, and he easily supports me. He more than supports me. He pulls me against him, and his hand slides up to cup the back of my neck again. In the months since I’ve been living in the nunnery, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be near a man. My father had so many bodyguards, big dangerous men with hard faces, but they never made me feel safe. Not like this man does. I’m hyperaware of everything about him. Every point of his body that is pressed against mine.