Page 16 of His Bride

After our conversation earlier, I know he’s not going to do any of those things, but it still hurts when he looks away and walks backinto the house like I’m not even here. Like he didn’t just stare through my goddamn soul.

Tears start to burn, but I don’t try to stop them from falling this time. I’m tired. I’m lonely. And I’m so done with pretending I’m fine. At least for today.

Wiping at my cheeks, I rush up the stairs of the back porch when the sudden whiff of cigarette smoke hits me.

“You shouldn’t wander out so far.”

I yelp and spin around, finding the heathen priest sitting in the corner, his collar on the table, a bottle of gin in front of him, and an ashtray and a glass.

“It’s easy to get lost on this estate.”

I brush away my tears. “Don’t you have a flock?”

“Fuck the flock,” he says. “They’re mostly criminals, old ladies, and women who want to bang the clergy.”

I stare at him.

He pours some gin, pushes the glass to me, and then takes the bottle himself. “Terrible habit.” He takes a drag from his cigarette.

“Booze, women, or tobacco?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I see why you and Caelian fit together. I meant religion.”

I approach and pull out one of the wrought iron chairs and perch on the end, taking a sip of the herbaceous and aromatic alcohol.

Tobias leans forward, a smile on his face that might belong to an angel. “The perk of death in rich households is the booze.” But beneath the lightness, there’s something darker, heavier. A sadness.

“Your sermon at the funeral,” I start. “You cared for Mrs. Del Rossa.”

“This family saved me.”

“From what?”

“Death.” Our eyes remain locked, the air heavy with his truth.

I shift and lean back in the chair. “One would think, as a priest, it’s religion that saved you.”

He gestures to his collar on the table. “I do this for the family and nothing else.”

“A corrupt priest.”

“A loyal one.”

“I bet your God would disagree.”

“He’s not my God.”

Silence settles, and I watch him for a while. There’s something dark and jaded about him—something broken. Something that can’t be fixed.

He leans his head to the side, studying me with his mysterious blue eyes. “You look troubled.”

“So do you,” I reply.

A smile appears on his face as he stretches out his arms. “I’m a priest. I carry the troubles of my flock.”

“I thought you said fuck the flock.”

“I get the feeling you’re not a part of this flock.”

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