Page 12 of Beneath His Robes

“You fool! That’s the Father. You can’t be sayin’ things like ‘fuck’ ‘round him.”

I facepalmed my forehead.

Oh, the irony…

Elias chuckled, soft and low in his throat.

“I am not here as your Priest, Missis Saint Clare. Though I will never encourage committing a sin, I cannot be quoting James 3:10. So tonight, I will turn my cheek.”

Hearing that Elias would ignore her sin so easily but damn me for mine irritated the hell out of me.

“And what business are you here for exactly, Father?” My tone was mocking, and that earned me another whack from my mother.

“That’s his business, you nosy asshole.”

Elias cracked a smile at her insult, and I glared in turn.

“I am here for medical treatment. I…I had an accident at my Parish.”

My ears perked up, and I noticed his cradled hand wrapped in a thin bandage.

How did he hurt his hand?

Elias wasn’t overly violent. Hell, I knew he wasn’t…but that kind of injury was usually caused by punching something. Hard.

Had he gotten into a fight? And with who?

“That there’s a boxer’s injury! Who you punchin’, Father?”

For once, I wasn’t annoyed with my mother’s persistent lack of tact, and instead, I looked over to Elias for an answer.

He hesitated, his freckled cheeks spreading bright red with a thick blush. “I uh…”

The door to the room opened, and I heard the breath Elias was holding finally free itself. Doctor Mitter was a good scapegoat for him, but I wouldn’t let this go so easily.

“Well, well, well…the last time I saw you boys gettin’ into trouble together had to be years ago! You still getting into scuffles?”

Elias blushed deeper, turning away from us and walking back to his bed on the other side of the room. My mother laughed with the doctor, and I stayed silent, unable to keep my gaze off Elias.

What caused him so much rage that he punched them? I willed the answer to come to me. Doctor Mitter made small talk with my mother, and I sauntered over to Elias.

“Does hitting shit come with the new bulging muscles,Mon Pur?”

He ignored me, focusing on his injured hand and picking at the cloth stuck to the wound. It was bloody, and the bed had small pieces of some form of glass littered around it.

“The wall won, then?” I continued, confirming my suspicion when the tray of more of that glass-like material was shown on the blue sheet with the tweezers.

“There is no winning in a war,” he whispered. “Only casualties on both sides. Me and my…competition both bear our scars.”

His tone was final, not allowing for further questioning, and I sighed.

There was no winning in war…that was true.

And for us, there was no winning in love either.

ChapterSix

Elias

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