Page 100 of Savior

While I don’t fully understand what she’s going through and likely never will, I wish she’d let me in more. Let me help.

She doesn’t want to be a project, and I get that.

But at some point, she has to let someone in.

I spend the rest of the night grappling with the idea of praying for Sloane, but I don’t know what to ask for. How will he manage if I ask for her to be unburdened? If I ask for her to be without trauma and sadness, who would she be without it?

Ultimately, I settle for asking for him to guide her and begging him for forgiveness on my behalf, lest he not answer my requests for Sloane because of who I’m slowly becoming.

A man without faith.

A priest without a church to go home to.

And a godly follower who’s been tangoing a bit too close to the fires of hell.

CHAPTER THIRTY

SLOANE

Imove my pawn forward two squares, leaving my bishop unprotected and open to move diagonally on my next move. Luca sits forward, eyeing the pieces on the board meditatively.

It’s been days since the foot rub he gave me on the couch he’s sitting on. I’m perched on a pillow on the floor across from him, legs crossed beneath me. We already tended the animals today, ate two meals by the time snow had begun to fall.

It’s turned to rain again, and its loud thundering pelts resound through the cabin on the roof. It’s almost too relaxing.

The last thing I need to do is relax around Father Russo.

He moves one of his pawns forward, opening up his knight, a powerful piece to unveil so soon. It seems Father Russo wants to win.

I’ve never played this game, but Luca allowed me time to read the rules inside the box and study them while he cleaned up from lunch.

It’s hard not to let these simple moments we share get me to open up to him. I’ve lived a life where people are shit, and you keep all your past and worries close to the chest.

“Did you ever get to see the side of Ray that was kind?” he asks, not making eye contact.

His eyes study the board, where I’ve moved my bishop out of his hole in the back, advancing on him quicker than he’d like. I can tell by how his brows are crawling together on his forehead.

While my brain is busy strategizing my next move, it seems my guard is down, and I don’t realize until after I speak.

“There was once,” I spew, looking up at him after I realize he’s gotten more out of me than I’d have liked him to.

“Go on. Nothing you can say to me is something that will be judged. Or repeated,” he adds.

“Mm, because you can’t break your sacred covenant?” It’s snide of me to say, but it gets under my skin how much I unknowingly let him peel my layers back.

“Sloane, please. I’m in sweats and slippers. This is not a confessional. I’m just…a friend.”

The term grates through my ears and claws my brain as it settles.

A friend.

It’s better this way, of course. But I can’t help thinking about how he came in my mouth in confession. I swallowed him down like holy communion, washing my soul clean.

My cheeks heat, and I duck my face away from sight, pretending to itch my nose beneath the blanket I’m wrapped in.

“It’s not like I haven’t broken the sacred seal of confession before already,” he mutters, and my head flies up, my eyes begging for him to go on.

“What?!” I squeal.

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