Page 36 of Savior

But she might also be the start of something great.

If only I can figure out why God saw fit to cross our paths.

An hour later,I’m showered, sitting beside Sloane, and way too comfortable for my own good as she settles beside me. I don’t even know the name of the show she’s coined as ours, but I know I’ll be here promptly at eight p.m. each Friday night as long as she’s here. I’m becoming addicted to this feeling—the feeling of her.

For the next hour, I laugh and banter back and forth with her about whichever girl has annoyed her in the scene. But before I know it, the show is over and the television screen is black.

The nightlight behind the couch illuminates the space, and Sloane hasn’t moved from beside me.

Her upper arm is pressed against mine as neither of us moves to turn in.

It feels much like confession, though there’s no screen between us.

“Are you alright?” I ask her. I don’t know why I do. It feels like she needs to be asked.

“I don’t think I’ve been alright for a very long time.” Her heavy reply makes my heart feel like it’s cracking open.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I hate to hear anyone say they’re suffering. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be happy to.”

Her soft chuckle makes goosebumps rise on my body. Like, I’ve just heard the most beautiful hymn. “Ever the humble do-gooder.”

I don’t know what she means by that, but I don’t want to rile her up, so I ignore the comment.

“Any news from Slate?” she asks, which cracks my heart because it signals she’s ready to leave.

Logically, why wouldn’t she be ready to return to her life? She’s gone from being a prisoner with Barone to being one with me. Even if it’s for her safety, it doesn’t mean that facts aren’t the facts.

“He said he needs more time.”

Silence rings between us as her presence begins to overwhelm me.

Her scent is intoxicating.

The feeling of her skin on mine trickles a delirium through my body I could bottle and use to get me through the dark days I know I’ll have when she’s gone.

“Father.” Her whispered words are close.

She’s turned to face me.

“Yes?” I resist the urge to meet her stare, needing to persevere and keep some semblance of calm.

“The other night in the kitchen?—”

I clear my throat to cut off her words. “Was a mistake. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have overstepped. While my words were true, I will protect you. I shouldn’t have… It won’t happen again.”

This time, the silence feels heavier, like she’s fighting words on the tip of her tongue that won’t come. That can’t.

Though I know I need to end this conversation, which can only lead to more tempting subjects, I don’t.

Meaning to grab her hand, I reach over, but my hand instead lands on her bare thigh.

The softest gasp comes from her, and my eyes close as her skin beneath mine burns into not only my hand, but my soul.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

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