Page 39 of Savior

And to think, I was a free woman only a couple of months ago. The way my world has turned upside down is ridiculous.

I finally decide to leave the church, but instead of returning to the rectory, I meander toward the door that saysno parishioners beyond this point.

Technically, I’m not a parishioner.

I push inside and find a hallway with doors leading to the left and right. There’s shuffling and sounds of drawers opening and closing toward the end of the hall. I follow them down to where I find Father Russo removing his cassock and hanging it up.

He’s in slacks and a button-up long sleeve beneath it. And the way each muscle ripples beneath his shirt has me licking my lips in a way I shouldn’t.

He turns, startled when he sees me standing in the doorway. Clasping his heart, he says, “Jesus, Sloane. You scared me.”

I smile, taking a seat in front of his desk.

His name is elegantly scrawled in gold letters on the nameplate at the very edge. I run my fingers over it, feeling the rough brush where each letter is engraved.

“Is a man of the cloth allowed to take the lord’s name in vain?” I ask, fluttering my eyes up at him as he stands behind his desk, looking at me as if I’ve lost my entire mind.

Or maybe he’s losing his. Either way, neither of us is alone.

He smirks. “I didn’t take his name in vain; I simply called it out in a moment of weakness.”

A smartass comment bubbles on my tongue, but I keep it in. Somehow.

“You came to Mass today. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Didn’t you?” I tease, sitting back and crossing my legs.

I’d worn one of the dresses Ardesia had dropped off yesterday at Father Russo’s behest.

His beautiful, dark brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Seems to me you knew I was coming and tailored the sermon to address me. Plus, I did tell you I would.”

His wicked grin lifts his face, brightening his dark eyes. “I’ve heard that more times than I can count. Sometimes, when God moves you to come to Mass, it’s because the messageissomething you’re meant to hear. I’ll admit, even though you said you were coming, I didn’t expect you to attend.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes again. “I don’t believe in any of this, you know? Sorry if I’m being rude. I just…”

He puts his hand up. “You don’t have to believe what I believe, Sloane.”

I wish he’d stop saying my name like that.

Like he wants to fuck it.

I almost remind him heasked me to attend today.

I bite my lip, and he pauses, his eyes drifting over my mouth.

“Isn’t that your entire job, Father? To make me believe?”

He laughs, and it makes my insides tingle. I can’t deny that Father Russo is attractive, and I can’t deny the way I’ve watched him when he thinks I’m not looking.

And last night, I had an immoral dream about him I should probably confess to. If I was that kind of girl, that is.

He treats me like a glass full of cracks that could shatter at any moment. And hell, maybe I am. But it’s grating my fucking nerves to no end, being the subject of so much pity.

“No,” he says, pulling me from my head. “My job is to dissect and explain scripture to the parish. I deliver whatever message God puts into my heart so that it might move and affect my parishioners so that they live inHislight.”

The way he speaks about his job, you’d think he’d be lit up with elevated power. But he isn’t. His face and eyes reveal something is going on internally with the father. This humanizes him, though, making him seem more like one of us rather than one of God’s chosen.

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