Page 26 of The Sniper

He glanced back at me, brows raised. “Let me guess. Bible verses and construction paper crosses?”

I gave him a look. “They’re five. What do you want us to teach them? Advanced Trig?”

He chuckled low under his breath. “Didn’t mean it like that. I just—” He paused. “Didn’t expect you to be that soft.”

I blinked. “And what exactly do you mean by soft?”

He tilted his head again, studying me like I was some puzzle he hadn’t solved yet. “You stood between a gun and a mother holding her child. That’s not soft.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not for me,” I said. “Not when there are kids involved.”

Something in his jaw shifted, just slightly, like the answer had struck a nerve. “That’s why I stayed,” he said after a moment. “Grace House. Last night. I was passing through. Heard the call. I could’ve driven away.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

We stood there in the quiet kitchen, the fan clicking away. The air between us stretched taut, humming with something I didn’t have words for. Something electric.

“Are you … religious?” I asked, needing to change the subject. Or maybe just needing to understand what kind of man could do what he did and then kiss me like he meant it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Define religious.”

“Do you believe in God?”

A slow breath left his chest. “I believe there’s something up there,” he said. “But I don’t think He listens to guys like me.”

“He does,” I said quickly, instinctively. “You’re not too far gone for Him.”

His mouth curved—just barely. “I’ve heard that before. From men in foxholes. From priests with trembling hands. From dying men trying to make peace with what they did.”

“But I mean it,” I whispered.

“I know you do,” he said. “That’s what worries me.”

I looked away, cheeks burning. My heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle he couldn’t hear it.

He stepped in close—so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my temple. “Do you want me to stop?”

My eyes flew to his. “What?”

“Looking at you like this,” he murmured. “Thinking about you like I shouldn’t.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“I’d never hurt you,” he said, voice gravel and fire. “But I’m not the kind of man you were raised to want.”

“I know you aren’t,” I said quietly.

He blinked, like that landed somewhere deeper than he expected.

“I was raised to love Jesus and serve others and wait for a man who’d honor me,” I said. “Not … not kiss me with blood still on his hands.”

His jaw clenched. “You regret it?”

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