Page 1 of Break the Ice
PROLOGUE
FINLEY
The chorus ofMake Me a Channel of Your Peacefills the church, rising toward the vaulted ceiling where gold beams catch the sun. Pastor Sylkes stands behind the pulpit in his white robes, today trimmed with gold for the Summer Solstice feast. The Fellowship of Light celebrates the day with sermons and a meal that lasts from dawn to dusk—a show of gratitude, they call it, for the Lord’s everlasting light.
The children’s voices fade, the last note of the organ swallowed by the sudden clunk of the church door.
Everyone freezes.
Pastor Sylkes follows the latecomer’s steps with narrowed eyes, but I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Elijah Sylkes.
I’d know the rhythm of his stride anywhere. If not that, then the hush that follows him through any room.
Where Elijah goes, eyes follow. It’s not just his height or that wall of quiet confidence he carries like a second skin. He’s the pastor’s son. The Elder’s grandson. A Sylkes—direct descendant of Havenview’s founder. If this town had royalty, the crown would be theirs.
My pulse stutters when his tall frame slides into view and takes the empty seat beside his grandmother.
I lean forward, sliding my hymnal into the rack with unnecessary care, stealing a glimpse. His dark-blonde hair has grown out since last time, falling in that too-casual way that makes me want to push it from his face. The hard line of his jaw flexes as he sits under the weight of the congregation’s stares.
If the seating weren’t assigned, he’d have slipped into a back pew, out of sight. But in the Fellowship, even where you worship has rules.
“Sit up,” Mom hisses, breaking my stare.
I obey, clutching the hymnal, my heart beating like it wants to escape my ribs.
It’s then that I feel it—his gaze.
It crawls over my skin like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. The longer it lingers, the tighter my chest draws until the edges of the golden cross blur with the white wall behind it.
The sermon drones on, but I don’t hear a word. My mind is back at the countless rules, the countless no’s from the council. Like when they told him no after he asked permission to marry me.
By the time the final prayer ends, my lungs ache for fresh air.
Outside, the summer heat presses down as I cross the churchyard, past the lilies of the valley, past the cemetery and the Elders’ mausoleums, until I reach the clearing behind the shed.
Our shed.
We made memories here. First kisses. First touches. First promises whispered like prayers we had no right to say.
I pace the worn grass, waiting.
It feels like forever before his reflection joins mine in the small church window.
“Hi,” he says, voice rough from disuse, and when I turn, there he is—tall, sunlit, beautiful enough to steal breath from my lungs.
“Hi,” I manage, watching him twirl an iris between long fingers before he tucks it into my hair.
He steps back, hands in the pockets of his Henley-stretched jeans, studying me with that small, crooked grin that always undoes me.
“So…” I say, twisting my arms behind my back to keep from reaching for him. “You did come for the feast?”
Elijah shakes his head. “Not for the feast, Fin.”
“Oh.”
“I came for you.”
