Saint (Priest, #3)

by Sierra Simone

“Remember the games we used to play at them?” What if… “Well. We used to play games everywhere,” I say, and my voice is low, a little hoarser than it should be. “We did,” he says, and his voice is low too, almost a whisper. Like we don’t want to be overheard, even though we’re half a mile away from the abbey and that abbey is miles and miles away from the rest of the world. We are totally and completely alone, and we are still whispering. “Do you ever think of them?” I ask, and I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t ask that. It’s dangerous for me, it’s dangerous for him. We shouldn’t be talking about this. For a moment, I think Elijah isn’t going to answer. His face is turned away, and as we step into the clearing filled with half-broken arches and small cloisters now choked with ferns and moss, he doesn’t say anything at all. That’s good. That’s a good thing. A smart thing. Healthy, even. And I shouldn’t have even spoken the words aloud, because do you ever think of them is the same as I think of them all the time, and he doesn’t need to know that; it’s not fair to make him know that when he’s engaged and I’m still married to Christ. But then we’re in the middle of the clearing, and the trees are moving, and there’s a faint tinkling from the mossy well nearby, and he says, quietly, “I always think about them.” I turn to face him head-on, and he’s closer than I thought. Close enough for me to see the small cleft in his chin under his stubble. Close enough for me to see the lighter thre...