Page 22 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

He grips my wrist, halting it just shy of pulling his collar free.

“That’s mine to remove,” he growls, flinging my hand away as if it were dirt.

“So we’re in agreement,” I conclude and step back. “Neither of us wants to be a part of this prophecy.”

“Sì.”

“Then I propose we make a truce.”

“A truce.” His words are slow, wary.

“Yes. We start over. Pretend we’re not enemies.”

“We’re not.”

“Sure, Padre. We’re friends.” My smile is empty, my voice flat. “Special ones. Just like your friends in Rome.” He bristles but doesn’t respond, so I continue. “We both know this can’t happen between us.”

“It’s not.”

“Exactly. We get on with our job of stopping Lilith.” I gesture at his clerics and occult tattoos. “We focus on finding the next divine relic and ignore the falling in love part of the prophecy.” I make a gagging sound. “God, even saying that word out loud makes me cringe.”

Monogamy—one dick for the rest of my life? No thanks. Even if it’s as forbidden as a priest’s.

Cisco slides a hand into his trouser pocket, gripping something unseen. Not the phone; that’s on the other side. Not the cock, either. This is something else.

An image flashes in my mind: him kneeling in a church pew after my one and only confession. His broad shoulders hunched, fingers sliding over the blood-slick rosary beads. It reminds me that he was nice to me during my little confessional moment. Kind. Understanding.

A stab of guilt hits me. I hate that there might be a good man inside him—a good priest, which makes this charade even more important.

I sigh. “I’m not saying we hold hands and sing kumbaya, but we can’t try to kill each other like Raven and Dom.”

“Dominic has not tried to kill Raven.”

“That you know of.”

“No, I am certain⁠—”

“The point is that neither of us wants this. Right?”

He clears his throat. “Right.”

“Attention, whether good or bad, is still attention. If we work together to make any compromising situation”—I give a pointed glance around the dark room, gesturing between us—“seem innocent, then pressure from our teams about the prophecy should all blow over quickly.”

“This is innocent.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you and I are in here because it’s the only private place in the abbey.” I step closer. “Maybe we’re in here to⁠—”

“Okay.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I understand.”

As much as it pains me to hear my mother’s voice come out of my mouth, I have to say it. “It’s not what happens that matters. It’s what people think happens that becomes the truth. If we have to talk, meet up, or do … whatever this is … we should lie if anyone asks, and say we haven’t seen each other. Then no one is getting ideas in their head about the”—I shudder—“prophecy.”

“More lies add to more sin.”

“Blah blah, sin.” I dismiss him with a wave. “No need to get your rosary beads in a twist. Fine. Let me do the lying for us. I’m already going to Hell. What’s one more sin on my tally?”

“You are a smart woman, but in this, you are stupid.”

“Tell me what you really think.” I roll my eyes.