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I shook my head hard enough to knock a few braids out of the coil on my head, and stood in a rush. "I'm managing; I'm fine."
I didnotwant to talk to a therapist. I wanted to bury my memories, not rake them up.
"Luna, you're struggling. I can sense it and—let me help. Or help yourself. But don't let this rip you apart when there are people who'd help shore up the cracks."
"I'm.Fine," I growled, breathing hard and fast. Couldn’t heseeI didn’t want to talk about this?
I tore away from him and out of the pew. I shouldn't have been snapping at a vicar in God's house, but Icouldn't. I couldn’t say aloud a single thing that’d happened in that fucked up house. So I stalked away.
"Okay," Priest breathed, almostpleadingas he hurried after me, his scent enveloping me until I wanted to drop all my guards and sob.
I shored up the walls so they were even higher and clenched my hands back into fists.
"I won't push," he called down the aisle. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm worried sick, Luna."
I paused by the door, giving him a weird look. "About…"
"Aboutyou," he breathed, still pleading, his blue eyes wide and imploring as he came closer. "I'm the only person who knows what happened, aren't I?"
The only person who knewa hundred percentof what happened. Lynn had guessed, and Guardian knew I'd been bruised and collared but…
"Yes," I admitted tightly, stiffening when Priest came even closer, but less because I was scared of him and more because I was scared of what he'd make me face.
"Then talk to me," he offered, holding his hands in front of him. "If you can't talk to anyone else, fair enough. But it'll fester inside you, Luna." He said my name so softly that my eyes stung. "And I don't want—if it pushes you to breaking point, I—"
He shook his head and swallowed, and all the screaming inside my head went quiet. I wasn't the only one battling demons; I saw it in his shadowed eyes, in the stress lining them, in the way he dragged his hands through his hair.
"Did something … happen to you?" I asked, tiptoeing around the question with caution.
"Not me." Priest spun the ring around his finger and met my eyes. "My niece, she … she went through the same thing you did. For weeks. When we finally got her out of there, I thought she'd be alright. She was home, so of course she'd be fine, right?"
I nodded slowly, still a little frozen inside.
"She took her own life. She couldn't handle the memories; she wasn't even convinced she was home and safe. So with you, I—"
"You're worried the same thing will happen to me," I guessed, my shoulders slumping and fingers uncurling.
He met my gaze, searching—I wished I knew what he was looking for. "If it gets bad—"
"I'll talk to you," I murmured, swallowing my nerves. "Not … in detail. And not today, I'm too—I'm not great."
It was hard to admit it, and even harder to hear the words echo through the chapel.
"I know, darling," Priest murmured, smiling sadly. "For today, how about you tell me what would make your day easier to endure? I'm a dab-hand in the kitchen," he said, ignoring the twitch of my mouth at the phrase, "and comfort food is my speciality. Or I can pick you up something else; I'm going shopping in a bit, so if you want ice cream, or brownies, or a cake, or—you get the idea."
My heart lifted at the offer, at hiskindness. And even though my paranoia said he must have wanted something in return for his generosity, my logical side argued that he was a vicar, and he was just doing his job. And he was a good man—that much was clear.
He didn't want me to be driven to the same dark end as his niece, and at least that was a motivation I could understand. I'd lost my mum; I knew how grief stuck with you. And Mum hadn't killed herself; she'd been struck by a bus in a car crash.
So I blurted, "I want—art supplies." I shook my head as the words echoed. "No, that's too much to ask for, I shouldn't—"
"Yes, you should," he argued, stepping close but not too close. "I was serious when I said tell me whatever you need. If you needed a Gucci bag or a joyride in a Ferrari, I'd make it happen."
I shook my head, but I was laughing, and my chest felt lighter than it had been all day. "I'm more of a Vivienne Westwood kinda girl," I said, but quickly added, "please don't get me anything crazy expensive. I owe you enough anyway."
"You owe me nothing," Priest disagreed softly, some of the haunted darkness lifting from his eyes. "And as for art supplies, I'm pretty sure there are some in the sanctuary. Tiny went through an art phase for a few months when she first got here."
"Tiny," I echoed, trying not to laugh at the name.
