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“Hey,” she whisper-yells, wearing a serpentine smile as she gestures to the church. “House of God, remember?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and risk a glance at Kyra. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth and she’s studying my sister curiously. I guess having her quiet intrigue is preferable to having her run for the hills.
“Besides,” Lara adds, “you seem pretty attached to her, and you know I like to fuck my women with a gun. Next minute I shoot her by mistake—Bella 2.0—and I have your psycho ass hunting me. It all seems like a mountain of unnecessary risk.”
I don’t dare explain the Bella story. Kyra’s probably scarred enough.
She wrings her hands and looks to me for a rescue. But what would I say? I can’t lie. And if she can’t handle Lara’s twisted banter, she’s definitely not ready for my fucked-up personality.
“Although,” my sister ponders, leaning in to whisper in Kyra’s ear, “I’ve never had a virgin before.”
Kyra doesn’t step away, but her spine is ramrod straight, goosebumps lifting the thin hairs on her neck.
“How do you know I’m a virgin?”
I don’t know how I expected her to react to my twin, but this playful attitude wasn’t it.
“I understand sex and women better than most. And I can taste your desire to be corrupted.”
Lara steps back and gestures to me noncommittally. “Leo made it easier by dressing you in that dangerously innocent dress and not collaring that beautiful neck.”
My sister hasn’t known Kyra ten minutes and she’s already covered her sexual preferences, my sexual preferences, Kyra’s virginity, Bella’s injury, and, lest we forget, the bloody side of the family business.
Church was a fucking terrible idea.
“You church is very different to mine,” Kyra says as we walk through her door two hours later.
She walks over to the couch and collapses into the cushions wearing a pensive look.
I take off my jacket, draping it over one of the kitchen chairs, and make my way over to her, pocketing my cufflinks and rolling up my sleeves as I go. Her eyes lock on the cross on my forearm when I sit down next to her, and her fingers reach out to trace the dark ink.
My hand covers hers, halting the movement, and she peers up at me through thick lashes.
“Wherever you go, there will be people who manipulate their religion to suit their own agenda. It happens at the highest level, with our religious leaders, and at the lowest, in our own communities. It’s not simply your church, and it’s certainly not limited to Christianity.” I stroke my thumb soothingly over the back of her hand. “Us Catholics who understand the bigger picture know that you can’t pick and choose teachings from the Bible like a menu. And I prefer to think of faith as a paradigm capable of evolution, like the human species. It would be a sick world if everyone was forced to follow the rules of an ancient society that no longer exists.
“Many of the manipulators, like your parents, live by a warped version of those old rules. But I don’t believe that’s faith or Christianity. Especially when they’re using religious discipline to force it on you. That’s twisted, and backwards, and unforgiving.”
Her gaze travels to a spot over my shoulder and she subconsciously clenches the fist on her thigh.
“I’m probably not the best person to give you religious advice, given my chosen…career. But what I do know is that God wouldn’t make a race capable of evolution and free will if he would condemn our choices and any believers who didn’t fit a mold. We’ve evolved past slavery, rape, and bigotry. This new dawn is about acceptance and understanding.” I lift a hand to her chin, turning her face back to mine. “About listening, not dictating. And people like your parents, who approach it with closed minds, abuse, and manipulation, will be left behind.”
We’re locked in a silent stare for minutes, her hand still buried under mine on my arm. Her breathing slows to mirror mine, and her other hand starts to relax.
“She ripped it from my neck,” she whispers finally.
I know the answer but I ask anyway. “What, Kyra?”
“My crucifix,” she confirms.
With the way she inadvertently reaches for it, empty of the comforting talisman, I suspected she parted with it under less-than-ideal circumstances.
“I…I don’t even know why I miss it.” Her face falls and she pulls her hand back, her shoulders shrinking. “Every awful thing my parents have done to me is tied to that little gold cross. But, now that it’s gone, the faith I reached for when they hurt me seems gone with it.”
“That’s an easy fix,” I say, and her eyes narrow on my hands as I take off my tie, slip it into the pocket of my slacks, and undo the first two buttons of my shirt.
A blush finds her cheeks when she spots the whorls of dark ink that stretch over my shoulders from the tattoo on my back.
“My eyes are up here, little girl,” I chide, not hiding my satisfied smirk.
