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“Oh, there’s the girl who sat next to me at service,” Delilah said as she waved. “Do you guys know Maggie?” Delilah called the female over. “Maggie, do you want to sit with us?”
Dane’s head snapped up and Sister Grace scowled. “I’d love to. Is there room?”
“I’ll move.” Sister Grace stood, taking her plate with her.
“Gracie,” Dane called, but the female ignored him, as she quickly walked toward the house. “Excuse me,” he said, leaving the table and plate to follow Sister Grace.
Sister Magdalene stared after him.
Dane followed Gracie toward the Safe House. “Gracie, slow down!”
“Leave me alone.” She sped up and dashed into the bishop’s private home, an area he wasn’t comfortable entering without an invitation.
“Gracie?” he called, not finding her in the den.
The house was silent, all the guests now outside enjoying the picnic. Dane quietly moved through the common rooms, uncomfortable with the sense that he was trespassing. He was used to visiting the Safe House to see his sister, but he rarely entered the bishop’s home unless summoned.
A floorboard creaked and he stilled. Following the sound to the kitchen, he found Gracie staring out the back window, with her arms braced on the dough trough.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said from the doorway of the kitchen.
“This is my sister’s home. I have every right to stand in her kitchen.”
She was clearly upset. “What are you doing, Gracie?”
Locking her jaw, she glared at the wall, purposely not looking at him. “I didn’t want you to follow me.”
“Then why did you run off like that?”
“Because when someone runs off, Dane, it usually means they no longer want to be around others.”
He approached her slowly and touched her back. She flinched, her shoulder drawing up to her ears as every muscle in her body seemed to tense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t invite her to sit with us.”
“I know.” She sniffed, her hard stare forbidding any show of emotion.
“Delilah didn’t know any better. You can’t be mad at her.”
“I’m not.” A tear tumbled down her cheek and she batted it away. “I’m mad at myself.”
“Hey.” He turned her to face him. “You’re crying.”
Unable to deny the proof of her tears, she glared at the ceiling. “It has nothing to do with anything. I was touched by the service."
“No you weren’t.”
She scowled at him through bleary eyes. “I was. The bishop spoke beautifully of his testimony to God. It moved me.”
He studied her, knowing she was lying to him, but her thoughts had been blocked to him for so long he wasn’t entirely sure. His gut said her tears were about something else. “All you have to do is say the word, Gracie, and I’ll stop seeing her. You know I’d rather be—”
“How you pass your time is no concern to me, Dane Foster.”
He gritted his teeth. “Why can’t you just admit you’re jealous?”
She scoffed. “Of Magdalene? Hardly.”
Frustrated by her lies, he gripped her arms and she sucked in a breath. “God knows you’re lying. So does everyone else.”
“Take your hands off me,” she said slowly.
He looked into her crystalline stare, searching for any sign of hope that she still cared about him. It had been so long since she treated him like a friend. He couldn’t accept that her cold disregard was an honest telling of how she truly felt. “I know you care about me.”
“You know nothing.”
His grip on her arms tightened. “Liar,” he whispered.
She finally met his stare and the truth was there in her eyes. Another tear fell and he dashed it away. Leaning closer, he brushed his lips over hers.
Her breath hitched and she drew back. “Don’t,” she whispered, the quiet plea at odds with her obvious curiosity.
He debated letting her go, but she didn’t move. There was no struggle or opposition in her stance, only longing. His hands slid around her waist and he stepped closer, pressing his front to hers.
“Enough lying, Gracie.” He tipped his head, his mouth slowly descending to hers. A small whimper escaped her throat as he touched down, softly tracing his tongue over the seam of her lips, silently begging for entry.
His tongue teased over hers and his body rejoiced. His hands glided to her neck, until he was cupping her face.
She pressed her palm to his chest. “No.”
“Yes.” He leaned in again and hissed, jerking back. Razor sharp pain ripped through his arm. He examined his sleeve as crimson bled through the fabric. She’d cut him. She fucking cut him. “What the hell, Grace?”
Trembling, she stared up at him, her brow hard and her jaw locked. Her claws had lengthened and his skin burned where she’d sliced him. “Get out of here,” she hissed.
He gaped at her. “You ruined my shirt.”
“Go!”
He winced. “Gracie—”
“Do you hear me?” The venom in her voice cut deeper than her claws. “I want you to leave.”
