71. Seeking Sanctuary

CHAPTER 71

Seeking Sanctuary

ILEANA

The door creaks open, the sound cutting through the stillness of the chapel. My muscles tense, heart hammering, as the faint echo of footsteps follows. My mind jumps immediately to the worst-case scenario. Agent Miller, or one of his men looking for me. But the thought twists, and something else slips in … longing.

What if it’s Wren? What if those footsteps belong to him?

The ache for him is almost unbearable, so intense it steals my breath. But it’s Father Michael, his figure emerging from the small room behind the altar. The tension drains from my body. Just him, making his rounds. No Wren. No Agent Miller. No one coming to claim me. For now, anyway.

“More coffee?” His voice is soft, calm, carrying a warmth that feels out of place in the cold, unforgiving stillness. He raises the coffee pot slightly, and the faint scent of roasted beans reaches me.

I hesitate, then nod, holding out my cup. He pours without a word, his steady hand filling it before he straightens. The act is so simple, so ordinary, but it makes my throat tighten. I swallow hard, keeping my expression neutral.

“Thank you.”

He nods in return, his footsteps fading into the background as he moves down the aisle. I bring the coffee to my lips. It gives me something to focus on, besides the quiet.

The chapel is almost empty, the faint light from the altar candles barely reaching the edges of the space. Their glow throws long shadows across the stone floor, making the carvings on the walls seem alive. I’ve been here for hours, sometimes dozing, mostly just watching the patterns of light on the walls.

Wren told me to find somewhere safe, so that’s what I did. His voice over the phone had been steady, commanding.

You find shelter. I’ll find you.

My grip tightens around the mug, the warmth grounding me as my thoughts spiral back to him. It always comes back to him. Wren has a way of pulling everything into his orbit, of making himself the center of every thought, every decision.

The sound of more footsteps pulls my attention. People are walking into the chapel, their voices low as they settle into pews toward the front. A woman adjusts her scarf, her fingers quick and precise, while an older man kneels briefly in prayer before taking his seat.

The organ begins to play, its low notes rolling through the space like a tide. The sound swells, filling the room as more people trickle in. The small congregation is unassuming, ordinary . I pull my hood lower, sinking further into the corner of my pew. The less attention I draw, the better. My hands grip the mug tightly, its warmth the only thing keeping my fingers from trembling.

Father Michael steps forward, his voice rising above the soft hum of the organ.

“Welcome.” His voice is gentle, soft, but it reaches every corner of the room. “Let us begin.”

A hymn follows his words, and the voices of the congregation blend into a melody that sounds almost mournful. I don’t join in. I keep my head slightly bowed, while the music flows around me, through me, but it doesn’t touch me. I’m not here to be moved by it. I’m here because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sermon is next, a reading from the bible, followed by prayers, murmured words rising and falling in rhythm. Father Michael’s words are confident and sure, but I don’t pay attention to their meaning. Something about light in the darkness, about finding refuge in times of trial. I try to let the cadence soothe me, but it doesn’t. I’m too aware of the people around me, of their movements, their glances. I shrink further into the shadows, willing myself to disappear.

The organ hums to life again, voices raising in another hymn. More words are spoken, and then the congregation begins to move. The scrape of wood, the soft shuffle of feet fill the air as people rise and start to leave. A few pause near the door, their voices low as they exchange goodbyes with Father Michael. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just wait until the last door closes, until the sound of footsteps fades completely, and then exhale.

Once the chapel has emptied, I set the mug down on the pew beside me. The candles on the altar flicker, their light steady but dim.

Wren is coming. I know it with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for doubt. He will keep his promise. He told me to stay safe and so I have. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for him to find me.

The thought doesn’t bring me peace. It brings anticipation and a tension I can’t shake. I glance toward the door, half-expecting it to open. It doesn’t, but for a moment, I let myself imagine him arriving. The door opening, his presence filling the room. I can almost feel his hands on me, his lips against my skin. A shiver runs through me, my pulse quickening at the memory.

Wren doesn’t need to be here to consume me. He’s already under my skin, woven into every breath, every thought.

Sometimes salvation comes in the form of an angel’s wings, but mine—mine wears the devil’s smile. And I think that maybe, just maybe, I’m okay with that.