The space collapses to nothing. His knees press against mine. His hands find the wall on either side of my head, bracketing me in, and the smell of him—cinnamon, cordite, cold night air—fills every cubic inch of the booth until there’s no oxygen left that doesn’t taste like him.
“This is a church,” I whisper.
“There’s an old woman out there. And a priest.”
“I know, Jillian. Not one of them can stop me. Neither can God or the Devil. The only one who can is you. Will you stop me, little fox?”
I look up at him. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can count the flecks of silver in his gray irises and the vein pulsing at his temple. He’s waiting for my answer, which is absurd, because how can he not see it?
I know what I want. I’ve known for a long time now.
I reach up and w
