Finally, he pulled back.Only just.
He took my hand in his, and without a word, we walked out of the river.
The grass kissed our ankles.The air felt electric.And I knew—God, I knew—I was in way too deep.
Jude leaned in close, breath warm against my cheek.
“Come back to my place,” he whispered.“Can we start over again?Because I feel this connection between us, and I want to explore it.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve.
Instead, I nodded.“I’d love to.”
* * *
Jude’s loft was quiet.
It sat above the healing center like some kind of sanctum—bare, soft-lit, and whispering with stillness.No TV.No clutter.Just a low couch by a window framed with gauzy curtains, a small table with a salt lamp glowing faintly, and a modest kitchenette tucked into one corner.The air smelled like cedar and sage, with a faint trail of whatever soap Jude used—woodsy, clean, unassuming.
“Sit down,” Jude said gently, tilting his head toward the couch.
I did as I was told, settling onto the worn cushions with the kind of stiffness I reserved for therapists’ offices and interviews with hostile witnesses.My clothes were still damp from the river, and the fabric clung to my skin, a reminder of just how exposed I already felt.
Jude crossed to the kitchenette, his movements smooth and quiet.He opened a cupboard, pulled down a bottle of red wine, then retrieved two glasses from a little open shelf.No corkscrew needed—twist-top.Efficient.Humble.He poured us both half a glass and returned to the couch, handing one to me before lowering himself beside me.
We sat in silence for a moment.
Sipped.
The wine was decent—earthy, not too sweet.It lingered on my tongue like a secret.
And then, out of nowhere, Jude asked, “How long have you been recording your podcast?”
The glass froze just shy of my lips.My breath caught mid-inhale.
Shit.
He turned to look at me, his face soft, his tone… not accusatory.Just curious.
“You know about Unholy Orders?”I asked carefully.
“I know about it,” he said.“Percy listened to it.Zephyr mentioned it, too.I didn’t want to believe it, but then tonight...the way you watched me.Like you wanted to believe me.But couldn’t.”
I looked down at my wine.The surface trembled slightly with the beat of my pulse.
“So?”Jude asked.“Am I being investigated by Julian Reed, or courted by him?Or are they the same thing?”
I opened my mouth.Closed it.
Then, instead of answering, I blurted, “Her name was Maria.”
Jude blinked.
“My mother,” I clarified.“Maria Santini-Reed.Full-blooded Italian, raised Catholic, died her hair black until it turned gray on its own.She could cold-read a room in five seconds flat.You know the type.”
Jude didn’t interrupt.
