Page 46 of Priest

He grins. “Same thing, but with worse footwear.”

We make it three steps past the doors before I feel it. It’s not a sound. It’s not movement. It's this pressure. The kind you don’t notice until it has already wrapped around your ribs.

“Bluebell.”

I stop.

Evan keeps walking for exactly half a step before clocking that I’m no longer beside him. He turns slowly, eyes flicking between me and the man by the edge of the parking lot like he owns the night.

Priest stands beside a black truck near the edge of the parking lot, arms crossed over his chest, blood still dried along one side of his face like he’s been waiting long enough for anger to settle over fear. Of course he checked my shift. Of course he figured out which exit doctors use. Of course he looks like the hospital, the shooting, and the universe itself have personally inconvenienced him by making him wait.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Do you have a hobby that isn’t surveillance?”

He pushes off the truck, voice calm, maddeningly sure of itself. “It’s time to stop playing games.”

I laugh once, sharp and tired. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

“You do,” he says, stepping closer. “Because you got my baby in your belly, and we need to clear up a real big misunderstanding.”

Evan’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. “Oh,” he says softly so only I can hear. “This is interesting in a way that feels legally dangerous.”

“You got my baby,” Priest continues, his gaze locked on me, “and I want you and my kid back where you belong.”

Something in my chest tightens, but it is not fear. It is irritation, hot and clean enough to hold on to. I turn fully toward him, exhaustion burning through whatever patience I had left.

“Back where I belong?” I ask. “If memory serves, I had no place in your world. I was just something that warmed your bed. Something you were having fun with.” My hand tightens around the strap of my bag. “I am too tired for this.”

Priest’s jaw flexes, but he does not look away. “That’s not what you were.”

“That is exactly what you made me.”

He opens his mouth, but I have no intention of letting him say whatever arrogant, half-possessive nonsense is already loading behind his teeth. I grab Evan’s arm and yank him closer to my side, tucking myself against him like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Evan is the father of my baby.”

Silence drops so hard it should crack the pavement.

Evan’s eyes go comically wide.

Priest looks at him flatly. “You are?”

Evan blinks once, then twice, and because he is Evan and therefore allergic to dignity, he nods hard enough to hurt himself. “I am. Yes. Absolutely. I knocked her up so hard.”

I close my eyes. “Evan.”

He drops his voice several octaves lower, like he is auditioning for a straight man in a low-budget porno. “So. Hard.”

I pinch the inside of his arm.

Hard.

“Ow—bitch,” Evan yelps, then immediately straightens and pats my hand like we are in public and he has remembered his role five seconds too late. “I mean, babe. Be careful with those sharp nails. Daddy’s got soft skin.”

Priest stares at him for one beat, then two, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and murder. Then he bends forward at the waist and loses it.

Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. Full laughter, rough and surprised, the kind that steals air and dignity and control all at once. It rolls out of him so unexpectedly that I almost forget to be furious. Almost.

I roll my eyes while Evan rubs his arm with theatrical betrayal.