They contemplate each other in silence, as if a single look were more than enough to hold a conversation. For some reason, Elias’s appearance near the church no longer stirred questions or resentment—quite the opposite. Felix almost felt as though he’d been waiting for it since the moment he stepped over the church threshold that morning. After all, where else would Elias be, if not at his side?
Felix exhales in resignation and looks Elias over again—this time noting not his devilish beauty, but his carelessly extravagant appearance.
“You’re always dressed indecently,” Felix says, his cold voice edged with barely perceptible disgust.
“You’re the only one who minds,” Elias smiles again and reaches for him, brushing a hand over his solid shoulder. “Or is it that you mind because this half-naked look excites you a little too much, padre?”
“Stop talking nonsense.” Felix jerks his shoulder, shaking off the hand and turning away—but not leaving.
“You’re unbearably cute when you’re angry.” Elias is clearly amused, practically bouncing around him in delight. “But today it’s just for work, don’t exaggerate.”
“And what kind of work is that supposed to be?”
“At the Crystal Club. You’ve probably been there only to cast out demons!”
“Nonsense, I’m not an exorcist,” Felix protests, though remembering Elias’s steel grip—something he displayed tirelessly—he still asks, trying not to sound too interested, “Are you a security guard there?”
“I’m not telling you,” Elias tilts his head and smiles slyly—maddeningly slyly. “Free one of your evenings for me and come see it yourself.”
“I have absolutely no reason to be in that den of depravity.”
“And what if I tell you I’ll leave Molly alone?”
Felix stays silent for a few seconds. He’s clearly irritated; the entire situation is sheer, unadulterated madness. How could something like this be happening to him—him, a righteous Catholic? If this is a trial sent by God, he will, of course, accept it. Yet something in him whispered that Elias was nothing more than a devil’s offspring. Bauer lets out a weary sigh and runs a hand over his cropped hair, smoothing it back.
“Fine. But only once—and you’ll stay away from my family.”
“Oh, please, padre,” Elias laughs nastily, stepping aside from the car, “what family?”
Felix has no idea how to answer that. Or rather—he doesn’t want to. Possibly because, deep down, he always knew. Though he never had an example of a good family—aside from a few of his parishioners—he was well aware that he and Molly were only happy for show. And she had been the perfect actress. Their home was warm and lived-in, visually speaking, and reflected them both. They were together at religious celebrations. Molly attended his sermons and often approached him afterward, embodying the image of the obedient, loving wife. Everyone loved her just as much as they loved the priest, and thus conveniently ignored the broken vow of celibacy. But each passing year, Felix found it harder to believe in any of it. Perhaps because the woman waiting for him at home was not a loving wife, but an emptied-out, cold figure—closer to a hired housekeeper. Once, Felix had considered such a model of marriage acceptable: he earned, she tended the home. What he hadn’t accounted for was that this only works when love is present. Which they never had—and never could have had.
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As always, Elias is the first to close the distance between them. Felix barely registers it before he feels a strong hand gripping his shoulder. He forces himself not to react too much, but a flicker of disdain—perhaps even faint revulsion—passes through his eyes. Elias mistakes it as revulsion toward him.
“Why do you keep grabbing me?” Felix asks sternly, but makes no attempt to break free—his body is too exhausted after days without sleep or food.
“And why do you keep running away?” Elias’s smile shifts from beautiful and enchanting to something unpleasant and dangerous. “Padre, stop it. You can’t run from yourself.”
“You’re drunk,” Felix states calmly, catching the faint smell. “And talking nonsense.”
“Oh, am I?” Elias hooks a finger under the cord holding Felix’s crucifix, using it like a leash to yank him closer. “You desire me so shamefully, padre, it’s becoming noticeable. To everyone but you.”
“Let go of the cross.” Felix grabs Elias’s wrist, squeezing it in warning, trying to pull the hand away but failing. “Don’t defile my faith with your hands.”
“I could prove it to you easily,” Elias ignores the request, suddenly straightening. Holding the priest by both the crucifix cord and the fabric of his shoulder, he begins dragging him toward the car. “Let’s go—you’ll understand everything yourself. Come on, leave your righteous tower! If you’re so sure I’m lying, it’ll be easy for you to prove the opposite!”
“You’re not yourself…” Felix whispers hoarsely, genuine horror flickering in his eyes as he looks at Elias’s anger-ravaged, beautiful face. “If you do this—this is kidnapping, Elias. Stop!”
He loses his balance when Elias pulls him onto the road and practically hangs in the young man’s hands. Fear locks his body, forcing him to grasp at Elias’s arms and clothes just to avoid falling. But even standing upright is impossible—he is simply dragged across the ground, lifted occasionally. He wants to scream, to call for help, to hope someone will come. But his tongue feels wooden. He wants to struggle harder, to tear the fabric, the cord—anything—but cursed exhaustion robs him of strength. The uncertainty of Elias’s true intentions terrifies him. Felix knows he brought this upon himself. Knows it’s his own fault. But even so, he doesn’t want to feel the fury of someone who could easily kill him. The fear tightens his chest; nausea rises like a thick knot in his throat.
“Mr. Huber, what is happening here?”
The unexpected sound of a soft voice hits his consciousness like a slap. Elias stops abruptly and turns, jerking Felix and making the seams of his cassock crack suspiciously. The quiet tap of heels and the whisper of a floor-length dress merge with the frantic drum of his own heartbeat. It makes his head spin.
“Miss Goffman,” Elias answers in an exaggeratedly polite tone, “what a pleasure to see you!”
“Mr. Huber, release Father Felix immediately.” Katarina’s voice is strict yet quiet—quiet, but unmistakably threatening. And utterly sobering. “Such behavior is unacceptable.”
“Or what?” he taunts, tightening his grip on the cassock and lifting the priest higher off the ground.
“I will have to speak to your family,” she pauses briefly, watching his reaction, “and bar Thomas, Lukas, and Lisa from the church.”
That seems to hit Elias harder than she anticipated. His hands unclench instantly, and Felix drops onto the road. His back aches from the impact, but the relief of being able to tuck the cross back under his clothes is overwhelming. Only—he’s afraid to raise his eyes and look at Elias’s face. Beautiful people are truly terrifying in anger.
“Miss Goffman, you misunderstand,” Elias says, his voice now artificially sweet, “Father Felix and I are on good terms. We were merely talking.”
“That is none of my concern.” She steps closer and helps Felix stand, gently supporting him by the forearm. “In any case, shouldn’t you be going? Father Felix is not young, and you’re keeping him from his rest.”
“It’s all right, Kata,” the priest straightens and offers a faint smile, though he doesn’t release her hand, “the Lord endured, and so must we. Don’t be harsh on young blood.”
“Father Felix, I offer my apologies.”
Felix finally finds the strength to look at Elias. And immediately regrets it. The face that had moments ago been contorted with rage now appears mournful—truly remorseful. Felix feels sick, as though he’d kicked a dog and left it to die on the roadside. He wants to say something—accept the apology, assure him everything is fine—but the words scatter. Meanwhile, Katarina is already guiding him away from the road, toward the small house behind the church garden.