The news reached me through the casual chatter of the school, confirmed by Jeremy's exasperated sigh over lunch: Krista had officially signed up as a volunteer at the orphanage. "It's like she's more than an employee," he grumbled, "they don't even pay her." My jaw tightened. On the surface, it was a commendable act of charity, perfectly aligned with her compassionate nature. Below the surface, I knew it was a carefully constructed mask. She wasn't just volunteering; she was investigating. My discreet inquiries into the orphanage had already begun, revealing just enough to confirm my suspicions that something was deeply amiss within the Church's hallowed halls.
"I do it because I want to help take care of the children," she said to Jeremy, her tone light, almost teasing. The ease with which she lied, even to her friends, was a testament to her growing resolve, and a constant source of frustration for me. I wanted her to trust me, to confide in me, but she persisted in carrying her burdens alone.
"What time will you be going home? Will you be alright?" I asked, my voice cutting through their playful banter, sharper than I intended. The words were simple, yet laced with the weight of my week-long anxiety, my unanswered questions about her time in the mountains.
She offered the usual reassurances, "It's fine. I'll just be there for an hour or two. Besides, there are knights and elites who patrol the streets all the time. The city has never been safer." She recited the facts with practiced ease, but her confidence rang hollow. It was precisely that complacency that worried me. The streets might seem safe, but danger often lurked in the most trusted corners.
"But you can't be too complacent about it," I retorted, the warning escaping before I could temper it. Christian, ever the peacemaker, stepped in. "Alright. That's enough. I'm sure she knows that. You sound like an overprotective brother." The label stung, yet a part of me acknowledged its truth. I was acting that way, because the alternative—her walking into danger alone—was intolerable. "Just be careful," I said softly, the words a raw whisper of my concern. Her heart skipped a beat, a reaction I registered even as I fought to maintain my composure.
We parted ways at the front gate, my friends heading towards the promise of an early dismissal, Krista supposedly towards the orphanage. But I knew. I could sense the subtle deviation in her intent, the shift in her internal compass. She wasn't going to the orphanage. Not directly. She was pursuing something else, something she still refused to share.
My decision was made in an instant. She might lie to me, but I wouldn't allow her to walk blindly into danger. I initiated a discreet follow, maintaining enough distance to remain unseen, yet close enough to observe her movements. I tracked her to Father Sinclair, observing his seemingly innocuous meeting in the market, the suspicious exchange with the man in dull clothes. My concern deepened with every veiled glance she made, every subtle move to hide her surveillance.
He led her to a bar, then deeper into the city's underbelly, into a narrow, uninviting alley. A place where "nothing good ever happened," as she would later reflect. My pureblood senses screamed danger. I watched as he stopped in front of an old, decrepit building and knocked. A large man opened the door and let him in. Krista swiftly moved behind a stack of boxes, her focus entirely on the building, contemplating her next move.
"Why are you being sneaky?" I whispered, materializing behind her. Her startled jump, the sharp intake of breath, was almost amusing, if the situation wasn't so serious. "You scared me! Can you stop appearing out of the blue? You always do this." She accused, her voice laced with adrenaline.
"Well, I was just passing by and saw you. I thought you said you had volunteer work at the orphanage?" I allowed the anger, the frustration at her lies, to color my tone.
"I finished the job quickly. It was easier than I thought." Another lie, clumsy and transparent. I cursed her stubbornness internally, even as I prepared to press her for the truth.
Then, the door of the building opened. Father Sinclair emerged, thanking the big man. He started walking towards where we were hiding. Panic, raw and immediate, flashed across Krista's face. She instinctively pushed me against the wall, covering my mouth, her breath quick and shallow against my palm. She was going to get caught. She was going to expose herself, and in doing so, potentially expose me. Her eyes, wide with desperation, met mine, filled with unasked questions.
And then, she leaned in. Her lips, soft and warm, pressed against mine. My world narrowed to the sudden, unexpected contact, the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the scent of her fear and something else... something intoxicatingly human. It was an act of pure desperation, a raw, unthinking move to avoid detection. But as my arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer, I found myself responding, returning the kiss with an urgency that had nothing to do with concealment and everything to do with a fierce, growing protectiveness that transcended reason and law.
He passed by, oblivious.
She pulled back lightly, her eyes still wide, a mixture of embarrassment and lingering panic. My own gaze lingered on her, trying to decipher the swirling emotions. "What are you up to?" I asked, my voice cooler than I felt.
"No, I'm fine. I was afraid Father Sinclair would see me and tell my father about it. I mean, look at this place. My father would freak out if he finds out I came here." Another lie, partially true, but not the whole truth.
"You can't lie to me. I know you're hiding something. Why won't you tell me?" My voice was a low growl, a blend of frustration and deep concern.
"I'll tell you about it later. I promise," she said with a conviction that, for once, I wanted to believe.
"Okay. Tell me soon. Don't get yourself in trouble. Do you understand?" I stared at her, then pulled her along, back towards the relative normalcy of the market, away from the ominous building.
As we walked, the weight of the kiss, the unexpectedness of her desperation, settled over me. It was just a kiss, I told myself, a logical action under pressure. But my body, my senses, hummed with a different truth. That night, sleep would not come easy. My thoughts would be a turbulent storm of questions about her, about the dangers she sought, and about the surprising, undeniable pull I felt towards her.