Page 182 of Adam
That fake calm, that carefully measured voice makes my blood boil.
I don’t trust him. Not his collar, not his tone, not the way he watches everything but gives nothing back.
He plays the part too well. Keeps everything neat and quiet, but there’s something off behind his eyes. Something cold and fucked up.
I don’t care how polite he sounds. I see what he is, and I don’t like him.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re a liar.”
He adjusts his collar, calm as ever, then folds his hands again like he’s ready to preach over a grave.
“Aren’t we all?”
The longer I watch him, the more I’m sure that this posture and the way he speaks don’t come from the priesthood. There’s nothing holy in them. They carry the weight of stance built through discipline and not prayer. Maybe from learning how to shut everything off and follow orders, no matter how dirty the job is. Like a soldier.
“Are you a real priest?”
“You repeat yourself, Isabella Calvano.”
“Answer me, Judas Manson.”
He straightens at the sound of his real name, like a reflex he can’t control. His neck rolls slightly, and when his eyes find me again, they’re hollow, like whatever was human just shut off.
“I am.”
I don’t back down. “You’re a liar. If you were a real priest, you wouldn’t be so ready to do what you’re about to do.”
He steps closer, his thick, wavy hair falling in strands across his forehead. His hand rises to his collar, adjusting it with a precision that feels like a habit.
“I never said I was good. The choice of what to do or what not to do still belongs to us.”
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“Then how does it work, Isabella Calvano?”
“You tell me. You’re the one pretending to have answers.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says. “I just stopped asking the wrong questions.”
Asshole.
I stare at him for a moment. “I don’t believe in God.”
“Since when?”
I breathe out through my nose. “Since I met Adam. Since I started seeing the kind of truths your God ignores.”
I shift my weight, resisting the urge to pace. “If He existed, He wouldn’t have let my parents treat me like that. He wouldn’t have watched while Adam grew up hated and hunted by the woman who gave him life. His mother tried to kill him and Heaven stayed silent. If He exists, He’s a coward.”
“Bold,” he murmurs, raising his arched brows. “Coming from someone who turned him into a fugitive just to avoid taking the fall.”
“Spare me the guilt trip. You’re the last person qualified to hand out the moral high ground.”
He says nothing. Instead, he just watches quietly.
There’s no judgment in his eyes. That would’ve been easier. At least then I’d know what to fight.
“Like I said,” I mutter, eyes locked on his, “I don’t believe in God. So I don’t believe in whatever you think you are. And I sure as hell don’t believe a word you say.”
