1. Fuck
Chapter one
Fuck
Cassian
Days Earlier
She can’t come today. It might wreck me.
Sunlight filtered through the arched windows, catching the swirling motes of dust in the air and gilding the edges in gold.
My office was quiet in that sacred way, the kind of silence that pressed against the skin and demanded reflection.
And reflection was dangerous.
Please, God do not test me this way.
I ran a hand over my collar, the weight of it as familiar as it was binding.
This was my vow, my duty—to serve, to guide, to shepherd the lost.
Yet. . .
Some days, I found myself wrestling with the darker corners of my mind.
Temptation was a looming monster—a ravenous beast that prowled at the fringes of faith, its insidious teasing promising both illicit pleasure and imminent peril. It taunted with the allure of warmth and danger intertwined, ready to pounce and consume the weak-willed at any moment.
And it came in many forms—the lure of power, the call of indulgence, the taste of something forbidden.
I had counseled countless souls through their battles with sin, reminding them of the grace found in resistance.
But what did I know of grace when my own thoughts strayed toward ruin?
Carnal sins were the most insidious, creeping in where control faltered.
Lust was not a roaring beast but a subtle hand, silky and sliding beneath the surface of discipline, lovingly wrapping itself around the heart until it squeezed.
Leaving no room for reason.
Therefore, the gym had become my true sanctuary throughout the years—not my office, the cathedral, nor the confessional.
It was the clanging of weights and the burning of muscle that kept me anchored.
There, I could channel the unrelenting fire inside me, pushing it into every lift, every rep, until my body was too exhausted to entertain even the thought of sin.
The results were both a blessing and a curse.
My body swelled with muscle.
My cassock—once loose and comfortably fitting—had to be replaced seven times throughout my decades of service to God. My arms and chest could not stop growing, bulging, stretching the fabric in ways that made me acutely aware of how others saw me.
Even Sister Karen—ever composed and devout—hesitated when delivering messages to me in the gym. Her eyes always lingered a second too long, betraying a curiosity she couldn’t quite mask.
And then there were the other nuns.
Sister Margaretta’s disapproving glare was familiar, but I knew her disdain wasn’t born from judgment alone. No, she was angry at herself, at her inability to control the occasional glances she cast my way when I was in the midst of a workout, shirtless and drenched in sweat.
The most troubling, however, was Sister Lucia.
Young, na?ve, and entirely too bold.
At first, I dismissed her lingering stares and awkward smiles.
But when I found her panties folded neatly between my Bible with her name scribbled on them my stomach turned. She’d laid that Bible on my bed one evening, probably hoping to lure me into a secret affair.
It was an act so brazen, so completely inappropriate, that I confronted her the next day.
Sister Lucia stammered denials, yet her face went crimson with shame.
The next day, I transferred her to another church, and the problem was solved.
And then there were the women in the congregation—widowed wives and single parishioners. They sent me casseroles and fresh-baked pies, each dish delivered with a lingering touch on my arm or an overly familiar smile and devilish winks.
I also wasn’t blind to the soft murmurs that followed me when I walked through town or the sidelong glances that accompanied every step I took.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It was reality.
The priesthood, for all its sacred vows, didn’t strip me of my humanity—or of theirs. They saw a man beneath the collar, and sometimes, they forgot he was off-limits .
This was my cross to bear.
Still, I lifted heavier weights, ran faster, pushed harder, as if I could outrun or outwork the desires clawing at the edges of my mind.
It wasn’t enough to avoid temptation; I had to crush it, bury it under the strain of iron and sweat until it could no longer reach me.
And yet. . .no amount of muscle, no degree of discipline, could prepare me for Celeste Jackson.
Is it wrong that I hope she doesn’t come today? I am the problem. Not her.
For twenty years, I had worn this collar with pride, dedicating myself fully to the vows I made when I was twenty-five.
But now, at forty-five, that steadfast devotion wavered every time Celeste entered the room.
When she looked at me, I felt exposed—not as a man of God, but as a man.
A man who wanted.
A man who yearned.
Celeste had returned to Obsidian Bay nearly a year ago, her shoulders carrying the weight of a decision most would run from.
Her mother’s dementia had stolen so much—memories, lucidity, the very essence of who she once was—and yet, Celeste had come back without hesitation. She left behind the life she’d painstakingly built in Paradise City: a thriving career as an award-winning teacher.
At thirty-eight, she should have been basking in the glow of her hard-earned accomplishments, but instead, she chose to root herself in a place that often refused to let anyone escape its grasp.
Perhaps that was the first thing that made my heart ache for Celeste. It wasn’t weakness that brought her back—it was love, duty, and an unshakable resilience that radiated from her like light through storm clouds.
Even now, she hadn’t let go of the passion that had driven her life. I knew she still taught kids online, her voice guiding young minds from this quiet, suffocating place. She never complained about the sacrifice, at least not to anyone who’d listen. Instead, she carried on, carving out moments of purpose in a life that could have so easily become one of despair.
Celeste didn’t just endure; she thrived. She was the kind of woman who didn’t just survive—she rose above, leaving a mark on everyone lucky enough to know her.
Yet, how she managed to pay her bills, care for her mother, and still keep a semblance of her independence was a mystery I couldn’t help but ponder.
No. Get Celeste out of your head. Now.
I placed my hands on my desk and let out an exasperated breath.
The desk was an heirloom from my father’s estate, but even its polished veneer felt tainted by the man who had once sat behind it.
He’d been a calculating monster.
Ruthless.
Constantly wielding wealth like a weapon to silence those who dared to defy him.
My father’s world was one of excess and indulgence—a gilded cage lined with the cries of those crushed under his power.
I wanted no part of it, no matter how many trust funds or estates bore my name.
It all went to the Church’s charities and any of the needy within the congregation.
I still remembered the day I told him I was joining the seminary.
His laughter had boomed through the grand hall like a threat. “You’ll come crawling back. God is good but you’ll want pussy! You’re a man and pussy is the true religion!”
I gritted my teeth.
No charity could cleanse his sinful bloodstains from my hands, and no amount of distance could free me from his shadow.
Remember. We will never be like him. Ruled by money, power, and women.
I stared down at the desk.
I’d put it in my office to serve as a reminder to never go too far, to never venture on the path of sin.
But. . .Celeste. . .
She didn’t even need to try to taunt me like all the other women had. Her mere existence unraveled the threads of discipline I had spent decades weaving.
Each time she smiled at me, a war erupted within my soul.
When she touched my hand, my holy vows clashed against unholy yearning.
I’d even been saying the word fuck a lot in my head. A word I’d never used until she appeared. A nasty, vile word I needed to stop thinking about.
But I’d been thinking about that godforsaken word a lot because in the end, I desperately wanted to fuck Celeste.
I pursed my lips together.
Fuck.
The word hammered through my mind like a blasphemous cathedral bell—vulgar, sinful, and yet unstoppable.
Fuck.
It wasn’t a word I allowed myself to think—not ever. It was coarse, vulgar, unworthy of a man in my position. And yet, there it was, reverberating through me, unbidden and unstoppable.
Fuck.
The way it echoed felt like a crack in the foundation of my resolve, a splinter of sin worming its way into a place I had guarded so carefully for years.
I clenched my fists.
Fuck.
Shame crawled over me.
It wasn’t just the word itself that burned—it was what had summoned it.
Her.
Celeste’s rich brown skin. Those lush lips, parted just enough to tempt. Her body, breathtakingly ungodly in its beauty, hammering at the cemented walls of my control.
Why can I not stop thinking of how I want to. . .fuck her?
That word rose again—dark and seething—a forbidden flame that I could not extinguish. It was a crack in the dam of my faith, and if I weren’t careful, the whole structure would collapse.
How can I even think that word?
Because. . .it wasn’t just a word.
It was a warning.
A siren blaring in the distance, calling me to step back before I ventured too far.
Fuck.
I gazed around my office as if the answer to my problem was floating around in the space.
Gilded frames adorned the walls. Each one cradled masterpieces older than St. Perseverance Cathedral itself.
An oil painting dominated the wall on my right that had been done by a young Michaelangelo. Its rich, dark hues and dramatic chiaroscuro pulled the eye into a scene of visceral agony and forbidden desire.
The Temptation of St. Anthony.
The saint's tortured expression was etched in shadow, his hands clutching at his chest as spectral figures loomed around him—seductive, mocking, relentless. The details were exquisite, almost unnerving.
Every brushstroke pulsed with intense emotion.
An interplay of light and darkness.
Torment and resolve.
The mahogany shelf next to it was another piece steeped in decadence. Its surface was so polished that it reflected the flickering light of the room’s candles like liquid gold.
Together, the desk and painting created a space that was as much a study in opulence as it was a shrine to the tension between sacred and profane—a tension I carried with me every moment.
Nearby, a Rubens masterpiece hung in resplendent glory, framed in ornate gold leaf that seemed to shimmer like a halo around the sin it captured.
Eve offering the forbidden fruit.
The canvas was a study in temptation itself, rendered with the lush, almost decadent sensuality that only Rubens could achieve. Eve’s figure was bathed in soft light, her outstretched hand offering the fruit with a mixture of innocence and guile.
Her expression was serene, almost angelic, but her eyes held a trace of something darker—a knowing invitation to ruin.
And above her, the serpent coiled menacingly. The scales were painted with so much precision that they glistened.
The forbidden fruit—round, ripe, and impossibly vibrant—drew the gaze as if it were alive.
As if it were a valuable jewel.
It shimmered.
Beneath the painting, the polished wooden shelves held not just scriptures and theology texts but rare manuscripts bound in calfskin, with their spines embossed with gold. A crystal decanter sat on the corner of the shelf, filled not with wine but with holy water—though its cut-glass design suggested it was more suited for a king’s study than a priest’s office.
The closet in my office held not just robes but garments that were more suited to a king than a servant of God.
My ceremonial cassock was stitched with actual gold thread, the hem weighed down by embroidered crosses inset with tiny pearls.
The stole that accompanied it was crimson and heavy, woven with a repeating pattern of thorns and roses.
Golden tassels trimmed the edges.
Yet none of the extravagance and glorious décor could help me today.
I must stop thinking about her, and I can’t even say the word fuck in my head.
Because even thoughts that teetered on the edge of sin needed to be eradicated, purged from my mind before they could take root. I had been entrusted with the task of guiding others, yet here I was, failing to guide myself.
I had to do better.
I had to be better.
Not just for myself, but for the vows I’d taken, for the people who looked to me for strength.
And most of all. . .for God.
No more.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, the scent of polished wood and faint incense grounding me.
Slowly, I pressed my palms together and bowed my head in prayer.
Heavenly Father, You have called me to be a shepherd to Your people, to guide them with Your word and to reflect Your light in this broken world.
The faint murmur of voices seeped through the thick walls of my office—a low hum of humanity that always preceded the Sunday service. Parishioners, greeting each other and finding their seats.
It was a sound both comforting and unnerving.
I am only a man, flawed and imperfect. Please, grant me the strength to set aside my own weaknesses, to speak not with my voice but with Yours.
The silence was interrupted by the soft creak of the door.
I opened my eyes and turned, finding Sister Elizabeth standing there with her hands folded neatly in front of her.
For a moment, she hesitated, and her eyes flickered toward the Rubens painting. It was an expression I had seen before—both awe and discomfort at the lavishness of the church.
“Father Cassian,” She smiled. “The congregation is gathered, and the attendants are ready to assist you with your vestments.”
“Thank you, Sister Elizabeth. Have them enter.”
Nodding, she turned to go.
God, please cleanse my heart of doubt, my mind of distraction, and my soul of temptation.
I rose from my chair
In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.
Two attendants entered as if on cue. Their movements were choreographed like a sacred ritual.
They carried my robes with the reverence of handling holy relics, laying each piece out on the velvet-draped table next to my chair.
Today’s cassock came first, black and understated, though its silk fabric whispered luxury.
Over it, they draped the chasuble, a rich crimson garment embroidered with golden vines that bloomed across the fabric.
One of them slid rings onto my fingers—symbols of office and devotion. The shimmering gemstones caught the sunlight streaming through the stained glass.
A ruby ring for the blood of Christ.
An emerald for renewal.
A sapphire for divine wisdom.
Around my neck, the other fastened a golden pectoral cross encrusted with diamonds.
The final touch was a miter. The headdress’s edges were gilded, and the crest was adorned with a mosaic of the Virgin Mary.
May God make sure that Celeste doesn’t come.
I stood there as they adjusted the folds, ensuring that every element was perfect for the congregation’s view.
Even this was temptation for me, because it was hard not to feel like an idol being readied for display. Sometimes I felt these trappings of wealth may one day threaten to overshadow the humility I was supposed to embody.
“We are finished, Father.” They both bowed in front of me, even though I had asked them many times not to do this.
I was not a god, yet it appeared difficult for them to not treat me like one.
“Thank you.” I picked up my Bible from the desk and headed away.
My robes swished around me as I walked through the luxurious hallway where the vaulted ceilings were painted with frescoes that rivaled the Sistine Chapel.
On the walls, angels wept and demons leered in sweeping murals.
The cathedral’s history was a murky tapestry, woven with threads of blood and death.
St. Perseverance had been built nearly a century ago, and its foundation funded by the fortunes of men who wore faith as a mask and wielded sin as their weapon.
Obsidian Bay’s crime families had poured their ill-gotten wealth into the cathedral’s coffers, not out of devotion, but as penance they hoped might shield them from eternal damnation—or worse, their enemies.
The ornate altar—where I always spoke to the congregation—had been carved from Italian marble.
It was a gift from the infamous Castellano family.
The solid gold candelabras on either side of my gilded pulpit was a donation from Don Giordano, rumored to have been acquired through a smuggling operation that left a trail of bodies stretching from the docks to the heart of the city.
Even the grand organ, whose mournful notes echoed through the cavernous space, had been paid for with blood money from the city’s new Don, Gianni Fortunato.
Every corner of St. Perseverance bore their murderous fingerprints.
Yet, these same murderous men sat in the pews every Sunday with their families, listening to my sermons with stoic faces.
Regardless, I believed there was hope.
The cathedral was still God’s house, no matter who had paid for its bones.
I could still save souls.
But as I walked down the hallway passing a few nuns watching me for far too long, an odd feeling came upon me.
Wait.
Suddenly, I could feel Celeste in the cathedral as though the air itself had shifted, thickened with the weight of her presence.
No. . .she came today. I know it.
With each step I took towards the sanctuary, the pull of sin grew stronger and more insistent, clawing at my mind like talons.
Maybe, I’m just imagining things. It doesn’t matter. You will not look her way. You will not be tempted today. God is with you.
Once I arrived at the entrance and opened the heavy cathedral doors, a rush of cool air greeted me.
The fragrance of polished pews, old hymn books, and lingering incense swept over me, reminding me of my mission.
My calling.
Sunlight poured through the stained glass, painting the pews and people in fractured hues of crimson and sapphire.
At my arrival, the murmurs of the congregation faded into the expectant silence I’d grown so accustomed to.
There we go. Everything is fine. I worried for no reason at all.
This was my domain, the sacred rhythm of prayer and worship guiding me as surely as my own breath.
I continued forward.
Near the sacristy, a small group of younger priests stood at attention with their gazes fixed. Their cassocks were pristine, and they reminded me of my younger self—zealous, hungry for purpose, yet unaware of how that same hunger could twist into something darker.
I checked across the cathedral.
Nuns moved with quiet efficiency, their black habits swaying as they worked.
One even knelt to quickly arrange the fresh white lilies at the entrance.
Thank you, God.
I quickly slipped my gaze over the congregation near me. Scarred men in designer suits and silk ties filled the pews. Diamond-studded cufflinks glinted as they clasped their hands in prayer, while their wives sat beside them, dressed in the finest silk, and their children appeared bored and unamused.
Expensive perfumes mingled with the scent of incense.
And I knew that beneath the solemnity of their prayers, some would be whispering deals during service, and alliances would be solidified.
Sins both confessed and concealed.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the organist in his tailored suit, waiting patiently to begin.
This wasn’t just a place of worship.
It was a stage and it was time for me to perform.
All is well. She is not here.
I let out a long breath.
Thank you, God.
It would be a Sunday like any other.
The congregation was seated quietly, expectantly.
My heart pounded in my chest as I reached the ambo.
A sea of faces watched me.
And now it is time.
But I was wrong.
Heated voices sounded on my left.
What?
Then I saw it—a commotion in the front pew.
Sister Margaretta’s sharp profile was unmistakable and her mouth was tight as she argued with someone.
Who is she trying to bully today? I must deal with this immediately.
Sighing, I focused on the source of her anger and stiffened.
It’s her.
My body reacted.
Celeste.
The name whispered through my mind like a prayer and a curse, stirring something deep within me.
Celeste lifted her view and locked it onto mine, and in that moment, I felt the full force of her allure—not a gradual wave, but a sudden, drowning inferno of sin tearing my resolve into shreds.
Her gaze was the fire of Sodom and Gomorrah and I was the pillar of salt, crumbling under her heat.
Fuuuccckkkk. . .