Dove
“D ove,” the Prophet calls from his office, his voice cutting through the stillness of the morning. I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. Last night was spent in his room, which meant I was at his mercy for most of it. Even as he filled me with his cock, all I could think about was the stranger from the bookstore. Who is he? He must be new in town, maybe a tourist, though there’s nothing here worth seeing. Still, if Mr. Handsome is sticking around, I need another trip to the bookstore. But first, I’ll stop at the church.
“!” he calls again, sharper this time. I don’t bother brushing my hair or teeth; every second I wait risks shortening his patience. Wrapping my white robe around myself, I open the door and walk down the hall. The heavy scent of cigar smoke and incense hits me before I reach his office. He’s not alone.
I knock on the door lightly. The Prophet doesn’t like it when I just let myself in—I learned that lesson the hard way last time when I walked in on him balls-deep in one of the maidens, blessing her, as he calls it. We all know what it really is.
“Open,” he commands, his voice laced with impatience.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever awaits behind that door. One day, it’s a maiden he’s ‘blessing,’ teaching her how to please her future husband. Other times, it’s my job to ‘bless’ his seedlings, making sure they’re strong for conception. I never understood the logic behind it, but then again, maybe there isn’t any logic to it. Momma always said it’s better not to ask too many questions, either to them or to myself. It’s easier to just accept my duty. And I did.
I stopped questioning my role in the Church of Eden a long time ago. It’s better that way, isn’t it? I let out a shaky breath, my hand hesitating on the knob for just a second before I turn it and open the door .
His beady brown eyes are the first thing I see, narrowing as they fall on me. Gabriel, his second, sits in front of him, his expression as unreadable as ever. The room is thick with tension, and I can feel the weight of their gazes on me, assessing, judging.
“You called, Prophet?” I ask, keeping my voice steady, though my heart pounds in my chest. What does he want from me now?
“Come here, ,” the Prophet says, his tone softer but no less commanding. “We need to discuss something important.”
I nod, stepping forward, my feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. Gabriel’s eyes follow my every move, and I can’t help but feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. What new ‘blessing’ awaits me today?
“The Lord has been speaking to me,” the Prophet begins, his voice taking on that familiar, ominous tone he uses when he’s about to reveal some new divine command. “He’s shown me a vision—one that concerns you, .”
Of course, it does. I force myself to meet his gaze, suppressing the urge to flinch under the intensity of his stare.
“You are chosen,” he continues, his words deliberate, heavy with meaning. “Chosen for a greater purpose within the Church of Eden. Your role is more vital than ever.”
Chosen. The word echoes in my mind, a hollow ring to it. I’ve heard this before, too many times to count. Every new ‘vision’ leads to some new demand, some new way to break me down and rebuild me in the image they want.
“What would you have me do, Prophet?” I ask, my voice calm, though inside, my thoughts are spinning. How much more can they take from me ?
“The Lord has revealed that you are to guide the maidens,” he says, his eyes gleaming with fervor. “Prepare them, teach them, and ensure they are ready to fulfill their duties as wives. You, , will be their example.”
Guide them. Teach them. The words settle over me like a shroud. How can I lead them when I’m barely holding on myself?
“Yes, Prophet,” I reply, my voice steady, even as a sense of dread coils in the pit of my stomach. There’s no escape from this, no way out. This is my life now—a life of obedience, of submission, of endless duties in the name of God.
“And Gabriel,” the Prophet continues, turning to his second, “will assist you. He will be there to ensure everything runs smoothly. The maidens must be ready, their faith unwavering. We are nearing a time of great change, and we cannot afford any weakness.”
Gabriel steps forward, his expression cold, detached and still fucking handsome as ever. “I will ensure it, Prophet,” he says, his voice as emotionless as his beautiful face.
I nod, my eyes flicking between the two men. There’s no room for weakness here. Not in them, and certainly not in me.
“Is there anything else, Prophet?” I ask, hoping to be dismissed before they can ask anything more of me.
He studies me for a moment, as if searching for something, then finally nods. “Go now, . Prepare yourself. We’ll need you strong for what’s to come.”
I bow my head, a gesture of submission, then turn and leave the room, my mind racing. What new trials lie ahead? What more will they demand of me in the name of faith?
As I walk back to my room, the thought of the stranger at the bookstore drifts back into my mind. A distraction, perhaps. A glimpse of something beyond this life. But what does it matter? Here, in the Eden Church, my path is already laid out before me, every step ordained by the Prophet, by the so-called will of God.
And I will walk it, as I always have.
Back in the safety of my room, I shrug off the white robe, letting it fall to my feet as I make my way to the adjoining bathroom. The cool tiles feel good against my skin as I turn on the taps, running a bath. I add a few drops of lavender oil and some Celtic Sea salt, and the familiar scents fill the room. A few bubbles too—might as well indulge a little.
While the tub fills, I move to my hidden library, the small alcove where I keep my most sinful reads. The dark and twisted ones that the Prophet would call filth. Hypocrite. I can’t help but think of all the things he does behind closed doors, all while preaching purity and devotion.
My current book is particularly scandalous—a story about a cult, where the main characters are siblings. What can I say? I’ve grown accustomed to sinful, taboo relationships. There’s something thrilling about the forbidden, something that makes my pulse quicken and my breath catch. It could be that the trauma of years being used as my father's whore really does a number on someone. With the book secured in my hand, I return to the bathroom just as the tub reaches the perfect level. I dip my feet in first, the warmth seeping into my skin, and slowly lower myself into the water. A sigh escapes me. Fuck, this feels good. I rest my head on the inflatable pillow—I’m not sure what else to call it—and open my book, picking up right where I left off.
Chapter 40. The siblings are about to consummate their forbidden marriage. My heart races as I read, the tension between them palpable. There’s something about crossing those lines, about stepping into the darkness, that’s irresistible. It’s wrong, I know that, but at this moment, I don’t care. All that matters is the way the words on the page make me feel—alive, rebellious, sinful.
Would the Prophet ever allow me to feel something like this? Of course not. His blessings are cold, calculated, and devoid of passion. Everything is a duty, a responsibility, a performance. But in this book, in these forbidden pages, there’s something real, something raw.
I lose myself in the story, the water growing cooler as time passes, but I hardly notice. My fingers turn the pages, my eyes devour the words, and my mind races with thoughts of what it would be like to feel such desire, to be wanted in a way that’s beyond duty and obligation. I guess the Prophet does want me, but I don't want him. There was a time I wanted Gabriel but that's long gone.
Just as the siblings in the story are about to give in to their twisted desires, a noise pulls me from my reverie. The door to my room creaks open, and my heart jumps into my throat. I quickly hide the book under a towel, sinking deeper into the water as Gabriel steps into the bathroom.
“Gabriel,” I say, my voice trembling. What the hell is he doing here?
His eyes meet mine, and there’s a glint in them that I’ve seen before. It’s unsettling, dangerous and full of hunger. “The Prophet is away,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “And I thought I’d pay you a visit, .”
What does he want? My mind races, searching for answers, but the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. Ironically that same hunger used to be my salvation. But he turned me down to marry the woman that walked out on him. He turned me down and offered me to the Prophet instead. I was just a whore for him to use. He steps closer, and I instinctively pull my knees to my chest, trying to cover myself with the bubbles.
Gabriel’s eyes never leave mine, a predatory gleam in them as he speaks. “I’ve been watching you,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “The way you serve the Prophet, the way you fulfill your duties.” He crouches beside the tub, his hand trailing along the edge of the porcelain, sending a shiver down my spine. “You’re so obedient, so devoted. But there’s more you need to learn, Marisol. You need to understand more about your role. ”
My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. What is he talking about? I try to keep my voice steady as I reply, “I serve the Prophet as I’m commanded.”
His gaze darkens, and he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear, the scent of him familiar in a way that makes my stomach churn. “And one day,” he whispers, “you will serve me. You will be mine.”
A chill runs down my spine, memories flooding back—memories I’ve tried to bury deep. Serve him? The implications of his words crash over me like a wave, but what terrifies me more is the knowledge that I’ve been here before. This isn’t a new threat; it’s an old promise resurfacing, one that I had naively thought was behind me.
“Gabriel, I—”
“Hush,” he interrupts, his finger pressing against my lips. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”
He stands, his presence towering over me, just as it did in those secret meetings we once shared. Back then, I was drawn to him, to his words, to the darkness that surrounded him. But that was before he traded me to the Prophet, before he used me as a pawn in his twisted game for power. When my mother was alive, I was set to marry him but then he turned around and married another, leaving me to the wind. Then my mother died, and well, I became the Prophet’s.“Proverbs 31:10,” he murmurs, quoting scripture as if it justifies everything. “‘Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.’”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. What does he mean by that? But I know. I’ve always known. He didn’t just trade me for power; he kept a claim on me, a twisted bond that he intended to cash in when the time was right.
“You will learn to please me,” he continues, his eyes narrowing with cruel intent. “Just as you pleased me before and just as you now please the Prophet. You were made for this, Sol. You were always mine first. ”
No, no, no. My thoughts are a tangled mess, fear and revulsion intertwining with a sickening sense of familiarity. This isn’t right. This can’t be happening again. But deep down, a part of me knows it never really stopped.
His hand grazes my cheek, and I flinch away, but there’s nowhere to go. “One day, you will be my wife,” he says, his voice filled with that same twisted certainty he had back then. “And you will know how to please me in every way.”
My breath catches, panic rising in my chest. Wife? Please him? The memories of our past rush back—those nights spent in secret, the way he would touch me, whispering promises of power and devotion. And the way I foolishly believed him, I thought that I could play his game and come out unscathed. But that was before the betrayal, before he handed me over to the Prophet like I was nothing more than a bargaining chip.
“And when that day comes,” Gabriel adds, his voice dark and foreboding, “you will be grateful. Grateful to be chosen, to be blessed.”
Grateful? The thought is sickening, but there’s a treacherous part of me, buried deep, that remembers the pleasure, the thrill of his touch. No, I tell myself. That’s over. He betrayed me. He can’t do this to me again.
But as much as I want to resist, I feel the old desires stirring, memories of how he made me feel—desired, powerful, even as he used me. And then, like a splash of cold water, the image of the handsome stranger at the bookstore flashes in my mind. He’s new, different, a curiosity I would like to explore.
“Until then,” Gabriel says, his hand lingering on my face before pulling away, “prepare yourself. The Prophet has his plans, but so do I.” He straightens, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he turns to leave.
As he reaches the door, he glances back, his eyes locking onto mine. “Remember, Sol,” he says, his voice soft but deadly, “you were mine first. And soon, you’ll be mine again. ”
The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone, the echoes of his words ringing in my ears. What just happened? The bath water has gone cold, but I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.
How do I escape this? How do I survive?
Finally, I compose myself enough to get out of the tub. My heart is still racing, my mind spinning from the encounter. I shake off the lingering fear and dart to my closet, quickly scanning my options before settling on another white dress—one just like the Prophet likes. This one laces around my neck and exposes my back. One of his favorites. Not mine.
If I had any say in it, I think bitterly, I’d be in leggings and an oversized shirt, something comfortable, something real. But I don’t have a say. My role is to be the beautiful, innocent, submissive . I hate that name. There’s nothing innocent or pure about me—not with what I can do in bed or how skilled I am with my mouth. I’m a sinner . I’m the reincarnation of Lilith, cast down and bound to this place.
Once I’ve slipped into the dress and shoes, I head to the bathroom to brush out my curls. I could straighten them, tame my wild hair, I consider for a moment, but the Prophet prefers my coils—it gives him a good grasp, he says. So, I braid it instead, a long fishtail that falls down my back, stopping just above my ass.
The Prophet is gone, off to do God knows what, and Gabriel will be leaving soon enough. Finally, I think, and a rush of relief washes over me. I’ll be alone. Alone to do as I please, or as close to it as I can get in this place.
And in that sliver of freedom, I’ll choose to walk into town, hopeful that I’ll run into him—my stranger. I don’t know what it is about him, but fuck, I can’t get him out of my mind. Not that I mind, anyway. He’s beautiful. His lips, full and juicy, made for sin. His big, dark eyes, warm yet dangerous. I can sense that darkness in him, just beneath the surface. His body, lean, tall, muscular— mmm, I shiver at the thought. I wonder how he’d feel above me, inside me .
My thoughts spiral, the desire twisting into something darker, something more obsessive. Is this what God wants for me? I ask myself, almost as if praying. Is this stranger meant to be my salvation or my damnation? But deep down, I already know the answer. He’s both. A test from God, a temptation I’m meant to resist but can’t stop thinking about.
He’s a sign, I tell myself, a sign that maybe I’m not as lost as they want me to be. Or maybe I am, maybe I’m just fooling myself, hiding my desires behind the guise of divine providence. But what’s the difference anymore? My faith has always been a mask, a cover for the darkness that’s always lurked within me.
As I finish my braid and stand before the mirror, I let my fingers trace the delicate lace of the dress. I’ll go to town, I decide, the thought of him fueling my every move. And I’ll find him. And when I do... The thought trails off, but the hunger lingers, deep and consuming.
God must have sent him to me, I rationalize, twisting my desires into something almost holy. To test me, to see if I’m worthy. But as I stare at my reflection, I know the truth. It’s not about worthiness or salvation. It’s about power, control, and the thrill of chasing something forbidden.
He’s mine, I think, the idea taking root, spreading like poison. And I’ll have him. I’ll make him mine, and not even God Himself can stop me.
As I step out of the house, the oppressive weight of the Prophet's control begins to lift, replaced by the intoxicating thrill of freedom. The air is thick with the scent of pine and earth, the sky a perfect canvas of blue. I walk down the dusty path leading to town, my steps quick and eager, the hem of my white dress fluttering around my ankles.
The small square is bustling with life, as it always is on days like this. Vendors line the streets, selling their wares—handmade jewelry, pottery, fresh produce—while children run around, their laughter filling the air. I move through the crowd, feeling their eyes on me, sensing the whisper of curiosity and judgment. They all know who I am, what I am, but no one dares to say it aloud. Not here, not where the Prophet’s influence is as tangible as the cobblestone beneath my feet.
My heart races as I near the bookstore. The simple wooden sign above the door reads Taos Books & Coffee, and I push open the door with a deep breath, the familiar scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.
And there he is.
My mystery stranger, sitting by the window, a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. He’s exactly as I remembered—dark hair that curls at the ends, intense eyes that seem to hold secrets, and that lean, muscular frame that my mind has conjured in countless fantasies.
My breath catches in my throat as I approach, the desire to speak to him, to touch him, is overwhelming. He doesn’t notice me at first, too absorbed in his reading, but when I step closer, his gaze shifts, meeting mine.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The world outside the window continues on, but here, time seems to pause. The last time I saw him, I hadn’t been able to shake him from my thoughts—his eyes, his voice, the way he made me feel both seen and exposed. And now, here he is again, like an answer to an unspoken prayer.
“Marisol,” Alex says, a slow smile spreading across his face, warm and inviting. “Nice to see you again.” His voice is like a balm, soothing the ache I’ve felt since our last encounter. “Alex,” I reply, my smile wide with surprise and pleasure at seeing him again. “Funny how we keep running into each other.”
“Divine intervention, perhaps?” he teases, though there’s a spark of something deeper in his eyes. “Or maybe just fate.”
“Or maybe,” I counter, leaning forward slightly, “you’re following me. ”
He laughs, the sound rich and sinful, and my heart skips a beat. “If I were, could you blame me? But I was here first. So, the obvious is that you are following me?”
I shake my head, the playful banter between us a welcome distraction from the weight I usually carry. But underneath it, there’s something darker, something I can’t ignore. God sent him to me. He’s here for a reason.
Alex’s eyes flicker with amusement and his smile turns curious. “And what are you reading today? Another forbidden love story? Perhaps something even more scandalous than the last?”
I blush at the memory of our first meeting when he’d caught me browsing a novel about a forbidden love affair between a priest and a nun. “I didn’t end up buying that book,” I admit, though I can’t help but wonder what he’d think of me if I had. “But my current read... Well, it’s about siblings. And it’s... complicated.”
His eyes darken with interest as I sit across him, and the air between us thickens. “Complicated how?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Complicated as in... They’re more than just siblings. They’re... involved.”
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, and I feel my heart rate quicken. “Sounds like you have a taste for the forbidden, Marisol.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch him. But I don’t. Instead, I let the tension build, let it wrap around us like a vice.
Is this what God wants for me? I wonder, though the thought is more of an excuse than a genuine question. Is Alex here to test my resolve? Or is he, my punishment? But deep down, I know the truth. I want this. I want him .
“What about you?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly. “What’s your forbidden indulgence, Alex?”
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I think he might lean in, might close the gap between us. But instead, he leans back in his chair, his smile fading into something more serious. “My indulgence?” he repeats, his voice low, almost a whisper. “It’s you, Marisol. You’re the sin I can’t resist.”
His confession sends a bolt of electricity through me, and I feel a mix of exhilaration and terror. God, what am I doing? I think, though the question is drowned out by the pounding of my heart. He’s everything I’ve been warned about, everything I’ve been told to avoid. But isn’t that exactly why I’m drawn to him?
For a moment, we sit in silence, the tension between us almost unbearable. I want to reach out, to touch him, to feel his skin against mine, to know what it would be like to give in completely. But I can’t. Not yet.
Alex shattered the silence. He stood up, trying to escape the tension between us. “I should go,” he mutters, his voice heavy with reluctance. “Before I do more than just talk.” I want to tell him to stay, to beg him not to leave, but the words get tangled in my throat. All I manage is a nod, watching him gather his things—slowly, like he’s fighting the urge to stay.
He pauses at the door, his hand on the handle, turning back to look at me. “Marisol,” his voice is low, loaded with meaning. “This isn’t over.” And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me with the promise of something unfinished.
Within seconds he makes his way towards the door and just like that he’s gone. Leaving me sitting there, my heart still racing, my thoughts tangled in a web of desire and guilt. God, help me, I pray, though the words feel hollow, empty. Because the truth is, I don’t want help. I want him. I want the sin, the darkness, the forbidden .
As I sit there, the echoes of our conversation ringing in my ears, I realize that this isn’t just a passing infatuation. It’s something deeper, something darker. He’s mine, I think, the idea taking root in my soul, spreading like wildfire. And I’ll have him, no matter the cost. Even if it means damning my soul.
And as I leave the bookstore, I know that this is only the beginning. The beginning of something that will consume me, body and soul. And I can’t wait.