21. Yes, Father
Yes, Father
Isla
Eamon's been gone all day, leaving me to fend for myself.
I trained with axes and the guns for two hours this morning, the drive to improve my shot drowning out any other sense.
I pushed back a couple meetings just to get my aim to a point I'm happy with.
Eamon gave me an entire history lesson yesterday before he handed me the little firearm, but quite frankly, I don't remember any of it. I don't really care who made it or how the technology came about; I just care if it will protect me if the situation arises again.
Isla, these are dangerous weapons. Especially in your hands, so you have to respect their power.
Internally, I roll my eyes at the memory of his lecture.
I can respect an object and still not need to know that the first handgun was invented in 1433. Or was it 32? Shit, I don't remember.
Sitting at my computer, I still feel the itch to run back downstairs and continue shooting at the targets. Eamon says I'm not ready for anything that moves yet, but that I will be soon.
Yesterday, I almost bashed his head in with the mace, but he barely managed to dodge it at the last second. I grin, remembering the surprise on his face, the way it lit up with a huge, beaming smile at almost being taken out.
I only have a little bit more time to prove that I can be safe for a trip back to see everyone. Bel has been kind enough not to ask if I'll be able to make it, not wanting to put it into my head that she'll be disappointed if I can't. As if I don't already know. But at least she doesn't say it and make me feel worse.
She understands the complicated situation I'm in.
Well, parts of it. It's not like I can tell her that on top of everything else, I'm also occasionally sleeping with my captor. The last thing I need is her going all crazy and thinking I have Stockholm Syndrome.
Fuck, maybe I do.
My work day is almost over, which means I can go do whatever the fuck I want for a few minutes before Eamon tells me I have to eat my protein.
My fucking god, I can't wait to never hear the word protein again.
Fifteen minutes left.
I thumb through the notes left for me by that little shit at Paradigm Media. He's a fucking moron, but what I would give for just a fraction of the ego he carries around. It must be fantastic to not be burdened by things like others' opinions or even their provable theories.
His notes on my latest critiques imply that I'm just not seeing the bigger picture. That somehow his ideas about the future of media outweigh the very provable shrinking of their audience.
Artificial Intelligence is the future. It's going to revolutionize how we create and consume media.
It's fucking not.
AI will never have the heart and soul required to create art. It might be able to imitate art, but true creation is an entirely mortal talent. AI is and always will be the uncanny valley of artistic expression. It might feel almost real, but the human mind will know something about it is wrong.
As all of their studies and focus groups for which they've paid thousands of dollars have proven. But he thinks spending more money on better generative AI is going to be the thing that puts their company into the green again. They just don't know what they want ,he told me.
I'm so sick of him and his bullshit I'm almost ready to drop them as a client altogether if they don't tell him to shut up. He's a significant part of why they're going to be left behind, because rather than pay for human creators, he thinks programs can replace the raw, deep humanity that art requires.
Another email comes in, this time from Bel.
Why would Bel email me instead of just calling or texting?
Subject: Call me.
What the hell?
I open the email, and it doesn't tell me anything the subject didn't, except that underneath the message that says to call is a phone number that most definitely isn't Bel's.
Maybe she got a new one .
It makes sense if they're still feeling paranoid, what with the hunters surrounding my old apartment. It's sickening to think of it as my old apartment now. I have so many memories there, and I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. In a harshly worded email from my landlord, including a hefty fine for abandoning the home, he alerted me that he'd changed the locks and moved someone else in.
I paid the fine, of course. It's not their fault that my life fell apart, and they're well within their rights to do so. But it still sucks.
Ending my day four minutes early, I send a previously drafted email to the CEO of Paradigm, telling him, in no uncertain terms, who the root of his problems are and that if they continue to follow his vision for the future, I see them being bankrupt within the next 18 months.
Happy to be finished with that for the day, I dial the number Bel left me, not thinking twice about it.
This turns out to be a colossal mistake, signaled by the voice picking up on the other line that's definitely not Belissenda.
"Isla, please don't hang up," his voice frantically echoes in my ear.
My eye twitches at hearing one of my least favorite people in the whole world. One I hoped never to speak to again. I can't even bring myself to respond, only barely managing not to hang up on him the second I heard his voice.
"Isla?" Alastor's voice repeats my name, "Are you still there?"
"What the actual fuck do you think you're doing reaching out to me?" I grit out.
"I can explain," he breathes. "I wasn't going to reach out. The risk I'm taking is... I mean this is just stupid, isn't it? You're not going to believe anything I tell you, and—"
I cut him off, "Why don't you just tell me whatever you're going to say, then I'll decide if I'm going to believe you? Hey wait— how the fuck did you email me from Bel's address? If you're still messing with her, I'll track you down and kill you myself."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. I'm not messing with anyone." He continues, "I had her log in stuff from when— well, from before. And I really needed to reach you, since you're obviously long gone from anywhere I could find you here. I'm on a burner phone so you won't be able to call me back here or track me anyways since I'm gonna ditch this fucking thing the second you hang up anyway but you have to listen to me."
"Fine," I sigh, hoping he finishes whatever warning he has before Eamon returns and ruins everything. "Go ahead."
"You cannot go to the baby shower."
My blood goes cold. "What do you mean I can't go?"
"They know all about it. They know where and when it is. They know you'll probably try to make an appearance, and they know it's their best chance at getting to you." He pants, shuffling on the other side of the line, "Look, I know you won't ever trust me again after what I've done. I hate myself every day, too. But I've done more than you could possibly know to destroy them from the inside."
"And that's why you tortured my best friend? To destroy everything from the inside? Why not just leave?"
A tortured laugh leaves his throat, "You think I didn't try?"
"Apparently not hard enough."
"You don't know a fucking thing, Isla." He scoffs, "You think your parents were bad? They let you run amuck, figuring eventually you'd come back one way or another. Mine treated me like a beast every time I stepped out of line. Like a cage and starving me would stop me— fuck, nevermind. It doesn't matter."
The ragged, heaving breaths between his sentences are so unlike the version of him I briefly knew. His rambling and incoherence show just how unhinged he's always been on the inside, the mask of cool cruelty finally coming off.
"So you're calling me just to tell me that I can't go to the shower," I steer him back to the topic at hand.
More shuffling on the other side, followed by a muttered "Fuck," before he really responds. "Yes, I'm telling you to stay wherever the fuck you are right now. And, in fact, you should probably warn Bel—"
I slam my hand on the table before me, closing my eyes at the pain as I interrupt him before he makes a terrible mistake, "Don't you dare say her name. You don't get to after what you put her through."
A frustrated groan escapes him, "Yeah, yeah, okay. But I'm telling you that you should warn little Red to stay home, too. In fact, I would find some way to cancel the shower altogether if I were you."
"You think everyone I know is at risk?" A coldness seeps into my skin at the idea that my real family might be in danger from the one I was born to.
"I think every day the two of us are missing, the Sanctum grows more and more desperate. There's no telling what they will or won't do to get—"
"Wait," I don't understand. "The two of us? Why are they after you?"
He whines, panic making the sound pathetic and terrifying all at the same time, "I... I stole something. Right after everything went down with— with your friend. I took it and they really want it back."
"What did you take, Alastor?" What could they possibly want so badly?
"I can't tell you," he laughs, "Can't tell anyone. But they already know and when they find me..." silence fills the other end, his dread reaching all the way through the phone and wrapping around my throat. "Just stay far away, Isla. Things are going to get a lot worse. I still have a couple friends on the inside who think I'm just having a crisis. You wouldn't believe the new orders they're getting, Isla... I can't— Even when I was in the trusted circle, the things I saw couldn't prepare me for the what they're talking about now. They're telling everyone that the enemy is winning and it's time for final measures."
"What kind of measures?"
"I don't know," he whines again. "But I get the feeling they're not going to continue living in the shadows much longer. They're desperate, and desperate men are capable of terrible things, Isla. Unspeakable things."
Those words are the closest he can come to admitting his wrongdoings, to apologizing for what he's done. I wish it were enough.
"Look, I umm... fuck, fuck, fuck," the sound of bashing in time with his cursing grates against my ear. "Just... nevermind. Stay where you are. I'm not joking. I'll do what I can here to keep your friends safe."
The line goes dead, the beeping of the disconnection final before I even got a chance to tell him to stay the fuck away from Bel. I stare at my phone, wondering what the fuck just happened, considering what I should and shouldn't tell Eamon.
Honestly, I can't tell him anything.
If I tell him about this threat, he won't let me go to the shower.
It's either safe or it's not. Either way, I have to be there. To celebrate with all the people I love and to keep them from harm if something goes wrong.
So I say nothing.
The decision makes me nauseous. Hiding something this big from Eamon is almost certainly an unforgivable deception. But if I don't get out of this fucking hole in the ground for a few days, he might as well kill me himself. Forget the possibility of the Sanctus Sculitis getting to me; I'll take care of the problem of the pesky blood pumping through my veins with one of the many weapons downstairs.
So that brings me to the next step in making sure Eamon doesn't suspect anything.
Do I delete the email? No. If Eamon sees it as it is, it's nothing suspicious. And the phone number is probably dead now. I can always come up with an excuse for why she had a burner. Broken phone, paranoia, new carrier issues. I can lie through that fairly easily.
But I can't lie through the suspicion of an email being deleted within five minutes of receiving it. Eamon won't buy anything if it looks like I hid it from him.
Just in case... I redial the number, and sure enough, it's already been disconnected. So Eamon won't be able to track down who I spoke to since I took his stupid fucking spyware off my phone, but my email is still fair game, unfortunately.
Speak of the devil. His nearly earth-shattering footfalls echo through the hallway before he knocks on my door. "Please tell me this isn't your lunch still sitting untouched in the kitchen."
"Untouched?" Indignation lights up my chest. "I ate more than half of it, what are you talking about?"
My door swings open, and the food lying half-eaten in his hands is quite literally the last thing I could ever notice.
My mouth goes completely dry. I can't even ask Eamon what he's wearing or why; I'm shocked completely thoughtless by the view before me.
He doesn't even realize the effect his choice of outfit has on me, arguing already, "You maybe had three bites, Isla. You didn't even touch the fucking orzo. And I've spent years perfecting that recipe."
"Uh huh," I repeat, "Years."
I'm dumbfounded. He's dressed in all black, nice pressed pants, a uniquely collared shirt. And just there, peeking out at the base of his neck, a small strip of white.
A Roman collar.
"What's up with you?" he finally seems suspicious of my inability to fight with him.
A harsh breath leaves me, and I try to cover it, asking the least obvious question, "What are you wearing?"
"Oh, this." He pulls at the thing, ripping the little white strip off and tossing it onto my bed. My eyes follow its path as he continues, "I needed to pop in on a church near a suspected Sanctum bunker. I've found this costume works way better than the police one. No one ever suspects a priest."
He grins, a giant, conspiratorial expression. One that I can't possibly match, not with the visceral reaction I'm having to the vision of him in that get-up.
Is it fucked up? Maybe. Is it just an unfortunate side effect of my trauma from religious figures? Probably. Do I want him to fuck me absolutely stupid while he wears it? Definitely.
"Hello?" he snaps at me, looking at me with a concerned and annoyed expression. "Are you good?"
"I'm fine," I manage to squeak out, turning away from him to try to calm my racing thoughts.
"Isla," Eamon takes a step toward me, followed by another. "What's going on?"
I breathe out through my nose, realizing it's a mistake only a second later when I breathe back in, and the scent of him wraps around me, sending me into a fucking frenzy like it always does. I don't even know how many times we've slept together now, but every time he steps close, it's like it's the first time all over again, driving me insane.
"It's nothing, Eamon. All good." I try to play it off, unwilling to feed his ego and seem as desperate as I feel. "What's for dinner?"
"Isla," he taunts me by name, "Do you have something you need to confess?"
Motherfucker.
"No."
His wicked chuckle sounds right behind me, and I find his face in the reflection of my computer. With inhuman speed I don't think I'll ever get used to, he spins my chair, bringing me face to face with a salaciously grinning Eamon, clergy costume firmly in place, even the little strip of white fabric bringing my attention to the base of his neck.
I both hate and love him like this. He's so arrogant, so goddamn annoying. But fuck, if I'm not already getting wet at the thought of how I know he's going to control every inch of me.
Unfortunately for me, his cockiness is well-earned.
His smoldering eyes search my face before going lower, locking onto the rapidly increasing pulse in my throat. Lower still, he traces a line down my body, lighting me on fire the whole way without even touching me.
"No?" he finally says. "Are you sure? You haven't been committing any sins have you?"
I laugh, the absurdity of it all overwhelming. This is insane. I absolutely should not be turned on by this. "Eamon, for the love of—"
"Wrath, perhaps?" he continues, towering over me while I'm trapped in my seat. "Certainly not gluttony since you can't bring yourself to eat one whole meal."
"This is ridiculous," I scoff, wishing I wasn't having such a strong reaction to this. But there's no denying I'm fighting the urge to rub my legs together right now.
With a smirk, he reaches for my hand, helping me to stand on my currently weak legs. "If you don't confess, my little Isla, how can I absolve you?"
"I'm definitely feeling wrathful right now," I admit, making him smile wider, his hungry gaze roving over my heating skin.
"Good girl," he coos, running his fingers over my shoulders, down my arms, before tracing the small line of skin between my pants and blouse. His voice lowers, "What else?"
He's putting me under a fucking spell, between the praise and his willingness to do anything to turn me on, play any game or character. I'm putty in his large, capable hands.
"Is vengeance a sin?" I can't even think straight enough to properly stay in this little charade.
He groans, one hand traveling to squeeze my ass and pull me against him, his other hand working up under my shirt to cup one of my tits, "Are you feeling vengeful, little hunter?"
I nod, "Very." Outside of this current moment and all the other ones where we're rolling in the sheets together, revenge is a recurring fantasy of mine.
"And wrathful?" he grinds against me, his voice dropping into that seductive, almost growling tenor.
"All the time," I whisper, letting my head fall back for his lips to find my pulse, to suck on that spot that always turns me into a mewling mess.
He groans again, the promise of violence making him even harder as he rubs his dick against my lower stomach, ready to fill me no matter how angry and hateful I am. Nothing scares him away. Every dark corner of my mind, every threat, only brings him closer, makes him crave more of my depravity.
"What else?" he speaks against my lips, the answer all too obvious. "Are you a lustful creature?"
I nod, unable to answer with the expert way he tweaks my nipple before starting to lift my shirt, the heat of his palm following the slow trail of my blouse.
"Yes, Father," he corrects me, but I can't repeat it, the humiliation and degradation too heavy. Realizing he won't get the answer he wants, he abandons all pretense, ripping my shirt from my body before wrapping that hand around the back of my neck and planting his lips forcefully on mine.
A moan slips out of my mouth, and he swallows it down, using the chance to slip his tongue against mine in a dance I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. He forces mine down before luring it into his own mouth, sucking on my tongue before releasing it and continuing the assault. His teeth pull on my bottom lip, almost painful but never quite.
Sloppily, he walks us toward the bed, yanking down my pants and leaving them in a puddle on the floor behind him. With a final shove, he pushes me onto the bed, staring down at me with a hunger so intense it borders on anger.
"Isla, fuck," he groans, running a palm down his face. "You're so fucking sexy, you know that? Christ, you've turned me into a horny teenager, half-hard all the time just from knowing you're in the next room."
"Who's the lustful one now?" I pant.
"Do you want my confession, too?" he asks, his indecent gaze falling over every inch of me.
I'm not sure that I do. Not sure I'll recover from it. But I am a glutton, as it turns out. Just for punishment. "Let's hear it."
He stands at the foot of the bed, leaning forward to take one of my ankles in his hand, the veins in his arm pulsing as he grips me. With his eyes locked on mine, he kisses the inside of my calf, "I am guilty of many sins when it comes to you," he admits before biting and licking that same spot, the sensitive skin lighting my pleasure centers on fire when he's barely touched me. "Lust is the most obvious one. I think of almost nothing but the way you come so sweetly wrapped around me. I've fucked my fist more times than I can count thinking of your hot cunt."
His filthy words leave me speechless, wetness gathering quickly between my legs as he works his mouth slightly closer to my center, almost reaching my knee now. "I am gluttonous for this body," his hand grips my thigh roughly. "I'll never get enough. I'll devour every inch of it again and again until it destroys me."
Biting my thigh, his eyes trained on mine, he continues, "I am greedy for the heat between your thighs. I'll take it over and over until you have nothing left to give me.
"I am envious of any person who ever dared to touch you before I did, and I fear the wrath that I would unleash on this world if anyone else ever does again."
The need between my thighs battles with the weight on my chest from the sincerity in his words. I can't take this kind of closeness. The open way he admits that this is so much bigger than just an itch to scratch.
He must notice the panic growing in my eyes. He knows I can take only so much of his honesty before it causes a shutdown, and the fun we're having will be over. He grins, his mouth dancing dangerously close to my barely covered pussy, "I have been and probably will continue to be very prideful of all the screaming orgasms I get to give you."
I wrack my brain, thinking I only counted six.
I'm so drunk on him, I can't even count in the single digits, lost in his touch and his gaze.
"The one sin I will never commit when it comes to you, Isla, is sloth." There's seven. "I will never tire, never waver in my desire to give you everything I can. Starting right now."
And as his lips meet my clothed clit, I can almost ignore the way his words make me feel, almost ignore how tears threaten. Desperately, I try to focus on his actions instead of his words, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to separate us as people from the sex we have.
My mind threatens to wander, to ruin the pleasure already building, even with the fabric between us.
A voice that I swear could be Eamons echoes in my mind, pulling me back to the sensation.
Having Eamon between my thighs and somehow still being able to hear the phantom of his voice is unnerving, but it definitely works.
The imaginary Eamon praises me: Even through this little bit of cloth, I can taste you. Taste how fucking wet you are, how delicious your pussy is.
In reality, Eamon groans against me, tonguing my clit and my opening, teasing me until I can't take it anymore, writhing my hips and silently pleading for him to take the panties off and drive his cock into me until I'm screaming.
Beg for it ,the voice tells me, all my senses warped by my mind fighting to stay present even when it wants to panic instead. But the pretend Eamon voice does what it needs to, keeping me wholly involved in the heat growing in my stomach.
I whine and mewl, unable to keep my legs still as the need grows.
With a gentle bit of my clit, Eamon lifts his head, "What do you need, my sweet little sinner?"
"You," I confess, pulling on his head to bring him up to me.
He crawls over me, pressing his whole body against me, the rough sensation of his pristine clothes against all my bare skin driving me wild. I pull roughly at him, wanting to feel any part of his hot body.
But he's not even close to being done torturing me, instead grabbing both of my hands, holding them above my head with one hand, the other holding my jaw in place to keep fucking my mouth with his tongue, grinding me into the bed. The feel of that hard ridge between my legs drives me higher, and I move my hips with him, fighting for the release I need so badly.
No matter how desperately I rub against him, I can't get even close to release, only managing to make myself more frustrated as he teases and holds me in place. My nipples ache, the stiff points rubbing against his shirt with every motion.
Angry, needy moans fall out of my mouth, his body controlling mine so expertly I can't find any kind of relief in the movement.
"Do you need me to fuck you, baby?" he finally says once I'm well past any rational thought, every inch of my body painfully begging for his touch.
I nod, hoping it'll get the message across enough that I don't have to speak the words.
A filthy smirk lifts one side of his mouth as he stares at me. Bastard.
"Say Yes, Father." He nudges my jaw to the side, kissing down my throat, "Or I'll accept Please, Father."
I choke on my embarrassment, "I'm not saying—" Whatever I was going to say gets cut off with a loud yelping moan as he bites me, right where neck and shoulder meet, the one that gets the same reaction each time, turning me into a wanton slut. "Fuck, please?"
His cock drags against my clit as he eases the sting with his tongue, chuckling but not giving in to my plea.
"Please, Eamon. God— fuck, please," I try again.
He shakes his head in the crook of my neck. "You're only making this harder on yourself, Isla. Obviously, I want to fuck you senseless. Make you squeal and leave a fucking mess all over this bed. You just have to ask nicelyandI'll fill you with this cock so hard and rough the bed slams against the wall almost as loud as you'll be screaming."
A frustrated whine leaves my throat as I wiggle beneath him. We both know my surrender is imminent; I'm not even sure why I've tried to hold out his long. Obviously, the priest get-up turns me on, and he wants to play along and get me off in the filthiest way possible, so why do I still feel the need to fight it?
His insistent touch and lips, his groans as he rubs his dick against me, all of it proves to be too much. I can't fucking help myself, ready to give him anything he wants if it means more earth-shattering orgasms.
So I submit, supplicating myself to whatever punishment or reward he deems fit.
"Please, Father." I plead, "Please fuck me, Father. I need it."
He groans, unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down just enough to let his huge, already dripping erection free before spreading my legs roughly with his knees. Hooking a single finger into my drenched panties, he pulls them to the side, angling himself right at my entrance. "You want me to fucking ruin you, my little sinner?"
"Yes, Father."