Chapter 2
TWO
Before I can fall, strong hands catch my waist.
Not gently. Not casually. Like I belong there.
Heat flares at the contact. His grip is firm, unhurried—possessive in a way that sends a slow, unwanted shiver spiraling down my spine.
His fingers curl into the fabric of my dress like he’s testing its strength…
or mine. The touch lingers too long, not the kind of touch a stranger should offer. And still, he doesn’t let go.
“Careful now, little lamb,” he murmurs, voice smooth as sin, dipped in something older than charm.
I look up—and keep looking. He’s tall. Towering. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are a deep, otherworldly violet, sharp as shards of amethyst glass. They gleam with something ancient. Something knowing.
The moment our gazes lock, something shifts inside me. Something primal. My lungs forget how to work. A pulse of warning—deep and buried—beats just beneath my skin.
Predator.
He studies me like I’m a specimen, something to be dissected and filed away. His gaze doesn’t sweep—it drags. It lingers on my lips, my throat, the fast rise and fall of my chest. Every glance is deliberate, clinical, hungry.
Then he breathes in.
Not subtly. Not accidentally. A full inhale, as if he’s trying to taste me in the air.
My heart stutters violently.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts. Cold starts to bloom under the heat of his grip.
A laugh escapes me, breathless and brittle. I step out of his hold, putting a few much-needed inches between us. But he doesn’t follow. He doesn’t flinch.
And I don’t move either. I can’t.
My legs feel boneless, trembling. My body hums with a heat that isn’t mine—like something inside me has been stirred awake. Like he’s dragging desire out of me by force.
It’s wrong. All of it is wrong.
And still, I want more.
He is… beautiful. Devastatingly so. Not the soft kind of beauty that inspires love poems or longing. No, this is the kind you don’t speak about. The kind painted in cathedral murals as temptation incarnate. A divine warning.
His hair is raven-black, swept back with purpose.
But I can already see it—how it would fall in wild strands across his brow if he raked his fingers through it.
His shirt is black, crisp and unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing tattoos that twist like smoke along his skin.
His jeans are dark, tailored but easy. He doesn’t need to try.
He knows he’s dangerous.
“You smell delicious,” he says softly.
My thighs clench before I can stop them. Heat pools low, thick and humiliating.
He sees it. Of course he does.
His smirk curves like a blade across his lips, cruel and amused.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, my voice too breathy, too light. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
His amusement deepens, eyes glittering with something that could be laughter—or hunger.
“No harm, no foul.” He hands me a flier, fingers grazing mine. “My brothers and I started a church group on campus. For those who might need… direction.”
The word lands heavy in my stomach. It shouldn’t feel like a proposition.
But it does.
His gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t look away. It burns straight through me, deep and deliberate, like he’s searching for something just beneath the surface of my skin. A secret only he can see.
A slow ache blooms in my belly. I don’t know if it’s fear or arousal, and that terrifies me more than either.
I glance at the flier. Of course. My parents are going to love this. “Wow. Thanks.”
He tilts his head at my sarcasm, like he finds it quaint. Or maybe amusing.
“We also take confessions on Wednesday nights,” he adds. “And there’s a bonfire this weekend. You should come.”
The words aren’t a suggestion. They settle into me. Like an instruction I’ll obey whether I mean to or not.
I nod, slowly, fighting the fog in my brain. “You’re a priest?”
That grin again. Slow. Dark. Absolutely fucking delighted.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
He steps closer. Too close.
And I smell him—smoke and spice and something older.
It curls through my lungs like incense from a burning cathedral.
Beneath the sweetness there is iron and old prayers, like vows made before names were written, of power folded into ritual and left to ferment.
It sinks into me, a slow brand that slides under my skin and makes the world feel smaller and more terrible.
Before I can respond, the distant clock tower tolls, slicing the moment like a blade.
I flinch.
“You better run along, little lamb,” he murmurs, and reaches up—fingertips gentle as they twist a strand of my hair. The gesture is light, almost affectionate.
But it feels like a claim.
“Erit tua caro cibus,” he whispers.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. He just smiles again, slow and quiet, and lets my hair slip through his fingers like it means nothing.
“I’ll be seeing you soon.”
His voice isn’t flirtation. It’s a promise. Or maybe a threat.
My pulse skitters. My breath comes too fast. I turn away, forcing my legs to move, to carry me down the hall before I do something insane like stay.
But the moment I leave him, a cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
Something in me knows.
Knows I’m not safe anymore.
At the end of the hallway, I look back.
He’s still there.
Still watching.
And then—he’s gone.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, the afternoon light slicing in through the blinds in narrow gold bars that stripe the comforter.
The flyer rests in my lap, its edges fraying slightly where I’ve been worrying them between my fingers.
The print is glossy, dark, and unnervingly elegant for a campus handout.
Confession. Worship. Redemption. It reads like a promise. Or a threat.
My phone vibrates against the mattress. I glance at the screen and sigh.
Mom
Of course. Monday check-in. A ritual she won’t let go of, even if she’s scaled it down to once a week after I finally broke down and told her I needed space. It used to be daily. Then every other day. Now—Mondays only. I press the green button, already bracing myself.
“Mom,” I say, as gently as I can manage.
“Lillien, how are you?” Her voice is too bright, too… expectant.
“I’m okay. Just tired this week.” I flop back against my pillows, phone cradled to my ear, eyes flicking again to the flyer on my lap.
She’s silent for a beat. And then, like clockwork—
“And are you behaving yourself?”
The words hit with the same dull thud they always do. Behaving. It’s code, and we both know it. No sex. No boys. No sins of the flesh or mind. No temptation. I picture her sitting in her spotless kitchen with a cup of herbal tea, rosary on the table like a paperweight of guilt.
“I’m behaving,” I answer lightly, fingers rubbing at the sudden ache behind my eyes. It’s not a lie, not really—but it’s not the truth either. Not when I woke up sore and shaken, dreaming of strangers and shadows and mouths I never asked to kiss.
Another pause. Then the real concern spills out.
“Have you found a church, sweetie? You know your father and I worry about you.”
I sit up a little, the flyer now a sudden weight in my hands.
I glance down at the ink again, at the gothic lettering and the subtle shimmer hidden in the dark border.
My mind flicks to violet eyes, inked forearms, a voice like sin wrapped in silk.
Whatever this is, whatever they’re offering—it isn’t salvation. Not in the traditional sense.
And yet...
“Actually,” I say slowly, “yeah. They started something new on campus. A church. I got a flyer. They offer confession on Wednesdays.”
Silence again—but this time it’s sharp with surprise, followed by a soft gasp.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Lillien!” she says, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for months. “Confession is good for the soul. I always told you that.”
Yeah. She always has. And for years, I tried to believe her.
I sigh, leaning back again, the mattress dipping beneath me. “I know. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m fine. I’m behaving. I’m focused on school. Tell Dad I love him, okay?”
“Of course, sweetie,” she says. Her voice softens, dipping into something almost fragile. “Call me anytime. We miss you.”
A tightness winds through my chest, sharp and sudden. I shut my eyes. “I miss you too.”
I hang up before she can drag out the goodbye.
The silence in the room is too loud now.
I stare at the ceiling for a moment before letting myself fall fully onto my back, arms spread, the flyer still clutched in one hand.
The second my eyes close, I see him again.
The priest—if that’s what he really is. I picture the smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way he said little lamb like it tasted sweet on his tongue.
God, he was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of man who shouldn’t be real. And yet... the heat that flushed through me the moment he touched my waist, the way his voice wrapped around me like velvet—it wasn’t imaginary. It wasn’t a dream.
The way he looked at me...
Like he knew something I didn’t. Like he had seen straight through me, through my skin and shame, right into the trembling want I tried to pretend didn’t exist.
A shiver rolls through me.
I don’t even know his name.
But something tells me I won’t have to wait long to find out.