Chapter 4
FOUR
The air inside the church is wrong.
Thick. Dense. It clings to my skin like a second layer of flesh, too hot and too cold all at once. I don’t remember the doors. I don’t remember walking inside. But I’m here. And the walls breathe like they’ve been waiting for me.
Candles burn along the altar, but their flames are too still—unnaturally steady, like glass captured mid-flicker.
The light they cast is harsh, not soft. Every shadow it touches stretches far too long, warping into shapes that feel carved from fever dreams—teeth where there should be pillars.
Horns where there should be arches. Eyes where there should be none at all.
And him.
He stands at the front of the church, waiting for me.
He wears black. The collar at his throat is crisp, white, pure. But nothing else about him is. That smirk curled across his mouth is blasphemy, like sin carved into the shape of lips. His eyes catch the candlelight, violet and glowing. Hungry.
I don’t know how I got to my knees, only that I’m there.
Kneeling.
My thighs ache. My palms rest awkwardly on the tops of them, trembling. The stone beneath me is too smooth—eerily smooth—until a jagged splinter jabs into my skin and I flinch. Pain blooms sharp and immediate, grounding. Real. And somehow… not.
He doesn’t move. He just watches.
And when his eyes land on me, it isn’t passive. It isn’t polite. He consumes. As if the very act of seeing me is a form of possession.
"You came to confess, didn’t you, little lamb?"
The nickname wraps tight around my throat, coiled like barbed wire dipped in honey. A shudder crawls down my spine and settles low, coiling hot in my belly.
I should run. I should stand. I should pray.
But I don’t. Because I’m still kneeling.
And when he moves toward me, fingers outstretched, I don’t flinch.
His touch grazes my shoulder, then slips lower, trailing across my collarbone. His fingertips are impossibly warm, as if dipped in flame. And the moment they brush my skin—
The church shatters.
Not cracks. Not shakes. Ruptures.
The altar peels back like flesh stripped from bone. The pews crumble, splinter, reforge—wood groaning into unnatural shapes. The walls shrink in. The candles vanish. Darkness swallows light, and silence rushes in with a scream played in reverse.
And I’m no longer kneeling at the altar.
I’m in a box. Tight. Wooden. Breathing.
A confessional.
The shift is seamless, seamless and impossible. I never stood, never walked. But the space is different. Smaller. Closer. Every edge presses against me. The walls creak with breath.
I can’t see him anymore. But I feel him.
His presence coils around me, inside me. His voice doesn’t come from the other side of the screen—it comes from the wood. From the seams in the grain. From my bloodstream.
"Tell me your sins."
The words crawl through me, slick and slow.
I tremble. My thighs press together, trying to relieve the pressure building, burning, tightening beneath my skin.
The air smells of incense still—but it’s wrong now.
Metallic. Like blood swirled into holy water.
My head swims. My mouth is dry. The bench beneath me is damp, groaning under my shifting weight.
And still I speak. “I dream about things I shouldn’t.”
A breath ghosts along the shell of my ear. Wet. Hot. "Like what?"
I grip the edge of the bench. My fingers dig into the wood until splinters bite beneath my nails. “Being touched.”
He chuckles. Low. Velvet and razors. "By whom?"
I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t know. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s always been him.
The space grows tighter. The air thickens. The scent of rot sweetens around me like overripe fruit. And then—
He’s there. Behind me.
I don’t hear a door. Don’t feel a shift in weight.
But hands settle on my waist. Warm. Possessive. Solid.
His body presses close. Heat seeps through the thin barrier of my clothes, and I gasp. My breath hitches. My hips jerk without permission.
His lips graze my ear. Not a kiss—an invitation to burn.
"You came to be cleansed, didn’t you?"
My answer is a moan I don’t mean to make. It slips from me like a secret I’ve never spoken aloud. My thighs shake. My chest heaves. My skin sings.
His hands trail lower.
The box groans, shrinking around us. The walls are too close. Too damp. Too alive. The air has turned rancid sweet, like incense left too long to rot. I can taste guilt. Metal. Ash. My knees scream with pain—but I can’t move.
A hand touches—
And I wake.
My breath rips free like I’ve broken the surface of deep water.
I sit upright, heart hammering, soaked in sweat. My dorm is dark. My sheets are twisted, clinging to my skin. My thighs ache with phantom pressure, the echo of a dream that felt far too real. My hand presses to my chest, trying to calm the frantic beat beneath my ribs.
No shadows move. No candles burn. No violet eyes gleam in the corners.
But my pulse won’t slow.
I look to the desk—and there it is. The flier. The church. The confessional.
Wednesday night.
And I know—I know—that I have to go.
No matter what waits for me there.
The grip on my arm is firm enough to bruise. I gasp, twisting instinctively, ready to lash out—until the face in front of me comes into focus.
Shawn.
The boy who left me empty, who only ever gave me crumbs. And now, suddenly, he wants me again.
“Shawn?” My eyes dart around the cramped space. Shelves line the walls, stacked with supplies—mops, paper towels, boxes of bleach. The air is heavy and stale, clinging to my lungs. “Where are we?”
“A closet,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing, like dragging me in here is perfectly normal.
His voice is smooth, but something about it is off.
Before I can ask, his mouth crashes onto mine. It’s too fast, too sudden, too much. His hands slide down my sides, groping my waist, dragging me back against the shelves until I feel the bite of wood through my dress.
The last time we were alone, he pulled away. Now he devours me.
A moan slips from my throat despite myself. Heat flares low in my belly. Then I hear the sound of his zipper. His hands slide up my shoulders, pressing gently but insistently, guiding me down.
Kneeling again.
Like in the dream. Like before the priest. Like penance. Like punishment.
But this isn’t holy.
“I need you,” he groans above me.
I should stop him. I should slap him. I should leave. But my body aches, hollow and raw. My skin hums like it’s tuned to someone else’s hands. I crave anything that might fill the void gnawing inside me.
So I give in.
Like I always do.
My lips part and wrap around his cock, my movements automatic, muscle memory of practiced sin. His fingers tighten in my hair, angling my head just the way he likes it.
He uses me.
And maybe I’m using him too, because nothing has sated me since the dream. Since that voice. Since that touch that scorched my soul. Even now—on my knees, his cock in my mouth—I’m waiting for something else.
Something darker.
He thrusts harder, rougher. His rhythm unravels, losing control. My throat stretches painfully, but I take it. Because I want to feel something. Anything.
Shadows shift. Something moves.
Behind him. Around me.
I feel it—a pressure behind my eyes, a presence that doesn’t blink. Watching. Feeding.
Shawn shudders, gasping as he releases into my mouth. The taste is bitter. Disappointing. I swallow mechanically.
He leans against the shelves, panting, while I stay on my knees. Still waiting. Still empty. Still hungry.
Shame flickers inside me. Used. And somehow—still wanting.
What is wrong with me?
Finally, Shawn slides down beside me, fastening his jeans. He touches my cheek with a gentleness I don’t trust.
“You okay?”
I nod, even though my throat burns. A mess of emotions twists in my gut—regret, confusion, something black and bottomless.
I rise slowly, brushing dust from my knees. The burn between my thighs hasn’t gone away. Because the dream was better. Because he’s not enough. Because I’m becoming something I don’t understand.
“Why now?” I ask, my voice rough. “After ignoring me for days?”
Shawn leans against the door, eyes unfocused. “I don’t know. I just felt like… I had to.”
A chill races down my spine. Like if he didn’t—what?
He doesn’t finish the thought.
We step out of the closet like nothing happened, but I feel like something followed us out.
“There’s a bonfire this weekend,” he says suddenly. “Want to go with me?”
I cross my arms. “You actually want to go with me?”
He laughs, a little sheepish. “Yeah. And I’m sorry… for before. I just—I’m not used to having to work so hard.”
I scoff. He has no idea what it’s like to cage your hunger with guilt.
He reaches for me again, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I like you, Lillien. I don’t mind waiting.”
I nod, but my mind is already somewhere else.
Back in the confessional. On my knees.
Before a man who isn’t a man.
“I was going to go anyway,” I murmur. “But I have to go now.”
He kisses me before I leave. It’s soft. Sweet.
And utterly forgettable.
Because as I walk away, all I can think about is how none of it was enough.
And how I’m already planning to kneel again.