Chapter 5
FIVE
The church is empty now. The last confession ended over an hour ago, and the flickering candlelight feels like a dare. I should have left. Should have gone out, fed on something desperate and willing—dragged some nameless sinner down into the dark and fucked the hunger out of myself.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m waiting. Not for salvation. Not for penance.
For her.
I tell myself it’s just need. That I want the taste of her sweetness, the scent that clings to her skin like silk soaked in honey. But even I know that’s a lie.
She’s under my skin. Rooted there. And she doesn’t even know it.
I sit in the booth, back against the worn wood, muscles taut, cock half-hard just from the memory of her.
Her scent. Her voice. The nervous energy trembling beneath her polished surface.
She’s a contradiction wrapped in innocence and tension, denial braided with desire—and it drives me fucking insane.
Then, the door creaks open.
The air shifts. Thickens.
Her scent hits me first. Arousal masked by fear, cloaked in guilt, the sort of heady concoction only someone devout and aching could produce. She’s soaked in it. It clings to her.
I close my eyes, breathing her in. It’s addictive. Like frankincense laced with sin. She’s a hymn sung in the wrong key. A psalm corrupted.
She shuts the door and settles on the other side of the screen. I let the silence stretch, taut as a bowstring. Let her feel it. Let her squirm in the heat of her own unrest.
She shifts, exhales shakily. Then finally, softly, she speaks.
“What should I call you?”
The voice is careful. Curious. Submissive without understanding why. I let my smile rise, slow and deliberate, like a blade being unsheathed.
“Father Deimos.”
A sharp inhale. Surprise. Then a hesitant echo, soft and reverent: “Father Deimos.”
It sounds like a prayer and a curse.
“Tell me, little lamb,” I murmur, letting my voice curl like smoke through the screen, “what sins weigh on your soul tonight?”
Her pulse jumps. I can hear it—fragile and fast. I can feel her thighs shift, trying to close against a heat she doesn’t want to name.
“I’ve been… having dreams,” she whispers.
That stops me cold.
Dreams.
“Go on.”
“At first, they were about my boyfriend.”
The word slams into me. Boyfriend. I see red. Rage rolls under my skin like thunder.
“And in these dreams?” I force the question out, barely keeping my voice level. “What happens?”
“They’re… sexual.”
The scent of her changes again—rising, sharper, more urgent. Her desire blooms like a bruise just under the surface. Then, as always, she tries to push it back down. Her guilt is a leash she pulls tight around her own throat.
“But then someone else shows up,” she continues, voice quieter now. “He’s always there. Just before the end.”
Before she comes. Before she breaks.
“Do you see his face?”
“No. But I know he’s watching. Waiting.”
My cock twitches. My jaw tightens. I reach for her mind. Just a brush. A taste. I only want to skim the surface.
But the second I touch her—
Agony.
A shock lashes through me. I jolt back, breath hissing through my teeth. She didn’t just throw me out—she repelled me. A wall slammed down so violently, so unnaturally bright, it left scorch marks on my soul.
I blink, vision swimming.
What the fuck?
No human can do that. Not even the strong ones. Her mind burned me like holy fire.
I laugh, bitter and broken, too sharp to be sane. “Your dreams have changed,” I say, voice jagged from the effort of control.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Last night… it was you.”
I pull my cock free and wrap my hand around it.
“And what happened in the dream?”
“I woke up before the end.”
Of course she did. Denial is her shield. Her cross.
I stroke myself slowly, eyes trained on her silhouette through the lattice. She’s stiff, trying to hide the tremble. Knees locked together, hands folded too tight in her lap. As if she’s trying to protect something sacred.
She is.
“Why are you denying yourself?” I ask.
“I… I’m saving myself. For marriage.”
Of course she is. Of course.
“Because it’s what I was taught,” she adds. “God wants us to wait.”
I laugh again. Low this time. Dark. “Do you really believe that?”
A beat of silence. Then—“I don’t know.”
There it is. The crack in the stained glass.
“Little lamb,” I murmur, voice like silk over a knife’s edge, “does it feel like sin when you touch yourself?”
“I… I try not to.”
But she does. And when she does, she cries. And when she cries, it’s not out of shame—it’s out of longing.
“Touch yourself,” I say.
Her breath snags. “What?”
“Touch yourself. Here. In the confessional.”
She’s frozen. But the need is there. It’s eating her alive.
“No one will know. No one but you… me… and your God.”
She gasps softly. Her fingers twitch in her lap.
“Do it,” I command.
And she does.
Her hand slips beneath her skirt, and the jolt that goes through her is almost visible. She moans, low and shameful. Her breath comes quicker, in shudders. Her arousal is a song—pure, primal. I match her pace, stroking myself slowly, savoring it. Savoring her.
Her scent shifts again—ripe and dangerous.
She moans my name. “Deimos.”
I growl, deep in my chest, as the orgasm crashes over me. I spill across my hand, across the wood. Her body arches on the other side of the screen, climax tearing through her.
But then—something shifts.
It’s not immediate. It creeps in, slow and unsettling, like the quiet before a storm, like the stillness in a church just before the heavens open wide and something divine—and terrible—descends.
The scent of her deepens. It changes. No longer just arousal or fear, no longer the trembling ache of a mortal girl chasing forbidden pleasure.
It becomes ancient. It becomes wrong.
Richer, darker, threaded with something that hums beneath my skin.
Not human.
The truth settles into the space between us. She is not just untouched. Not just ripe and trembling. She is power wrapped in flesh. She is hunger wearing innocence like a veil. She is a succubus.
And she doesn’t even know it.
Her essence sings it now, no longer hidden behind the fragile mask of faith and fear. It pours through the lattice, thick and sweet, pulsing like a second heartbeat. A call. A curse. A challenge.
My own blood heats in response—every nerve sharpened, every instinct on fire. My cock, still half-spent and twitching, stirs again. Not from lust. Not entirely.
From recognition.
I rise too fast, vision flickering as if the world itself struggles to contain what just happened. Cum is cooling on my hand, forgotten, irrelevant. She’s already backing away, dazed and mumbling some apology she doesn’t even understand. Her skirt flutters. Her eyes don’t meet mine.
And then—she’s gone.
Fled into the night, vanishing like smoke through cracks in the stone. No lingering goodbye. No backward glance.
But I’m already moving. Already hunting.
She doesn’t understand what she is. Doesn’t know the way her soul sings to every predator in the dark. Doesn’t know the kind of power that blooms inside her chest like a rose with thorns made of blood and fire.
But I know.
And gods help the fool who finds her first.
Because I will find her. I will peel back the layers of innocence she clings to, I will show her what it means to be desired, worshipped, owned. She is mine—not because she wants to be. Not because she said yes.
Because fate already wrote my name on her skin.
And next time?
She won’t run.
I’ll make sure of it—even if I have to break her to keep her.