Chapter 8 Jace
Jace
I knew I’d gone too far.
I’d expected Elior to blush. Maybe gasp. Maybe look at me with those big, wide, innocent eyes and get a little flustered.
I had not expected the full-body shiver or the soft, desperate, downright addicting sound he’d made. I hadn’t expected him to look like he was going to fall apart on the chapel floor with a single touch.
And I definitely hadn’t expected him to avoid me afterward like I’d struck him with lightning.
Three days.
Three days of Elior going stiff when I joined him for morning walks, of answering me with short, quiet responses, and eyes cast down. He looked like he was terrified of me—or at least terrified of what I’d made him feel.
Fuck.
I hadn’t meant to spook him. Manipulate him? Sure. Tease him? Definitely.
But scare him? That wasn’t what my goal had been.
Had I jacked off several times since then from the memory of it? Yeah.
There was just something about him that made me want to ruin him.
I needed to control myself better.
On the day after confession—the day he wouldn’t even meet my eyes—Malachi preached about repentance.
I’d watched Elior from the corner of my vision the whole time, and with each flinch, each nervous twitch of his fingers around his robe, guilt twisted tighter in my gut.
And then Malachi called a woman from the pews.
Sister Michelle—a middle-aged woman, tired-looking, like she’d stayed up all night worrying.
“The sin of sloth,” he’d declared with theatrical disappointment, his voice echoing through the rafters.
“It may not seem as evil as lust or wrath, but don’t let that fool you.
Sloth is the gateway into a life full of shadows.
Last week, Sister Michelle let sin control her.
By skipping out on two days of chores, this Sister has spit on us all.
She thought herself more important than the rest of us, leaving other members to take on her abandoned duties. ”
He made her stand before everyone while he spoke about discipline and diligence. And then—
“Jumping jacks,” he ordered. “For the remainder of service. Do not slow.”
She’d barely made it to twenty before the tears started. Elior had flinched with each sob, sinking deeper into that ornate throne of his.
His hands had trembled in his lap. He’d looked like he wanted to run to her, but was rooted in place.
Malachi didn’t care. Not when she started to stumble. Not when her breathing turned wet. Not even when she begged.
By the end, she was crying so hard her whole body shook, dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
And Elior? He looked shattered.
The whole scene was sick, but I couldn’t help but be distracted because nothing had happened to me.
Malachi should’ve known every detail. Elior was supposed to report everything, every sin, every deviation from the rules.
If Malachi knew what had happened between us? The touching? The talking? My teasing?
I’d have been dragged out of bed at dawn and probably whipped or some shit.
But nothing happened.
Which meant only one thing—Elior didn’t tell him.
That soft, trembling, naive boy had disobeyed a rule for me.
For me.
I’d scrubbed a hand over my face, fighting back a smile. Little did he know that he’d sealed his own fate by helping me make up my mind.
So as he shuffled down the gravel path ahead of me after the morning service, hands clasped behind his back, I took a breath, lengthened my stride, and caught up to him.
I needed to regain his attention, needed to pull him back in.
God. I’d managed to suppress my darker urges for two fucking decades, but somehow I couldn’t control myself when it came to him.
It felt like there was something brewing under my skin, like the evil of this place called to the evil inside me, tempting it out little by little.
I fell into step beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed. He stiffened—barely, but enough that I noticed.
“Elior,” I said quietly.
He kept looking straight ahead, but his fingers tightened behind his back.
“Hey.” I softened my voice. “Can we talk?”
A tiny pause. Then, a barely audible, “We… we are talking.”
Christ.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. Apologizing wasn’t something I did often—not sincerely, anyway—but the words were there, stuck behind my teeth. I forced them out.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “For the other night.”
Elior faltered mid-step, like the apology had thrown him off balance. He recovered, but his pace slowed.
When he looked up at me, it was through his lashes. It was a soft look, full of hope and caution and a smidge of longing.
And fuck, he had no idea what that did to me.
My pulse kicked. My hands curled into fists at my sides. Those eyes were too open, too trusting.
A look like that could unravel a man.
He blinked once, his lips parting in a small, uncertain shape. “You don’t… You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do.” My voice came out lower than I meant, rough around the edges. “I crossed a boundary. I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”
His cheeks went pink so fast I almost groaned. He stared down at the ground again, voice small. “I… I didn’t know what to do.”
“I know,” I murmured. “And that’s on me. I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry for putting you in that position.”
He peeked up again—another one of those devastating looks from beneath pale lashes.
“It wasn’t…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t bad. I wasn’t frightened. Just… surprised. And confused.”
Relief slid through me.
“Still,” I said, “I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
Elior drew in a slow breath. His eyes lifted fully this time, meeting mine straight on, even though it made his blush deepen.
“I accept your apology,” he whispered, gifting me a shy smile.
My chest tightened painfully.
He had no idea—no idea—what he was doing to me. How easy he made it feel to want. How dangerous that was for both of us—well, mostly him.
But I forced myself to smile back, grateful and harmless.
“Good,” I said. “Thank you.”
As we walked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, his shoulders slowly relaxed. His steps grew lighter again, as if my apology had lifted him up.
* * *
The eastern storage building was mostly deserted at dusk—too far from the chapel to be convenient, too boring for the devout to loiter near.
I checked the path to ensure it was empty, then slipped behind the structure and knelt at the maintenance door. It took only a few seconds of careful pressure in the lock before a click sounded.
I slid inside, wrinkling my nose at the smell of mildew and dust. God, never had I ever been as glad to not have allergies as in that moment.
I bent down, pulling my cell out of my boot. When I turned on the phone’s flashlight and swept the beam across the clutter, I found myself in what seemed to be a semi-organized hoarder’s paradise.
There was everything from toilet paper to a plastic tub full of robes and shelves of cleaning supplies. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling in some places, each one labeled.
I started with the nearest shelf—nothing interesting—just bulk toiletries and moth-eaten blankets. But as I moved deeper into the building, the organization shifted from the expected to… unsettling.
On one of the shelves, appearing inconspicuous between a bag of a few deflated beach balls and a stack of chalkboards, was a smaller box containing a couple of velvet pouches.
I tugged one open, expecting prayer beads or bracelets or something similar.
Instead, I found teeth.
Human fucking teeth.
Mostly molars, one canine, all cleaned, neatly bagged, labeled with dates.
Yeah. Hell no. Not today.
I clenched my jaw and put the pouch back exactly where I’d found it.
The next aisle wasn’t much better. Cardboard boxes filled with zip ties, duct tape, rubber tubing, and heavy leather straps—some professionally crafted, others clearly handmade.
A box of stun batons—which was clearly a necessity in every cult leader’s repertoire.
Another containing old prescription bottles—sedatives, antipsychotics, opioids—some with labels scratched off.
A chill crawled up my spine. I snapped pictures as I went, texting them to Patel. He didn’t text back, besides a thumbs-down emoji at the baggie of teeth.
Which—yeah, I got that.
At the far end of the room, I ran into a stack of boxes labeled PERSONNEL - CURRENT, PERSONNEL - ARCHIVE, CONFIDENTIAL, and FINANCIAL.
I pulled down the nearest box—PERSONNEL – CURRENT—and popped the lid.
Folders. Thick ones. One for every member.
I picked up the folder closest to me, a flash of recognition going through me at the name on it. Michelle Raymond.
She had been the one punished. I flipped through the contents of her folder, snapping pictures of it all.
There was a photocopy of her driver’s license, her birth certificate, her Social Security card, old employer records, her banking information, even a printout of the deed to her house.
I gritted my teeth at how much control Malachi had over this woman. It was insane. This was the culmination of years under his rule.
I put Michelle’s file back and grabbed another, then another, then another.
Each had enough information to stalk the person if they left, impersonate them, drain their accounts, and destroy them.
I thumbed through the rest of the box, finding my own folder pretty empty with just the copy of my fake ID. I was guessing he made them hand over more information the longer they stayed, once they were good and brainwashed.
I closed my folder, moving onto the last of the box.
My brows lifted in surprise at whose folder it was.
I hesitated for a second, then opened it.
This one was almost as bare as my own. There were no IDs, no medical records or banking info—nothing but a birth certificate.
Elior was born in April. A spring baby. That suited him, I thought.
His mother’s name was Annabelle.
I thought back to my first night here—that first sermon. Malachi had said something about “The Mother.”
Something that had made it sound like she’d passed during childbirth.