Corrupted Saint

PROLOGUE

THE CONFESSION

POV: SILAS

The air in St. Patrick’s Cathedral tastes like stale incense and hypocrisy. It’s cold in here, the kind of damp chill that settles deep in your bones and refuses to leave, but I don’t feel it.

I only feel the heat radiating from her.

I’m standing in the shadows of the nave, tucked behind a marble pillar thick enough to hide a man of my size. I shouldn’t be here. If my brothers knew I was spending my Tuesday afternoon stalking a college student instead of handling the shipment at the docks, they’d think I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Ivy Ross kneels three rows ahead. She’s small, fragile-looking in that oversized beige coat that swallows her figure. I hate that coat. I want to rip it off her shoulders and see the pale skin beneath, mark it until everyone knows exactly who she belongs to.

She stands up, clutching her rosary so tight her knuckles turn white. She’s trembling.

Good.

She walks toward the confessional booth. The wood is old, dark oak, polished by the hands of a thousand sinners. She slips inside, and the velvet curtain sways before falling still.

I move.

I don’t make a sound. My steps are silent, practiced on the throat of the city’s underworld. I slide into the empty booth next to the priest’s compartment. I don’t close the door all the way. I need to hear.

The sliding panel between Ivy and the priest opens with a harsh rasp.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she whispers.

Her voice hits me like a physical blow. It’s soft, breathless, dripping with an innocence that makes my teeth ache. My hand tightens on the edge of the bench, the wood digging into my palm.

"It has been three weeks since my last confession," she continues.

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall.

I visualize her on the other side of the partition.

Is she biting her lip? Is she looking down at her lap?

I know she twists a strand of her caramel hair around her finger when she’s nervous.

I saw her do it yesterday in the library.

I saw her do it this morning at the coffee shop.

"Go on, child," Father Michael says. His voice is old, bored.

"I... I had impure thoughts," Ivy stammers.

My eyes snap open. The air in the booth suddenly feels too thin.

"About whom?" the priest asks. There’s a shift in his tone. A curiosity that shouldn't be there.

"I don't know him," she whispers, her voice trembling. "I just... I feel like I'm being watched. Sometimes, when I’m walking home, or when I’m in my room at night. I feel eyes on me. And instead of being scared... I feel safe. I feel... wanted."

A dark, possessive growl vibrates in my chest, low enough that only I can hear it.

She feels me.

Her body knows I’m there even when her mind doesn’t. That realization sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin. She’s not repulsed by my shadow; she’s calling out to it.

"These are dangerous fantasies, Ivy," the priest says. He uses her name. He knows her name.

I don’t like the way he says it. It sounds wet. Familiar.

"I know, Father," she says, sounding close to tears. "But I dream about it. I dream about a man who takes everything away from me until I have no choice but to rely on him. Is that wrong? Am I broken?"

"You are seeking attention, child. It is a sin of vanity and lust. You must pray for modesty. You must guard your heart and your body."

He pauses. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

"Perhaps," the priest adds, his voice dropping an octave, "you should stay after mass. We can discuss these... urges... in the rectory. To ensure you are truly repentant."

The world stops.

Red floods my vision. It’s not a figure of speech; I literally see crimson at the edges of my sight. The audacity. The filth.

He thinks he can touch her? He thinks he can invite her into his private rooms and feast on her vulnerability?

Ivy is mine. Her sins are mine. Her body, her soul, her impure thoughts—they all belong to me. I am her God now.

"Thank you, Father," she murmurs, oblivious to the predator sitting six feet away from her. "I will... I’ll think about it."

"Go in peace."

The panel slides shut.

I listen to the rustle of her coat as she leaves the booth. I wait until the click of her heels fades toward the exit. I wait until the heavy cathedral doors open and close, sealing her safely outside, away from the monster.

Then, I stand up.

I step out of my booth and walk around to the priest’s door. I don’t knock. I rip the curtain aside and step in.

Father Michael looks up, startled. He’s a middle-aged man with thinning hair and watery eyes. He drops his Bible when he sees me. He sees the suit, the scar cutting through my eyebrow, the darkness rolling off me in waves.

He knows death when he sees it.

"I—I’m sorry, the confessional is close—"

My hand wraps around his throat before he can finish the sentence.

I slam him back against the wooden wall. The sound is a dull thud, absorbed by the velvet and the sanctity of the church. His eyes bulge, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrist. He’s weak. pathetic.

I lean in close, my face inches from his. I want him to see me. I want him to know exactly why he’s dying.

"You invited her to the rectory," I whisper. My voice is calm, terrifyingly steady.

He tries to speak, but my grip tightens, crushing his windpipe. He gags, his face turning a mottled purple.

"She came here to give her sins to God," I hiss. "But you tried to take them for yourself. You looked at her with hunger."

I reach into my jacket with my free hand and pull out the switchblade. The click of the blade extending is the loudest sound in the room.

The priest’s eyes widen in horror. He starts to shake, a wet stain spreading across the front of his robes.

"Please," he wheezes. "I... didn't..."

"Don't lie to me, Father. Not in the Lord's house."

I drive the blade upward, right under his ribs, piercing the heart.

It’s quick. A sharp intake of breath, a shudder, and then he goes limp in my grasp. I hold him up for a moment, watching the light fade from his eyes, watching the judgment leave him.

I withdraw the blade and wipe it on his vestments.

"Consider this your absolution," I say to the corpse.

I let him drop. He slumps onto the floor, a heap of black cloth and wasted life.

I step out of the confessional, adjusting my cufflinks. The cathedral is silent again. Peaceful.

I walk toward the exit, my blood humming with a dark, electric satisfaction. Ivy is safe. I protected her. I removed the threat.

I push open the doors and step out into the gray New York afternoon. The city is loud, chaotic, dirty. Somewhere out there, Ivy is walking home, thinking about her mysterious watcher.

Let her think it’s a fantasy. Let her think it’s a dream.

She’ll find out soon enough that I’m the only reality that matters.