Chapter 20 Ezra
EZRA
Iraise the golden chalice, and Avalynne opens her mouth to receive the blood of Christ. My hand is steady as her lips press to the cup, and I tilt it forward, spilling communal wine into her mouth.
I murmur the blessing as she swallows, but my words are distant, erased by the magnetism of this … this thing manifesting between us.
What is it? Infatuation? Idolatry? My exile from grace?
It's of no consequence because whatever it is, it's getting stronger, and I worry I'm destined to follow the same path as Xade, drowning my little dove beneath a fifth of liquor every night.
What is it about her that completely undoes our best laid plans? And why, at this very moment, do I not care?
I should have put an end to this weeks ago. Too much time together creates connections, and I am sworn to the service of our Divine Creator, but I promised to protect her. How can I do that if she's buried in the basement far away from me?
Avalynne's already taken the sacramental wine, and I should pull away from her, but I don't. The Devil lies in wait for all of us, and I feel it here now, perched on my shoulder and whispering wicked truths.
You want her.
You need her.
You. Are. Hers.
I'm rooted in place as Avalynne's gaze shutters, and she inhales slowly. Her lips part, painted red by the wine, just before her eyes open, and she exhales warm air across my fingers.
I want her to do it again.
Everywhere.
May God save us both.
Outside, lightning cleaves the heavens, flooding the chapel with splintered shards of color before snuffing out abruptly. Inside the chapel, though, in the space between Avalynne and me, time is measured by the languid dance of the candle flames gilding her features.
On another swallow, her blue-eyed gaze rises from the chalice and locks with mine. She's half-angel, bathed in auric light, and half-shadow, as dark as the storm raging outside.
I should pull back.
I should finish giving the Eucharist.
I don't.
The air around us thickens, growing heavy with something unseen, until we stand inside its cocoon.
I lose myself to the little moments.
When her tongue darts out to trace the line of her teeth.
How the strands of her hair peek out from beneath her veil.
The scent of her, sugar and sacrilege.
Molten warmth pulses at the base of my spine and slithers south, consuming me in something I haven't felt in years—maybe longer. My cock presses, hard and insistent, at the seam of my trousers, and I'm reminded I am a man as much as a priest.
Heat engulfs me, igniting my flesh until I ache with the burn. It's arousal mixed with anguish, and the pain is both foreign and familiar at the same time. If I were a stronger man, I'd step away from the girl, finish communion, and beg God's forgiveness.
Again, I remember my duty.
I should pull back.
I should finish giving the Eucharist.
Yet … still … I don't.
She is temptation incarnate, and God help me, I want to succumb.
Remember yourself, Ezra!
I can't.
I imagine tipping forward and lifting her habit skirt, bunching the thick fabric around her thighs and tracing the silky flesh hidden beneath it. I fantasize about pinning her below me and taking her on the altar until neither God nor the Devil can claim us because we are owned by each other.
More unwanted images conjure at the forefront of my brain, those of her fingers spearing into my hair as she calls my name, of tasting her lips as I claim her body, and of doing all the things a man wants to do with a woman.
Things a priest shouldn't imagine doing with a member of his flock.
Yet every reason why I shouldn't slips away from me like grains of sand through splayed fingertips.
I'm a priest.
I took vows.
I'm in a church. My church.
I tell myself this is the Devil testing my resolve, and in panic, I reach for scripture, but the words skulk away from me before they fully form.
No temptation has overtaken you except … except …
I can't finish the verse. I can't even remember the rest.
My sacrilegious heart pounds faster.
Her lips part wider, and the weak aroma of holy wine saturates the space between us, sweet and heady. I feel the echo of her skin on mine from earlier. The warmth of it embeds there, reminding me of how her lips brushed against my fingers as I handed her the wafer.
How long has it been since I felt anything like this?
I can't recall.
I've devoted my life to my vows, my faith, and my work. I've buried everything that once made me feel. After all, it was the only way to cope with the guilt.
So, how is it that this girl stirs something alive inside me even now?
I don't want her to.
I resent her for it.
But you want her even more, you hypocrite.
The room remains silent except for the steady pulse of rain against the stained glass and the spitting flames of the candles around us. Against all reason, I lean forward, my heart stampeding in my chest and my breath thinning to nothing.
She's forbidden.
Off-limits.
Untouchable.
Yet, all I can think about is tasting the single drop of wine clinging to her bottom lip.
The heavy creak of the cathedral door boomerangs me back to reality.
I stagger backward and tear my gaze away from Avalynne as the truth of what I almost did stains my face.
The rhythmic click of Sister Cecilia's heels sounds in the air as she strides toward us. A flash of lightning illuminates her stern expression, casting it in harsh relief. When she reaches the altar, she inclines her head, her voice barely audible over the raging storm.
"Reverend Mother has asked that I escort Apostate Immorier to her room," she tells me.
"Of course," I remark, the words hollow.
I return to the siren before me and force my gaze to meet hers.
"Thank you for your help this evening, Avalynne," I say.
"Always," she murmurs with a nod.
Sister Cecilia leads her away, and I watch them. As they disappear outside, I finally release the breath I was holding. Guilt takes its place, coiling in my chest.
What is wrong with me?
Have I lost my mind?
Did I forget my vows?
Shame drums through me, and the weight of my almost failure presses to my chest, nearly suffocating me. I drop to my knees in front of the altar, the cold stone hitting my shins, and bow my head. I force my hands together, and my words come out as little more than a whisper.
"Forgive me, Lord," I murmur. "Forgive me for letting my heart stray, for even thinking … for forgetting my place as Your humble servant."
Guilt presses a suffocating millstone against my neck. I press my forehead to my clasped hands.
"Guide me," I plead, my voice breaking. "Remind me of whom I am meant to be."
The stubborn ache in my chest remains, a reminder of how close I came to shattering everything and kissing her.
Canon Law, established over a thousand years ago, and Latin Rite bind me to celibacy. Abstinence is the ultimate act of sacrificial love, the giving up of all other loves in service of our Lord and Savior.
I took vows. I swore my life. And I nearly threw it all away for one moment.
For one … girl.
The thought torpedoes through me, leaving me trembling. My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, fighting the tears that threaten to spill. I am a priest, a servant of God. And yet, for all my faith, I nearly faltered.
I almost kissed her.
Hell.
Slowly, I rise, my shoulders heavy with shame. My knees ache from the hard stone of the altar, but I welcome the discomfort. It reminds me of my place. I dust off my cassock, futilely trying to shake the guilt that clings to me.
My gaze lifts to the crucifix above the altar, and I feel the weight of His gaze upon me. It's not His anger that I see right now, though, but sorrow and disappointment. I raise a trembling hand and trace the sign of the cross over my heart.
Then, with a last look at the crucifix, I turn. My steps sound in the empty cathedral as I leave behind the lingering presence of her.
I am a man of God, yet I am a man. And that truth terrifies me.
Distance is what I need.
Distance from the girl in white so that I may draw closer to God and distance to save us both from damnation.
As I walk into my chambers, I can't help but wonder if it will be enough to erase this blasphemous infatuation.