46. …THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH, MY DEAR
…THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH, MY DEAR
HIM
Sweat slicked my spine as I paused in the doorway of The Oily Cat, my grip tightening against the rough wood hoping it might steady me. One step. That was all it would take.
Or I could walk away. There was still time. I could still return to the life I’d sworn to live by. But Violet’s face haunted me. She unraveled every promise I’d ever made. Her face burned behind my eyes, all softness and temptation, all the things I had no right to want. No right to touch.
Come to me.
The words curled around my spine, tugging me forward before I could stop myself. I knew better. I should have known better. But want burned hotter than reason ever could. So, I took a shuddering breath and stepped through the door.
The parlor breathed with life, charged with a restless, electric anticipation as women in vibrant dresses glided past, their laughter weaving through smoke and sound while men leaned into their drinks, voices low and animated.
The entire room pulsed with a primal rhythm, as though pleasure itself had taken shape.
At the bar, no one spared me a second glance. A man in the corner flicked his attention my way before turning back to his drink, and a woman in a loose red dress lifted her glass, her gaze skimming over me.
“Father Frederick!” Bernadette’s voice sliced through the noise, pulling me from my thoughts. She moved through the crowd, her dress flowing behind her like a dark, liquid shadow. Her eyes glittered with a keen, almost predatory light.
I froze, caught between shame and something dangerously close to hunger.
Bernadette flashed a smile, her voice lowering to a purr.
“Oh, Father, we certainly weren’t expecting you tonight.
” Her eyes roamed over me, lingering with amusement, like there was a secret she knew that I wasn’t privy to.
I knew she could see my discomfort, could feel the tension radiating off me.
“I-I was just passing by,” I stammered, the lie dry and pathetic as it left my lips. My pulse raced, and I heard the absurdity of my own words. Of course I wasn’t just passing by; I was here for her.
Bernadette’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in, the scent of her perfume overwhelming and sweet. “Oh, don’t be coy, Father. We both know why you’re here.” She tilted her head toward the stairs. “Violet is waiting for you upstairs. She’s been expecting you . . . the real you.”
At her name, something inside me clenched. Violet’s face flashed behind my eyes, her smile, her youth, that unbearable beauty. She had become everything I’d sworn to avoid. And now, she was waiting.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. “This place . . . it’s a house of sin.”
Bernadette cackled, a soft, tinkling sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Sin?” She mused, almost lovingly. “What is sin, Father, but a label we put on our desires? Here, we don’t call it sin, we call it freedom.
” She straightened, a sly smile curling at her lips.
“Freedom to explore, to let go. Let go, even if it is just for one night. Come now, Violet is waiting for you.”
Her words, sweet and venomous, sank into me, and without thinking, I let her lead me up the stairs, my feet moving on their own accord.
Every step seemed to hammer in my mind, carrying me toward a choice I knew was inevitable.
The noise of the parlor faded below us, the laughter and chatter muffled by the thick walls.
Up here, the air felt cooler, and every door we passed seemed to vibrate with unspoken things: desire, confession, pleasure, and loss.
Bernadette paused at the far end of the hall, turning to me with a teasing smile.
“Remember, Father,” she whispered, her eyes intense, “there’s no judgment here, only pleasure.
Embrace it.” She opened the door with a flourish, revealing a dimly lit room, and inside it: Violet.
She sat naked on the edge of the bed, her skin glowing in the soft light.
She was impossibly beautiful, achingly so.
My breath caught; she was everything I had imagined and more.
“Father,” she said, voice steeped in intent, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her words were an invitation, soft, sultry, and irresistible. She rose, gliding toward me. She was a temptation made flesh, something forbidden, something I had long craved. And I couldn’t resist anymore.
“Are you sure?” I asked, barely above a whisper, my body already betraying me as I grew hard.
“I want you,” she breathed, her lips brushing against my ear. “Let me show you what it means to feel free.”
Her warmth surrounded me, her breath teasing my skin. I could feel the heat of her body pressing so close to mine. Her fingers trailed down my chest, light, but enough to make everything inside me shake.
I should have moved away. I should have fought the demons that clawed at me from within, but I couldn’t. She pressed against me, her lips brushing my neck, and for a fleeting second, I imagined—no, felt—the release. The freedom she promised.
“Father,” she cooed, her voice low and sultry, coaxing me, pulling me in deeper. “You’ve wanted this, haven’t you? To be free of the chains you’ve bound yourself with.”
Her words wrapped around me like velvet ropes, smooth and seductive, yet suffocating. She circled me slowly, eyes burning into me, every touch a quiet dismantling of who I had been.
She grazed my collar, fingers ghosting over the fabric like she was peeling back more than cloth.
I stiffened; her touch felt too intimate, too knowing.
She saw beneath the robe. She saw me. I tried to speak, to remind myself of the vows I had taken, but the words died on my lips, drowned by the force of her stare.
“I see the man beneath the priest, Father,” she whispered, breath warm against my skin. “The one who’s tired of pretending. The one who wants to feel . . . alive again.” Her voice was honeyed and seductive, like a drug I had been craving for years.
Trembling, unable to look away, I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
“You’ve been denying yourself for too long,” she continued, her fingers trailing lightly down the back of my neck. “It’s time to stop fighting it, Father. Time to finally feel the freedom you’ve been longing for.”
She kissed my jaw, a soft, lingering promise.
Everything inside me told me to run. But I didn’t.
I couldn’t. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving mine, and for a moment the world seemed to stop spinning.
There was nothing but her, and she knew she had me.
“Come,” she commanded. “Let me show you what freedom truly feels like.”
And suddenly I knew freedom wasn’t salvation, it wasn’t light.
It was darkness. And I wanted it.
Outside, the town kept on, but inside this room, everything had changed: the brothel, indifferent, had consumed another soul.