Chapter 19 #2
I didn’t go inside. I just moved toward them slowly, then sat at the stone steps leading up to the nearest one, my back against the wall, arms draped over my bent knees.
And I stared.
They looked like cages. Sanctuaries. Graves.
How many secrets had been whispered through that screen? How many prayers offered with trembling lips and hands that would never be clean again?
I wondered what would happen if I walked inside now and spoke the truth. Not to God. To the only man who ever made me want to sin.
Would I say I’ve thought about him in ways I’ve never thought of anyone?
Would I confess that I want his hands on me more than I want answers?
That I want to be seen by him—really seen —even if it ruins me?
Would I say I’m tired of running from whatever this is, and more afraid of what I’ll become if I don’t let it take me?
I closed my eyes briefly, letting my head rest back against the wall. The cold of the stone kissed the back of my neck. The scent of wax and dust and incense curled around me like a second skin.
This place was meant for surrender.
But maybe not the kind I was thinking of.
But then I heard it—footsteps.
I tensed immediately, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My hand curled around the edge of my boot, and I twisted around sharply, heart thudding in my ribs.
For a second, I didn’t breathe. Then I saw him. Rafael.
Moving slowly down the center aisle, steps soft but deliberate. Dark suit. Collar open. Hands at his sides. Eyes locked on mine.
He didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been coming all along. And suddenly, the cathedral didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt alive.
He didn’t speak right away. Just kept walking, slow and certain, like he belonged here. Like the cathedral had opened itself for him.
The stained glass painted fragments of red and blue across his cheekbones as he passed beneath them, but his eyes never left mine. Dark. Heavy. Unreadable.
My breath caught. Not from fear. From the way his presence always did this— undid me without even trying.
I didn’t move from where I sat, back against the wall, legs bent, one arm still loosely slung over my knee.
He stopped a few feet away. No words. Just that silence that was never really silent between us.
His voice came low. Intentional. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I studied him for a moment, pulse steady but deep now—like a war drum in my chest. “No,” I said, my voice quieter than I expected. “You followed me.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t deny it.
“I always do.”
Something in that answer sliced right through me. I didn’t ask what he meant. Because I already knew.
His gaze dipped slightly, tracking the confessionals beside me, then slowly lifting to the shadowed corner beyond them. And then—he saw it.
The sash. The one I’d touched. The one still draped across the statue’s shoulders like a question waiting to be answered.
His expression didn’t shift much. But something in his posture changed. He took a step toward it. Then another. And I didn’t stop watching him.
His hand reached out, fingers brushing along the cream silk. He took it with reverence, not hesitation, letting it slide into his palm like it had already been meant for him. The gold trim shimmered faintly in the low candlelight.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, eyes still on the fabric.
“I think so,” I said. “A priest’s stole.”
“It’s used during confession,” he murmured. “A symbol of forgiveness. Authority.”
He turned toward me, holding it now—draped across his palm like something sacred.
“Do you believe in that?” I asked.
He considered the question. Not out loud. But I saw it in the way his thumb slid along the edge of the sash.
“I believe some things can’t be forgiven,” he said. “Only owned.”
My breath stilled. He stepped toward me again, folding the sash once over his hand. Not rushed. No theatrics. Just quiet purpose.
And then—his voice dropped lower, like it was just for me. “Come here, Isabella.”
I blinked. Slowly. He looked at the confessional. Back to me.
“Step inside.”
Not a command. Not soft, either. Just something final. Like the next step in a story we’d already started writing the moment I walked into this cathedral.
My throat was tight, heart thrumming low behind my ribs. The air around us was still cool, but I was burning from the inside out.
I didn’t move. Not yet. Because I knew—once I stepped inside, there would be no walking out the same.
I stared at him. At the holy sash draped over his hand, at the confessional booth behind him, at the cathedral walls pressing in like witnesses.
Step inside.
His voice still echoed in my head—low, calm, but edged in something I couldn’t name. Like he wasn’t asking for obedience. He was asking for trust.
I held his gaze and tilted my head just slightly, heart pounding deep in my chest. “And why should I do that?”
It wasn’t defiance. It was curiosity laced with caution. Because I needed to know.
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, but not touching. His eyes burned through the low light.
“Because you want to,” he said. “Because you came here looking for something you didn’t even have words for.”
“And if I did?”
His lips twitched—something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something darker. “Then I’ll be the one to give it to you.”
That did something to me. Not because of the promise in his voice. But because I believed him. Even now. Even here.
I swallowed, pushing against the knot in my throat as I slowly rose to my feet. The stone was cool beneath my fingers as I steadied myself. My knees felt shaky. Not from fear. From the gravity of the choice I was making.
He didn’t speak as I moved toward the confessional. I could feel him behind me—his presence like smoke, like heat, like a tether wrapped tight around my spine.
And still—I walked.
The confessional stood silent, tall and carved from dark wood, the velvet curtain pulled slightly open. The seat inside was small, shadowed. A place meant for secrets.
I stepped in front of it, breath shallow now, pulse flickering beneath my skin. Then I felt it—him.
He was stepping closer. His chest brushed the space behind my shoulder. Not touching. Just there .
“Kneel.”
His breath feathered against my ear, deep and low. I didn’t hesitate. I lowered myself slowly to my knees, the cool velvet pressing beneath them, spine straight, hands resting on my thighs.
I didn’t look at him. I just breathed. Felt. Waited.
His hand came down gently, fingers brushing against my jaw, tipping my head up so I had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were dark. Focused. That impossible mixture of control and worship.
“Good,” he murmured. “Just like that.”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to.
His thumb traced along the line of my jaw, down to the base of my throat where my pulse beat hard against his touch.
“Tell me your sins,” he said.
I blinked. “Is that what this is?”
“No.” His thumb dragged lightly across my collarbone. “This is something older.”
“Older than God?”
“Older than forgiveness.”
His hand moved higher, brushing the underside of my chin, lifting it slightly. His other hand still held the sash, fingers curling around the silk.
“I want to know what you carry,” he said. “What you keep hidden when the lights go out.”
I swallowed. My lips parted. But nothing came out.
“Start with the truth,” he whispered. “About me.”
I looked at him, breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with each breath I couldn’t catch.
“You were never a mistake,” I said quietly. “But I wish you were.”
His gaze flickered. Not with hurt. With heat.
“Because I ruin you?” he asked.
“Because you make me want to be ruined.”
That earned a sound from him—low, barely audible. His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
“And what else?” he asked.
“I’ve thought about you,” I said. “Too much. Too long.”
“How?”
“In ways I shouldn’t.”
His hand didn’t move. His body didn’t close the space. But everything between us burned.
“And you came here,” he said, voice low, “to confess that to me?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then why?”
I met his gaze. “Because you’re the only one who wouldn’t ask me to be anything less.”
His fingers tightened slightly on my jaw. “You’re mine, Isabella,” he said. “In every way that matters.”
And I felt it—not a vow. A truth. One I’d known long before I’d ever said it out loud.
I didn’t look away. Even as his thumb traced along the edge of my jaw, down the line of my throat, brushing just above the steady beat pulsing beneath my skin.
Even as his eyes searched mine with that unreadable heat, like he was trying to decide if I could take what he wanted to give.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he brought his thumb to my lips.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Open,” he said, voice low, a rasp beneath the calm.
I did.
My lips parted, and he slid the pad of his thumb past them, pressing it gently to my tongue. Not hard. Just enough to feel.
To own.
My breath caught. He didn’t push further. He just held it there, his gaze locked on mine like he was watching something shift in me. Something that couldn’t be undone.
“Look at you,” he murmured, thumb still in my mouth. “So good for me. So quiet. Like you knew all along you’d end up here.”
I felt my pulse pound in my ears. Heat burned up the back of my neck, down my spine. Not from shame. From the weight of the truth in his voice.
Because he wasn’t wrong. I had known. Maybe not in words. Not in plans. But in the way my body stilled every time he walked into a room. In the way my mind curled around his voice, his presence, his control like a lifeline I didn’t ask for but couldn’t let go.
He slid his thumb out slowly, dragging it against my lower lip as he withdrew. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Stand up,” he said quietly.
My legs felt heavy as I moved, rising to my feet with the slow grace of someone walking deeper into a fire they had no intention of escaping.
“Turn around.”
I did.