I ’VE CONVINCED MYSELF THAT FOLLOWING PARKER all day is recon work. He thinks I’ll be his puppet, and Bishop Lamont seems to have brought me here under false pretenses of helping, just to tell me I need to acquiesce to Parker’s requests. But I bow before no one but God, and it makes me uneasy, knowing my superior is easily swayed by something as simple as greed and money.
Plus, on a more personal level, my monster aches to rid Parker of his demons.
And now he’s here.
Péchant.
Sinning.
Just like the rest of them.
I’m not surprised. Parker Errien has a lot of money, innumerable amounts, and that’s what money does. It turns and tortures and corrupts until there’s nothing left but an inflated ego and an empty soul. Again, my mind flies to Bishop Lamont. To the church that I’ve taken vows for. Dedicated my life to. This can’t be what God has in mind for His people.
I move through the crowd scattered around the strip club, disgust churning my stomach as I burrow deeper into my coat and hat. The club itself is far enough away from Festivalé that I don’t have to worry about being recognized, but I’m always cautious, just in case.
The Chapel is filled with religious artifacts being desecrated, and it makes my skin itch. I find a hidden corner behind long plush purple couches and lean my shoulder against the wall, watching Parker push his slimy body through the crowd toward the front of the stage.
His head bobs and weaves, and my view of him keeps being momentarily blocked by a stripper on the couch in front of me, her barely clad pussy grinding against the lap she’s on.
My upper lip curls, irritation and judgment bleeding from my insides. I skim my gaze around the room, cataloging all the lost souls here. I imagine most of them are empty, searching for something to fill the gaping holes inside themselves, aching to feel as though they have purpose. Meaning.
They won’t find it here. I’m not sure if they’ll find it anywhere, not that I’d ever admit that piece out loud.
Parker falls in my line of vision again at the head of the main stage, his attention rapt on the woman who’s spinning effortlessly around the pole in the center.
Esmeralda, I think the DJ announced.
Her knee is wrapped around the metal and the rest of her body is floating in the air, her hands running down her front, a large green stone shimmering from a necklace that dangles in the valley between her breasts. Her complexion is flushed a light blushing brown, and it makes her look ethereal, like a sparkling topaz gemstone. The way she uses the stage and flings her body in the air around the pole makes it seem as though she’s flying, high above the ground, her muscles tensing and forming around the silver bar. It’s art, pure and simple, and it chips a piece of ice away from my chest, heat blasting through my center.
All thoughts of Parker fade away.
She’s mesmerizing.
My cock thickens, and I clench my jaw to keep from shifting to ease the discomfort.
If being here is sinful, then this woman is sin, wrapped in a fiery bow.
My stomach dips, a shot of panic washing over me. Watching her makes me feel like I’m the one spinning, my focus being thrown off- kilter until my feet are scrambling to find solid ground. A thin layer of sweat breaks across my brow the longer I swim in these unfamiliar emotions, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Look away, I tell myself.
But I don’t. I can’t.
She flips around, slinking her body back to the ground, her knees spreading apart, flashing the white silk of her underwear, leaving just enough to the imagination. But I know every man here is thinking the same things I am. Picturing what’s beneath the fabric, desperate to see if her cunt is pink and flush, begging for a tongue to soothe its ache.
Before I can even attempt to put up a fight, my monster surges up, tearing through its cage like it’s trying to burst through my skin and devour her whole, carnal attraction blazing in my veins until all I can see is her.
Her long red hair cascades down her body like a waterfall, caressing her curves similar to a lover, but the way she moves on the stage is what really steals the energy from the room. Something scratches at the back of my brain while I watch her. A small, timid voice, screaming for me to look away. To remember everything I’ve promised.
But temptation is a devastating mistress.
It’s not my fault, I remind myself. I’m only human. And she is…all- consuming.
Like hellfire.
Our eyes meet and an unhinged possessiveness pounds through me. I don’t understand it, but I can’t control it, and although it doesn’t make sense, I have to bat away the voice blaring in my ears, telling me to mutilate every single person who has their beady eyes on her.
They don’t deserve to look at her.
The unhinged thoughts, so violent and visceral, make me see red, and somewhere, mild and meek in the back of my mind is my sanity, begging me to remember who I am. Who I strive to be. “You’re sick, Cade.” Whip.
Slash.
Pain.
Sister Agnes’s voice rears its ugly head just in time, and it does the trick, allowing me to regain a modicum of control. Enough to feel the way my throat has gone dry and my muscles are drawn tight, ready to do…something bad.
I lost sight of myself so quickly with her. She’s like a drug for my sickness, making it scream in delight. That’s the only explanation for the obsession that washes over me like a tidal wave and drowns the spaces in my soul that should be reserved for Him.
She rips her gaze away, severing our connection, and it feels like a piece of my chest is torn when she does. Her eyes widen as they zone in on something close to the stage, and she stumbles. I follow her line of sight, irritated that I don’t hold her attention any longer. My vision narrows on Parker, who’s drinking her in like ambrosia.
Does she dance for him? Sit on his lap and grind against him until he groans and makes a mess in his thousand-dollar suits?
My jaw ticks.
She rushes off the stage before the last note of the song hums through the speakers, and although I try to fight it, to stuff the urge to follow her down and keep it locked up tight, I can’t.
God forgive me, I can’t.
I’m after her just as quickly as she left, unable to think past the pulsing need to be closer. I’m a simple man who’s been reduced to his base instincts to hunt, capture, keep.
I want to hear her voice.
Smell her skin.
Paint my sickness on her soul.
A single glance in her direction and I’m a ravenous dog, desperate for a crumb. My shoulder sinks into someone as I move by them, and they yell out an insult, but I ignore them.
Let anyone try to stop me.
I find her past a sign that says Employees Only.
She’s against the wall with her clothing pressed to her heaving chest, eyes squeezed shut and pouty mouth open like an invitation. She’s vulnerable right now. It would be so easy to waltz over, drop her to her knees, and slide my thick cock down her tight little throat.
The visual is so strong, it makes my footsteps stutter, the familiar twinge of guilt nipping at my middle, different than it normally is because usually, I don’t have these sexual desires. Just violent ones, and those violent ones, I’ve come to terms with. Made a deal with God, reminding myself that He is merciful in all ways. As long as we repent.
Will He be as forgiving for sins of the flesh?
She redresses quickly and starts moving, and my logical reasoning dissipates.
I follow her back onto the main floor, noting the way she sticks to the edges, as though she’s fighting with herself on whether to stay hidden or come into the light. My stomach tangles into a thousand knots as I step close enough to breathe down her neck. Close enough to see the fine hairs on her body rise as goose bumps sprinkle across her skin like raindrops.
“Hello, petite pécheresse,” I whisper in her ear.
She stiffens and I move in closer, the back of her head hitting my lower chest. My fingers tense, wanting to grip her hips and pull her flush against me until my cock can slide between the crack of her ass cheeks.
No touching.
Thoughts are easier to repent for than action, and my back is already raw from last night’s atonement.
The air shifts as though it’s under her command and she spins, craning her neck to smile up at me. It’s a practiced grin, and I hate it. Almost as much as I hate the fake purple of her irises and her sparkly lashes.
I long to see her bare, wearing nothing but that sparkling green gem that’s wrapped around her neck.
“Hello,” she rasps.
She doesn’t appear to be as affected by me as I am by her.
Does she do this to all the men she sees?
I glare down at her, the thought lighting a match to my short temper, and she starts to shrink back but stops herself and stands taller instead.
“Do you not speak English?” she tries again, her head tilting.
“I do.”
Her thick, dark brows lift, and she nods slowly, her ripe plump bottom lip turning glossy when her tongue swipes across it. My eyes follow the movement, locking on to the wetness.
She reaches out brazenly, her short nails scratching against the lapel of my coat. I watch the movement, disgusted at the knowledge she’s probably done this same move with hundreds of others yet too transfixed to stop it.
“Do you want a dance?” she asks.
My spine stiffens. “Absolutely not.”
Her smile drops along with her fingers, and I blow out a small sigh of relief when she moves back, a tiny bit of logic filtering in with the miniscule space she’s created by stepping away.
She seems disappointed.
“Not used to your witchcraft failing?” I ask.
I’m not sure why the words slip from my lips, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Why else would she bewitch me in such a way if it weren’t on purpose?
Her brows furrow with concern as though being called a witch is something that hits too close to home, but then her features smooth and a tinkling laugh pours from her mouth.
A rumble vibrates through me in return.
My mind spirals along with the beat of my heart that’s stomping like a stampede through my chest because I’ve never reacted to anything the way I am to her.
“You’re French,” she states.
I step in closer, bending so my lips ghost across the shell of her ear. No touching, I remind myself, but I just as quickly ignore it. Maybe to see how much my control can stand, if I can survive being so close to her without ever enjoying her taste. “Oui.” Clearly, I’m a masochist.
Her breath hitches. “If you don’t want a dance, then what do you want?”
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly, straightening back up. The flip- flop of control wavers between my sickness and what I know is right, making my stomach churn and my palms grow clammy and stick to the inside of my gloves.
If we were alone…if we weren’t in public, I would allow the darkness to seep from my pores like tentacles and wrap around her delicate throat, squeezing until the sultry tone of her voice ceases to exist.
My fingers twitch, wanting to do it anyway, despite the fact that everyone will see.
Her eyes flick behind my shoulder, scanning our surroundings, and just like it did when she was on stage, losing her attention bothers me. My hand snaps toward her, my fingers gripping her chin and turning her back to look at me.
A small puff of air escapes her, and my stomach cramps in fear because even through the leather of my gloves, touching her this way is what I imagine a shot of heroin would feel like swimming through my veins.
“Eyes on me,” I demand.
She nods slowly, and her acquiescence sends a bolt of lust down my spine.
“I won’t fuck you, if that’s what you’re after.”
My thumb pinches her chin until her mouth parts with a slight pop, and the tip brushes along her bottom lip, anger cracking against my nerves like lightning.
“I have no interest in fucking you,” I lie, even as the image of her beneath me while her nails split the scarred skin on my back assaults my brain. A shiver crawls up my spine like spiders, and my monster laps them up like meat.
Something dark passes over her face, but it’s fleeting, and then she’s ripping herself from my hold, her eyes widening as they move behind me. I cock my head, watching as she spins around, rushing away and back through the employee hallway.
For a split second, I consider chasing her, my heart thumping quickly at the thought, but I shake myself out of it, realizing this must be His grace, giving me reprieve from temptation.
I glance around to see what spooked her, and I’m wholly unsurprised when Parker is standing close by, a drink in his hand and his eyes scanning the room.
So she knows him.
Seeing Parker reminds me of why I came here in the first place, and it surely wasn’t to fall prey to a dangerous woman who offers nothing but damnation.
It was to learn more about Parker, because he is surely my nemesis here and not my friend, and in order to keep him in check, I need to know what makes him tick.
But even reminding myself of this, recognizing how she affects me, and knowing I should keep far away, I don’t stay to spy on Parker.
Instead, I stalk the shadows, waiting for Esmeralda to leave. I know the moment she does, even though her perfect body is hidden beneath a large hoodie and the long hair spilling from beneath a baseball cap is black instead of red. She glances around as she steps beneath the street lamp, her face flashing in perfect view, and the way it sends fire through me veins has me following her all the way to the bus stop.
And then I hop in my car and continue following her all the way back to Festivalé. I’m not surprised she lives here, not after seeing her visceral reaction to Parker.
It was foolish to speak with her.
I wonder if maybe her sins are too strong and that’s why I feel the pull.
Because there’s a monster inside her, a demoné, and it’s my job to snuff it out.
