MY HEAD IS BOWED AND MY HANDS ARE CLASPED as I kneel in front of my bed.
I pray for absolution. For resolution. For something— anything— that will give me some clarity on what I should do. At face value, I know what’s right, at least what I’ve always thought to be right. I’ve walked through my years with one agenda on my mind: being God’s loyal soldier, one who condemned the damned while being condemned myself.
But what I’ve always known to be right doesn’t feel like it fits anymore. It’s shaved down with jagged edges, and I keep trying to shove it into the same round hole.
Now, the only thing that feels right is her.
I still have my faith, still believe in what I preach and in His word. But for the life of me, I can’t reconcile the pain I feel inside at not being able to have her as long as I serve Him. It doesn’t seem fair.
And I don’t like being angry with God.
This is my one last attempt at clinging to my righteousness, to what I’ve always believed to be so. I pray, and I beg for guidance. But just like before, there’s only silence in return.
Amaya’s name slaps against my chest with every beat of my heart. Her moans echo in my mind, and the taste of her is imprinted on my tongue.
I snapped. She poked and prodded, and my already frayed nerves broke into a thousand strings pooling at her feet. The endless hours of torment over wanting her, dreaming of her, stalking her, culminated in an explosion, and the only way to douse the flames was to drown myself in her. So I gave in. I gripped her tight, delving into the delicious, sinful taste of her mouth.
And she’s part of me now, integral in a type of way that the sharpest lashing wouldn’t drown out.
One blink, one glance in her direction, and my life was irrevocably changed. Twisted and molded into something completely unrecognizable.
Maybe I’ve become the sinner I’ve always sought to kill. Or maybe I’ve always been.
Either way, I’m finding it hard to care.
Amaya is made for me. And now that I’ve accepted what that means, I won’t have her any other way except by my side.
Rising from my space beside the bed, I walk to my dresser and pull out my clothes, rushing to get dressed. I slip on my coat and gloves before heading out of the cottage and into the city streets.
It’s wildly cold today, and setup is beginning for the Festival of Fools, dozens of workers placing the outdoor heaters and small tents every few meters along the square.
I should stay here and make sure they don’t need my help with anything, but that’s what they have Jeremiah for. And I can’t be bothered with my duties to the church right now, not when I can’t even breathe without seeing Amaya one more time.
Why would God put her in my path if not for her to become mine?
If she is a succubus, then seduce me.
If she is my devil, then I will gladly burn.
A few men are salting the concrete steps in front of Notre- Dame as I make my way past, but I pay them no mind. I’m beyond caring who sees that I’m leaving. Let them all know. I’ll flee this town and steal Amaya and Quinten away too, making a new life somewhere else.
It’s early, just past seven in the morning, and I know that if I hurry, she’ll be dropping Quinten off at school. I make it to Louis Elementary just in time; Parker’s town car can’t be missed for anything in the world.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel as I pull up to the curb, staying out of the line of cars, and watch Quinten jump out of the back, his aide there to greet him and take him inside. And when the town car pulls away, I put my car in drive and follow.
The same way I’ve been following her since the beginning.
I’m not sure where I expect her to end up, only that I’ll be wherever she is, but when the car continues to drive away from Festivalé and into Coddington Heights, I’m surprised.
She isn’t going to the Chapel, surely?
But we don’t head that way. Instead, we drive past it, through the city limits until we hit the edge of the town and come to a stop by a small building on the corner of a street. Small businesses line either side, and I tilt my head, trying to look for signage on the front to tell me where we are and what she’s doing here.
It’s a nondescript building though, and a spike of jealousy plants in the base of my stomach, imagining her meeting some other man here and giving him everything that should be mine. I scoff, batting the ridiculous thought away. She wouldn’t use Parker’s car to meet with someone else.
I wait with bated breath to see her appear, the memory of her plump lips against mine heating my blood and making my cock fill and harden. She exits the back of the car, saying something to the driver before heading inside, and when the town car drives away, my curiosity is about to eat me alive. I debate for the next ten minutes on whether to stay out here and wait or head inside and let her know I’m here. That she can’t escape me again.
That I won’t let her run.
Out of the car it is.
I hurry into the building and stop when I make it inside, wondering which one of the several rooms she’d be in. It’s a basic beige interior with short, industrial-style carpet and five doors lining each side, each one with a nameplate on the front describing a different business.
Slowly, I make my way down the hall, peeking in the thin window on each of the doors to see if I can spot Amaya.
What is she doing here?
When I make it halfway down the hall, my ears fill with a thumping bass, muted and dulled as it beats through the walls.
Dancing. Of course.
I walk faster, something tugging in the middle of my chest like I’m attached to where she is by a rope, and when I get to the door the music is pouring from, I see her.
And I’m immediately transfixed, the same way I was the first time I saw her. I’m moving before I can stop myself, my hand twisting the doorknob and slipping into the room, expecting her to sense my presence immediately and stop what she’s doing to either get angry again or be happy that I’m here. I’m not sure which. With her, it’s always a toss- up.
But she’s so into whatever she’s doing that she doesn’t miss a beat. Her eyes are closed and her body is flying around the pole, a single chair perched not too far away.
Desire chokes me like red smoke.
It’s a small studio. The back is lined with mirrors, and a little wooden stool is off to the side with a Bluetooth speaker, a bottle of water, and Amaya’s phone.
I lean my shoulder against the wall, and I watch her.
She must be dancing for another two minutes before her eyes finally open, and she sees me in the reflection, her body jerking to a sudden stop. Slowly, she slips down the pole, her feet touching the ground.
Her chest is moving up and down with her heavy breaths, her mouth slightly parted and skin glistening with a thin layer of perspiration, and when our eyes lock in the mirror, I smirk.
