Hearing the whispers in the room escalate, my dad looks over to where I'm standing, his eyes set in the same rigid and cold way that I used to fear as a child. Hearing the sound of his belt buckle in the back of my mind, I clear my throat and leave Zoey behind in the crowded gathering space.
I shove past the large oak doors, dipping my finger into the pool of holy water.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the-" I pause, looking to the empty pews, wondering what the point is if no one was watching.
"Fuck this," I hiss, stopping myself mid-blessing. My eyes peer toward the vacant confession room, deciding to confront Father Kevin.
Making my way toward the room, I throw back my shoulders, raise my head, and prepare to face the old man with as much courage as I can muster. Forcing the door wide open, I start to speak but pause, perplexed by the sight in front of me.
Ten minutes till Mass.
He should still be here.
He's always here.
But instead, I find someone else here.
Dressed in sleek black from head to toe, his tailored shirt and pants cling to a broad, imposing frame. Arms crossed over his chest, he towers above most of the men in the congregation, standing around 6'4. His dark hair, cut into a faded undercut, frames intense hazel eyes that lock onto mine, the green irises almost swallowing me whole. A chill runs through me—lying to Father Kevin is one thing, but I could never deceive this man. Black ink traces up the side of his neck, a silver cross glinting at his throat. Youthful yet hardened, he leans into the doorway, his gaze piercing until I’m forced to look away. Beautiful and haunting all at once, the man isn’t someone I've seen in the cathedral before. His mouth moves, but I can’t hear a sound.
"W-What?" I question, struggling to find my words, the large sweater hugging my body now considerably warmer.
As he pushes away from the wall, a gold wedding band flashes on his finger before he tucks his hands into his pockets.
"I asked if I can help you?" He reiterates, glancing toward Father Kevin's empty chair.
"Where is Father Kevin?" I question, keeping my focus on anything but the man's painfully striking eyes.
"Father Kevin wrapped up early today. Between you and me, I think he’s despondent about today being his final Mass," He sighs, pausing before me. "Was there something you needed from him?" The man’s jaw tenses the longer he watches me. "You looked fairly livid coming in here."
I try to catch my breath, butthe man's presence is suffocating. His deep voice and large frame are enough to make anyone second guess their actions in the house of the Lord.
"I came here for confession," I lie, forcing my face into a neutral expression. "But I don’t plan to have a stranger absolve me of my sins," I snap, a small smirk spreading across the man's alluring face.
"Have a list of sins to share, do you?" He questions, almost as if he’s mocking me.
"Not as many as his altar servers," I grumble. "Do you suppose God knows how frequently Father Kevin has felt the need to share my confessions with his bottom-feeding sycophants?" I question, the man's brows raise at the comment.
"Sycophant?"
"Perfect little disciples, all dressed in white, kneeling at the man's feet as if he’s a deity, just begging to lick his feet and follow his every command. What would you call them if not servants?"
"I would call them children of God. Subservient to their Father," He whispers, taking a step closer. I feel the heat trapped behind my cheeks, my nails viciously clawing at my palms in my clenched hands.
"I've never been one to submit so blindly to anyone or anything," I hiss, not letting up on my position. "Perhaps that's why Father chooses to spill my secrets."
He surveys me, letting his eyes linger on my neck much longer than I'd like.
"Yet, you wear that cross?" He questions.
"Nominal faith is better thannothing."
Nodding, he glances behind me, the busy chatter of those beginning to funnel into the space breaching the quiet air between us.
"Eden Faulkner, I’m guessing?" He questions.
The way he says my name awakens every nerve in my body. My stomach rolls with anxiety, my skin flush with heat.
"So, I was right. He’s spoken about me?" I question. "You ready to judge me too?"
