Page 91 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

The pool, the water, the memory afterward feels like another version of me, as if I were dreaming about myself. It’s all echoes now except for the need still clawing at my insides, and the unforgivable thought that I let my sister go.

Dio mio, I let my baby sister go, my little angel, and something in me had sighed with relief, something that still lives inside me now said, “There, you see? The world is lighter now. No one weighing you down.”

But my curse is not some devil, despite what I call it. That is just my way of distancing myself from the truth. It’s me. It’s the dark part of me, the bitter blood of my family line. If it were a separate, demonic entity, then Mercy’s Beatific Vision would see the truth on my face.

Whatever the case, I refuse to let it continue. It must end with me.

Mercy should know—no, I need her to know—that I am not the priest right now in this room. I am not a man of God. I am the thing under her skin, the monster she lets out when she’s desperate for pain.

“There’s a first aid kit in here,” she mumbles as we shuffle inside the changeroom.

I glimpse a pile of clothes beneath a low wooden bench against the wall. Cubicles further back are likely shower stalls or toilets. Hooks on the wall hold swimsuits and water sports supplies.

When I’m resting against the vanity cabinet, the hunger surges against its cage. I suck in a sharp breath as the feeling floods my limbs, contracting every muscle in my body.

“You good?” Mercy asks.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

What must she think of me standing here, gripping the vanity with white knuckles. My cock is still hard, tenting my wet trousers where the fabric doesn’t cling to it. My clerical shirt hangs in tatters. My dignity is broken.

I am the very image of something that crawled out of Hell, but if I face the mirror, I’m afraid the devil will notice. I raise my fists to my collar, one on either side of my neck, and focus on the stiff white cotton strip somehow still threaded through the shirt’s channel.

The rustling not far away tells me Mercy is either searching for a first-aid kit or changing out of her wet clothes. That pile on the floor must belong to her.

Dear God, I hope she’s undressing. It’s a ridiculous want, considering, but I feel it all the same. I need it. My fists tighten around my collar, fingers digging into my neck.

Something sharp, long, and thin presses into my throat above the knuckles of my left hand. I lift my lashes and lock eyes with blue.

Still wet. A bead of water travels down her temple from a curl of stuck hair, down her jaw, and neck. I swallow hard as it disappears in her cleavage.

“You’d goddamn better be fine,” she growls. “Otherwise, you’re dead.”

She’s still in her swimsuit.

“Eyes up here, Padre.” Mercy uses her body to press me against the cabinet, probably as a threat, or punishment … cutting my view of her breasts. But now I feel them against my chest. Soft. Full. My gaze dips to the hollow of her throat. A little more to the side. There. Right over that smattering of freckles. That’s where my mouth will land first.

“Start talking.” She applies pressure to the blade, and I feel the sting. “What the fuck was that out there with your eyes?”

I twist the white cotton in my fists. I should be doing exactly what she wants, but all I can think about is winding this collar around her wrists so I can hold her still and fuck her from behind. Every urge I’ve caged along with the devil is scratching to get out of me, and I’m sick of holding them back.

God forgive me. I can’t. I won’t. I want her ruined, mouth open, tongue out, hair sticky with sweat. I need her with an unholy force. It’s an ugly, desperate biting at her throat, hands bruising her hips, kind of need. I want to mark her so badly it hurts.

Fuck her.

Take her.

Why not?

Why hold it back?

The devil came out anyway. And she put it back. Not God.

Every time I fought these desires, every time I denied myself, it’s been a joke. A sick, hollow performance. What has it earned me but misery and starvation? I look at her now, water beading on her curves, that damp, wild mane falling over her furious eyes.

It’s never been more obvious that I’ve been so wrong.

They lied to me.