Page 16 of Daddy's Sinner

She lets out a deep sigh, burrowing her face into my chest.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she mumbles.

I shake my head, “No, it’s just me.”

The conversation fades, and her breathing slows, becoming steady and rhythmic as sleep takes her. I wait a few moments, making sure she's fully out before slipping out of bed, careful not to disturb her.

The cool air hits my damp skin as I step outside, the chill a harsh contrast to the heat we'd just shared. The street is quiet, but something feels off. With every step, I find myself glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. But there's nothing—just the empty night swallowing up the silence.

Still, the eerie feeling clings to me, pressing down like a weight I can’t shake. Even as I try to push it aside, the sense that something is unfinished lingers in the back of my mind.

For the first time since arriving in Taos, I step into the dim sanctuary for the first time. The familiar scent of incense and polished wood fills my lungs. The sense of being watched diminishes some. But I still feel that prickling sensation crawling up the back of my neck. I walk past rows of empty pews, their velvet cushions untouched and uninviting, heading toward my sleeping quarters near the pulpit. My footsteps echo on the marble floor, each step seeming louder, more accusing. The silent eyesof holy figures in their gilded frames track my movement, their unspoken judgment heavier than any words could convey.

As I unlock my quarters, the weight of the cross around my neck feels unbearable, anchoring me to the sins I’ve committed. The cold touch of the holy symbol against my bare chest sends a shiver through me, a chilling reminder of the damnation I carry. Entering the sparsely furnished room, I drop heavily onto the narrow cot that serves as my bed. Like every night, my thoughts immediately drift to Marisol.

I close my eyes and imagine her—her delicate features, her ethereal beauty, the way she moves with a grace that seems almost otherworldly. Marisol, the untouchable, the cult princess. I’ve never laid a hand on her, yet she consumes me. Every thought, every breath, is tainted by my obsession with her. It’s a twisted form of devotion, one that drives me to the brink of madness. I want her in ways that are both reverent and profane, a paradox that tortures me every night.

In the privacy of my room, I indulge in my thoughts of her, trying to find release. The act is a desperate attempt to escape the need and longing that consumes me. The momentary satisfaction is fleeting, leaving me with nothing but the aching void of unfulfilled desire. I imagine her lips, slightly parted, her eyes heavy with need. Yet, I know that this fantasy remains out of reach, a forbidden temptation that only deepens my yearning.

There is no sleep for the sinful, not when the ache for her is a constant throb. Guilt and lust war within me, each feeding off the other, driving me deeper into this self-imposed torment. The room is dark, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the window above my bed. I close my eyes and pray to the Lord for forgiveness, too exhausted to reach for the whip that would scourge my flesh. I lay bare my sins, my guilt, but no divine intervention comes.

The moon, a silent judge in the sky, casts its cold light into the room, illuminating the stark contrast between my spiritual solitude and my carnal desires. Marisol haunts me in these shadows—her demons begfor my touch, and mine echo with the same longing. In the confines of my mind, we are free from sin, free to indulge in the fantasies that would damn us in the waking world.

Finally, overwhelmed, I surrender to sleep. It descends upon me like a shroud, muffling the guilt and drowning out the echoes of my transgressions. But even in sleep, she is there, a ghost that haunts my dreams.

Dove

“Dove,” the Prophet calls from his office, his voice cutting through the stillness of the morning. I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. Last night was spent in his room, which meant I was at his mercy for most of it. Even as he filled me with his cock, all I could think about was the stranger from the bookstore. Who is he? He must be new in town, maybe a tourist, though there’s nothing here worth seeing. Still, if Mr. Handsome is sticking around, I need another trip to the bookstore. But first, I’ll stop at the church.

“Dove!” he calls again, sharper this time. I don’t bother brushing my hair or teeth; every second I wait risks shortening his patience. Wrapping my white robe around myself, I open the door and walk down the hall. The heavy scent of cigar smoke and incense hits me before I reach his office.He’s not alone.

I knock on the door lightly. The Prophet doesn’t like it when I just let myself in—I learned that lesson the hard way last time when I walked in on him balls-deep in one of the maidens, blessing her, as he calls it.We all know what it really is.

“Open,” he commands, his voice laced with impatience.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever awaits behind that door.One day, it’s a maiden he’s ‘blessing,’ teaching her how to please her future husband. Other times, it’s my job to ‘bless’ his seedlings, making sure they’re strong for conception.I never understood the logic behind it, but then again, maybe there isn’t any logic to it.Momma always said it’s better not to ask too many questions, either to them or to myself. It’s easier to just accept my duty. And I did.

I stopped questioning my role in the Church of Eden a long time ago.It’s better that way, isn’t it?I let out a shaky breath, my hand hesitating on the knob for just a second before I turn it and open the door.

His beady brown eyes are the first thing I see, narrowing as they fall on me. Gabriel, his second, sits in front of him, his expression as unreadable as ever. The room is thick with tension, and I can feel the weight of their gazes on me, assessing, judging.

“You called, Prophet?” I ask, keeping my voice steady, though my heart pounds in my chest.What does he want from me now?

“Come here, Dove,” the Prophet says, his tone softer but no less commanding. “We need to discuss something important.”

I nod, stepping forward, my feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. Gabriel’s eyes follow my every move, and I can’t help but feel like a lamb being led to slaughter.What new ‘blessing’ awaits me today?

“The Lord has been speaking to me,” the Prophet begins, his voice taking on that familiar, ominous tone he uses when he’s about to reveal some new divine command. “He’s shown me a vision—one that concerns you, Dove.”

Of course, it does.I force myself to meet his gaze, suppressing the urge to flinch under the intensity of his stare.

“You are chosen,” he continues, his words deliberate, heavy with meaning. “Chosen for a greater purpose within the Church of Eden. Your role is more vital than ever.”

Chosen.The word echoes in my mind, a hollow ring to it. I’ve heard this before, too many times to count. Every new ‘vision’ leads to some new demand, some new way to break me down and rebuild me in the image they want.

“What would you have me do, Prophet?” I ask, my voice calm, though inside, my thoughts are spinning.How much more can they take from me?

“The Lord has revealed that you are to guide the maidens,” he says, his eyes gleaming with fervor. “Prepare them, teach them, and ensure they are ready to fulfill their duties as wives. You, Dove, will be their example.”

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