Page 18 of Daddy's Sinner

His hand grazes my cheek, and I flinch away, but there’s nowhere to go. “One day, you will be my wife,” he says, his voice filled with that same twisted certainty he had back then. “And you will know how to please me in every way.”

My breath catches, panic rising in my chest.Wife? Please him?The memories of our past rush back—those nights spent in secret, the way he would touch me, whispering promises of power and devotion. And the way I foolishly believed him, I thought that I could play his game and come out unscathed. But that was before the betrayal, before he handed me over to the Prophet like I was nothing more than a bargaining chip.

“And when that day comes,” Gabriel adds, his voice dark and foreboding, “you will be grateful. Grateful to be chosen, to be blessed.”

Grateful?The thought is sickening, but there’s a treacherous part of me, buried deep, that remembers the pleasure, the thrill of his touch.No,I tell myself.That’s over. He betrayed me. He can’t do this to me again.

But as much as I want to resist, I feel the old desires stirring, memories of how he made me feel—desired, powerful, even as he used me. And then, like a splash of cold water, the image of the handsome stranger at the bookstore flashes in my mind.He’s new, different, a curiosity I would like to explore.

“Until then,” Gabriel says, his hand lingering on my face before pulling away, “prepare yourself. The Prophet has his plans, but so do I.” He straightens, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he turns to leave.

As he reaches the door, he glances back, his eyes locking onto mine. “Remember, Sol,” he says, his voice soft but deadly, “you were mine first. And soon, you’ll be mine again.”

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone, the echoes of his words ringing in my ears. What just happened? The bath water has gone cold, but I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.

How do I escape this? How do I survive?

Finally, I compose myself enough to get out of the tub. My heart is still racing, my mind spinning from the encounter. I shake off the lingering fear and dart to my closet, quickly scanning my options before settling on another white dress—one just like the Prophet likes. This one laces around my neck and exposes my back. One of his favorites. Not mine.

If I had any say in it,I think bitterly,I’d be in leggings and an oversized shirt, something comfortable, something real.But I don’t have a say. My role is to be the beautiful, innocent, submissive Dove.I hate that name.There’s nothing innocent or pure about me—not with what I can do in bed or how skilled I am with my mouth.I’m a sinner. I’m the reincarnation of Lilith, cast down and bound to this place.

Once I’ve slipped into the dress and shoes, I head to the bathroom to brush out my curls.I could straighten them, tame my wild hair,I consider for a moment, but the Prophet prefers my coils—it gives him a good grasp, he says. So, I braid it instead, a long fishtail that falls down my back, stopping just above my ass.

The Prophet is gone, off to do God knows what, and Gabriel will be leaving soon enough.Finally,I think, and a rush of relief washes over me.I’ll be alone.Alone to do as I please, or as close to it as I can get in this place.

And in that sliver of freedom, I’ll choose to walk into town, hopeful that I’ll run into him—my stranger. I don’t know what it is about him, but fuck, I can’t get him out of my mind. Not that I mind, anyway. He’s beautiful. His lips, full and juicy, made for sin. His big, dark eyes, warm yet dangerous. I can sense that darkness in him, just beneath the surface. His body, lean, tall, muscular—mmm,I shiver at the thought.I wonder how he’d feel above me, inside me.

My thoughts spiral, the desire twisting into something darker, something more obsessive.Is this what God wants for me?I ask myself, almost as if praying.Is this stranger meant to be my salvation or my damnation?But deep down, I already know the answer.He’s both.A test from God, a temptation I’m meant to resist but can’t stop thinking about.

He’s a sign,I tell myself,a sign that maybe I’m not as lost as they want me to be.Or maybe I am, maybe I’m just fooling myself, hiding my desires behind the guise of divine providence. But what’s the difference anymore? My faith has always been a mask, a cover for the darkness that’s always lurked within me.

As I finish my braid and stand before the mirror, I let my fingers trace the delicate lace of the dress.I’ll go to town,I decide, the thought of him fueling my every move.And I’ll find him. And when I do...The thought trails off, but the hunger lingers, deep and consuming.

God must have sent him to me,I rationalize, twisting my desires into something almost holy.To test me, to see if I’m worthy.But as I stare at my reflection, I know the truth. It’s not about worthiness or salvation. It’s about power, control, and the thrill of chasing something forbidden.

He’s mine,I think, the idea taking root, spreading like poison.And I’ll have him. I’ll make him mine, and not even God Himself can stop me.

As I step out of the house, the oppressive weight of the Prophet's control begins to lift, replaced by the intoxicating thrill of freedom. The air is thick with the scent of pine and earth, the sky a perfect canvas of blue. I walk down the dusty path leading to town, my steps quick and eager, the hem of my white dress fluttering around my ankles.

The small square is bustling with life, as it always is on days like this. Vendors line the streets, selling their wares—handmade jewelry, pottery, fresh produce—while children run around, their laughter filling the air. I move through the crowd, feeling their eyes on me, sensing the whisper of curiosity and judgment. They all know who I am, what I am, but noone dares to say it aloud. Not here, not where the Prophet’s influence is as tangible as the cobblestone beneath my feet.

My heart races as I near the bookstore. The simple wooden sign above the door readsTaos Books & Coffee,and I push open the door with a deep breath, the familiar scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.

And there he is.

My mystery stranger, sitting by the window, a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. He’s exactly as I remembered—dark hair that curls at the ends, intense eyes that seem to hold secrets, and that lean, muscular frame that my mind has conjured in countless fantasies.

My breath catches in my throat as I approach, the desire to speak to him, to touch him, is overwhelming. He doesn’t notice me at first, too absorbed in his reading, but when I step closer, his gaze shifts, meeting mine.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The world outside the window continues on, but here, time seems to pause. The last time I saw him, I hadn’t been able to shake him from my thoughts—his eyes, his voice, the way he made me feel both seen and exposed. And now, here he is again, like an answer to an unspoken prayer.

“Marisol,” Alex says, a slow smile spreading across his face, warm and inviting. “Nice to see you again.”His voice is like a balm, soothing the ache I’ve felt since our last encounter. “Alex,” I reply, my smile wide with surprise and pleasure at seeing him again. “Funny how we keep running into each other.”

“Divine intervention, perhaps?” he teases, though there’s a spark of something deeper in his eyes. “Or maybe just fate.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, leaning forward slightly, “you’re following me.”

He laughs, the sound rich and sinful, and my heart skips a beat. “If I were, could you blame me? But I was here first. So, the obvious is that you are following me?”

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