Page 40 of Daddy's Sinner

I leave him there and move back into the shadows—there’s more to go. But I stop in my tracks as I watch Victor come out with Marisol, whispering something in her ear. She is still dressed in that hideous white dress. Once she’s rescued from this fucking shithole, white is a color she will never wear again. Victor strokes her cheek, his thumb tracing over the soft skin beneath her eyes. I see her shudder and pull away slightly, but he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. She looks deathly pale in the moonlight, like a ghost from a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

I want nothing more than to end him right there where he stands, but that would be suicide, and God would frown upon that. I’m desperate, but not suicidal. With one last lingering glance at Marisol, I retreat into the shadows. She is strong; she will hold on a little longer. Every nerve in my body screams to charge, to end Victor in a pool of his own blood, but I hold back. Patience is a virtue rarely found in my line of work.

I make my way out of the compound and toward Zia’s bike. The asshole didn’t even try to hide it—her bike was left out here for all to see, and yet no arrest, nothing. I approach the abandoned all-black Yamaha. I found it shortly after she died, abandoned. One night, I hot-wired it and took it out and started taking it on joy rides—especially when coming to the compound. I could have used the car that the church supplied me with, but that would put my cover at risk.

I straddle the motorcycle, and with a quick jerk, the engine roars to life. The sound echoes ominously through the abandoned part of the compound. I kick the ground with force, and the bike responds instantaneously, tearing through the empty road like a ghost.

The chill night air stings my skin as I speed further into the darkness, passing the border of the compound’s grounds and heading back to town. Thankfully, it’s late, so the town is quiet as I approach the spot where I hide the bike. The last thing I want is for these assholes to find the one thing that belonged to Zia and destroy it like they did to her.

I pull up to the entrance of an old, decrepit warehouse hidden from the main roads by overgrown trees and vines. The place has been abandoned for years, its crumbling exterior a perfect disguise for my hideout. I push Zia’s bike into an old shipping container, taking care to cover it with a weathered tarp.

Once I’m sure the bike is hidden, I walk back to town, avoiding the bar where I met and fucked Zia, as I head back to the motel room. I could go back to the church and get some sleep, but the town of Taos doesn’t look for redemption or salvation. My church is the last place where they would go; the town crawls with Victor’s followers, believers of his cause, his false prophecies.

I enter the motel room, the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne wafting over me. Each step forward is a monumental effort, my muscles protesting every movement. I’m tired, both physically and emotionally drained from the day’s events. A hot shower is tempting, but that will have to wait. I need sleep.

Once inside the comfort of the room, I fall face-first onto the cheap mattress. The springs whine in protest, sending a small puff of dust into the stale air. I’m too tired to care, and the thought of pulling off my boots or changing out of my dusty clothes seems as monumental as climbing Everest right now. The rough woolen blanket smells of mothballs and old sweat.

The coarse fabric of the motel bedspread scratches against my unshaven cheek, and I have to stifle a groan. The room is dark except for a single, dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long, flickering shadows on the tired wallpaper. For the first time in days, I’m finally relaxed enough to sleep.

I shut my eyes tight and let the darkness consume me, sinking deeper into the mattress. My thoughts drift back to Marisol, but despite the tension in my body, exhaustion finally claims me, pulling me down into a restless sleep full of ghostly faces and screams of anguish.

Dove

Pouring the Prophet’s cup of coffee, I wait for his instructions. I’m expected to free Matheo from his demons, but I don’t want to. Truthfully, I’m not sure if I can bring myself to end him—not when my heart aches, not when his death sentence looms heavily over my conscience.

The Prophet’s arm snakes around my waist. I’m still not dressed for the day; today, he needs more comfort than usual. His seed slides down my thighs, and I hate the feel of it. His fingers trace down my leg as I take a sip of my black coffee.

“Go seek him out, do what you must. But he must be dealt with. You must save Father Matheo, Dove. Only you can bring a holy man to his knees,” he says as he kisses me along my neck.

I grimace as his fingers find my cunt and part my legs, his intentions clear in the sunlight filtering through the kitchen window. The Prophet whispers words against my skin that are meant to soothe, to reassure, but they only serve to amplify the dread pooling in my stomach.

“Trust in our cause, Dove,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He was insatiable today, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl out of my own body. It was as if he knew I no longer welcomed his touch. Not that I welcomed it per say but accepted things for what they were but now everything in me screams to rebel against him. His hands roamed my body with a familiarity that I no longer wanted. The taste of dread was now a permanent fixture in my mouth. When he finally releases me, I take a moment to steady myself, the lingering echoes of his touch scorching my skin.

“Your faith will guide you, Dove,” he says, taking his cup of coffee and disappearing. I run back to my room and shower, desperately scrubbing to cleanse my body of his touch, his wet kisses, and his seed. Once I'm finally clean, I dress hastily, throwing on another white dress and letting my hair hang loose. I need to escape the confined spaces of the Prophet's house, to let the open-air cleanse me of his lingering stench. As I step outside, my heart pounds with a mix of anticipation and dread for what I have to do next.

The sun is high in the sky, casting long shadows that stretch across the bare earth. The meager shrubs and trees in the yard provide little shade, a poignant reminder of my own isolation in this desolate place. Following my father’s instructions, I seek out Matheo. Butterflies dance freely in my stomach as I approach the church.

The church stands ominously in the distance, its tall steeple piercing the endless blue sky. The stark white against the natural backdrop is an alien sight. Through the untouched fields of green, with wildflowersbrushing against my legs, I walk toward it. Each step brings me closer to my salvation—or perhaps my condemnation. I’m fine with either choice as long as I get to have him.

Opening the church door, I can hear his voice as he speaks to someone in the confessional. My heart throbs as I walk slowly to the confessionals, waiting for my turn. Silently, I wait until the sinner is done confessing. A cheating husband who regularly attends the Sunday sermons. As he exits the booth, our eyes meet for a moment. His are filled with guilt, while mine are filled with excitement. He bobs his head in a curt nod, and I return it, trying to remain impassive as my heart thunders in my chest.

“Now, who seeks solace in the light of the Lord?” Matheo’s voice echoes softly from the other side of the booth. His tone is soothing, a melody that could calm even the roughest sea. My throat tightens as I step forward, struggling to find my voice.

“I do,” I manage to croak out, my hands shaking as I slide into the small space, the scent of old wood and incense filling my nostrils. A sense of familiarity washes over me as I repeat, “I do, Father.”

I can tell he’s holding his breath. The sound of my voice surprises him, and sinful thoughts consume my mind as I imagine taking his cock right here, not caring who hears us. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest as I let the silence stretch between us—an unspoken confession in itself.

“Darling, do you have something to confess?” Matheo’s voice is barely a whisper, his tone holding a note of apprehension, as if he can hear the sinful thoughts running through my mind. I lick my lips nervously, my mouth suddenly dry as the words stick to the back of my throat.

“I do, Father,” I say, my voice barely audible. “I… I have thoughts… desires that I cannot shake.”

There is a pause before Matheo responds, his voice hushed and fearful. “What are these thoughts, little sinner?” I smile at his nickname; he is trying hard to stay in his role, but I don’t care—not when I know I can make him sin. My demons demand to be let loose, and I do not intend to deny them their satisfaction.

“I desire something that I should not, Father,” I reply. “It’s sinful… and yet, it brings me such pleasure just thinking about it.”

An audible gulp comes from the other end of the confessional booth, and I fight the smirk that threatens to spread, knowing the effect I have on him.

“I desire you, Father,” I confess, my words a mere breath in the confessional’s sacred, yet claustrophobic, space. “Every night, even as others fuck me, all I think of is you. Of the way your cock feels when it fills me, claiming me completely. I think of the warmth of your skin and the taste of your mouth. I confess I think of you fucking my mouth right here… in the house of God.”

---