Page 42 of Of Heathens & Havoc

The Merciful

I have never felt such sin in my life, such burning lust in every cell in my body, every pulse of my heartbeat between my thighs, every breath and thought. Father Salvatore has invaded every one, bringing me to levels of shame I never thought possible.

He’s a priest, a man of God, above such base instincts.

And there I was, more craven than the lowest sinner in the deepest pit of hell, picturing unholy acts that should never even be imagined, tiptoeing along lines that can never be uncrossed, biting my lip to keep from saying things to him that would damn us both. I scold myself fiercely as I walk away, cursing my weak flesh, my carnal urges.

Of course I was imagining that I saw the same primal hunger burning in his coffee irises as he looked back at me, waiting for my answer as if his entire life hung in the balance, depending on that one word I’d speak. I knew what I had to say, even if every lesson I’ve ever learned in Bible study and Sunday school taught me otherwise. I knew that any other answer was not just dishonest but impossible.

And I knew in that moment that my worth, my value, my purity, were in his hands. I will never be able to deny him, to say anything else to a man of the cloth. He’s a leader, a father, my shepherd. My obedience to him is programmed into every cell in my body, into every lesson I’ve ever learned and every belief I’ve ever held. He holds the fate of my eternal soul in his beautiful, gentle hands, the ones that stroked my rope-burned wrists and danced over my bitten throat as softly as a feather.

He would never betray that trust.

I know he wouldn’t. He’s a good man.

I did my homework, looking him up after the first day of classes, when each time I met his dark, transparent gaze, I felt a sizzle of connection. I know it’s only because I confessed to him the most shameful things I’ve ever told anyone, that we alone share the knowledge of my sinful nature.

Or we did, before Heath.

But Father Salvatore didn’t steal them from me. He let me lay them at his feet, let me reveal them myself, expose myself to him in a way even more devastating than the way the plague doctor revealed me to the Hellhounds last night. Last night, I had no choice. I didn’t get to make that decision. When I told Father Salvatore, I wanted him to see. I wanted him to know my sins, to know me in a way that’s intimate beyond my physical body.

I’m so distracted I barely notice the footsteps behind me. When I’m halfway back to my dorm and they haven’t disappeared, I’m finally dragged from my daze. Glancing over my shoulder, I halfway expect to see the priest behind me. My heart stops at the thought, but there’s no one there.

Suddenly, the heat churning inside me is replaced by an icy shiver as I notice the leaves on a row of bushes swaying even though the day is still as if we’re trapped under a glass dome. Sweat breaks out along my back, and my fingers shake as I clutch my books tighter to my chest. Is someone following me?

Turning, I start toward the dorm again, pulling my blazer closed around me even though the late summer day is sultry and oppressive. The footsteps begin again, keeping pace with me, not trailing off when I hurry even faster, almost running. I glance around nervously, hoping someone will be out for an early lunch or skipping class like me, but the gravel path back to my dorm is empty.

Classes last all morning, but I couldn’t face another one after that encounter with the priest. All I want is to go back to my room and scrub my body until it burns all over, until my skin hurts too much to feel the incessant, throbbing need between my thighs. I go over Father Salvatore’s stats to distract myself from the crunch of gravel behind me.

He moved here two years ago—two years after I left Faulkner. Before that he served at a big Catholic church in Boston while he got his PhD. This is his first job as a professor. He went to seminary school in New York. I couldn’t find much about his childhood or background aside from his age and birthplace. Though he’s only thirty and grew up with plenty of social media available, I couldn’t find him on any of the usual platforms or even an old, abandoned Myspace page with Tom as his only remaining friend. He may have private accounts, but I’m not a hacker, so all I could do was search through a few hundred guys named Dante Salvatore.

I’m almost to the dorm when the footsteps have drawn so close I’m sure the person behind me is going to grab me. I consider running, but clogs on gravel is not a combination that’s going to get me far. Finally, I spin around, my books tumbling from my arms except a thick religious studies text that I keep tucked to my chest. This time, he’s too close to duck behind the bushes, and I come face to face with one of the Sincero boys.

“What do you want?” I ask, glancing around to check that we’re still alone. The idyllic campus is empty, the last drops of dew sparkling in the late-morning sun, the leaves on the trees and bushes hanging heavy in the heat.

“We want you,” he says, cracking a grin that doesn’t begin to touch the cold silver of his eyes.

My blood runs cold as I remember one of the girls gossiping on the first day of school, saying they always travel in a pack. Or was that the Hellhounds?

Either way, his use of the wordwehas me taking in the deserted campus again. Are there more of them than I can see, hidden in the bushes or waiting to emerge from around the corner of the building?

“Why?” I demand, shifting my stance in my chunky clogs. I grip both edges of my book, hoping he doesn’t notice the adrenaline and fear coursing through me.

“Do I need a reason?” he asks, stepping closer.

“Don’t touch me,” I warn.

“If you’re the sacrifice, your entire purpose in life is to be touched,” he says. “Touched… Tasted… Fucked.”

I watch the otherworldly color of his eyes heat like mercury in a thermometer, and he rolls his lips in, wetting them and letting his gaze rake over me in one slow pass.

“I’m not the sacrifice,” I say firmly. It’s not a lie. I told them I was out, that I didn’t want to be there, and they let me go. That means I’m not, no matter what their leader said before that. They didn’t sacrifice me, after all.

A wolfish grin spreads across the Sinner’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, reaching out and sliding his fingers through my hair, sending a rush of tingles over my scalp and down my back. “See, we can’t fuck with the Hellhounds’ sacrificial lamb. But since you’re not off limits…”

My gaze darts around, but we’re still alone.

“Come with me like an obedient little lamb, and no one gets hurt,” says the silver-eyed Sincero boy. Then he thrusts his hand behind my head, jerking me forward.

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