Page 235 of The Devil's Thorn
Would I say I’ve thought about him in ways I’ve never thought of anyone?
Would I confess that I want his hands on me more than I want answers?
That I want to be seen by him—reallyseen—even if it ruins me?
Would I say I’m tired of running from whatever this is, and more afraid of what I’ll become if I don’t let it take me?
I closed my eyes briefly, letting my head rest back against the wall. The cold of the stone kissed the back of my neck. The scent of wax and dust and incense curled around me like a second skin.
This place was meant for surrender.
But maybe not the kind I was thinking of.
But then I heard it—footsteps.
I tensed immediately, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My hand curled around the edge of my boot, and I twisted around sharply, heart thudding in my ribs.
For a second, I didn’t breathe. Then I saw him. Rafael.
Moving slowly down the center aisle, steps soft but deliberate. Dark suit. Collar open. Hands at his sides. Eyes locked on mine.
He didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been coming all along. And suddenly, the cathedral didn’t feel empty anymore. It feltalive.
He didn’t speak right away. Just kept walking, slow and certain, like he belonged here. Like the cathedral had opened itself for him.
The stained glass painted fragments of red and blue across his cheekbones as he passed beneath them, but his eyes never left mine. Dark. Heavy. Unreadable.
My breath caught. Not from fear. From the way his presence always did this—undid mewithout even trying.
I didn’t move from where I sat, back against the wall, legs bent, one arm still loosely slung over my knee.
He stopped a few feet away. No words. Just that silence that was never really silent between us.
His voice came low. Intentional. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I studied him for a moment, pulse steady but deep now—like a war drum in my chest. “No,” I said, my voice quieter than I expected. “You followed me.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t deny it.
“I always do.”
Something in that answer sliced right through me. I didn’t ask what he meant. Because I already knew.
His gaze dipped slightly, tracking the confessionals beside me, then slowly lifting to the shadowed corner beyond them. And then—he saw it.
The sash. The one I’d touched. The one still draped across the statue’s shoulders like a question waiting to be answered.
His expression didn’t shift much. But something in his posture changed. He took a step toward it. Then another. And I didn’t stop watching him.
His hand reached out, fingers brushing along the cream silk. He took it with reverence, not hesitation, letting it slide into his palm like it had already been meant for him. The gold trim shimmered faintly in the low candlelight.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, eyes still on the fabric.
“I think so,” I said. “A priest’s stole.”
“It’s used during confession,” he murmured. “A symbol of forgiveness. Authority.”
He turned toward me, holding it now—draped across his palm like something sacred.
