Page 236 of The Devil's Thorn
“Do you believe in that?” I asked.
He considered the question. Not out loud. But I saw it in the way his thumb slid along the edge of the sash.
“I believe some things can’t be forgiven,” he said. “Only owned.”
My breath stilled. He stepped toward me again, folding the sash once over his hand. Not rushed. No theatrics. Just quiet purpose.
And then—his voice dropped lower, like it was just for me. “Come here, Isabella.”
I blinked. Slowly. He looked at the confessional. Back to me.
“Step inside.”
Not a command. Not soft, either. Just something final. Like the next step in a story we’d already started writing the moment I walked into this cathedral.
My throat was tight, heart thrumming low behind my ribs. The air around us was still cool, but I was burning from the inside out.
I didn’t move. Not yet. Because I knew—once I stepped inside, there would be no walking out the same.
I stared at him. At the holy sash draped over his hand, at the confessional booth behind him, at the cathedral walls pressing in like witnesses.
Step inside.
His voice still echoed in my head—low, calm, but edged in something I couldn’t name. Like he wasn’t asking for obedience. He was asking for trust.
I held his gaze and tilted my head just slightly, heart pounding deep in my chest. “And why should I do that?”
It wasn’t defiance. It was curiosity laced with caution. Because I needed to know.
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, but not touching. His eyes burned through the low light.
“Because you want to,” he said. “Because you came here looking for something you didn’t even have words for.”
“And if I did?”
His lips twitched—something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something darker. “Then I’ll be the one to give it to you.”
That did something to me. Not because of the promise in his voice. But because I believed him. Even now. Even here.
I swallowed, pushing against the knot in my throat as I slowly rose to my feet. The stone was cool beneath my fingers as I steadied myself. My knees felt shaky. Not from fear. From the gravity of the choice I was making.
He didn’t speak as I moved toward the confessional. I could feel him behind me—his presence like smoke, like heat, like a tether wrapped tight around my spine.
And still—I walked.
The confessional stood silent, tall and carved from dark wood, the velvet curtain pulled slightly open. The seat inside was small, shadowed. A place meant for secrets.
I stepped in front of it, breath shallow now, pulse flickering beneath my skin. Then I felt it—him.
He was stepping closer. His chest brushed the space behind my shoulder. Not touching. Justthere.
“Kneel.”
His breath feathered against my ear, deep and low. I didn’t hesitate. I lowered myself slowly to my knees, the cool velvet pressing beneath them, spine straight, hands resting on my thighs.
I didn’t look at him. I just breathed. Felt. Waited.
His hand came down gently, fingers brushing against my jaw, tipping my head up so I had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were dark. Focused. That impossible mixture of control and worship.
