Page 55 of Of Sinners & Salvation
“They don’t have to,” I agree. “But they have to protect and guide their flock.”
I promised myself I wouldn’t become my father. That I’d do good. That the evil that lurks inside my heart would never spill out onto anyone else. I told myself that I would never be like him, and that ridding the world of his influence was doing all of humanity a service. If I can do the same to another man, though, then I’ve been lying to myself all along, repressing desires that were always there. If I can harm another man, then I’ve broken my vows already. I’m not a holy man. I’m a killer.
But I killed to protect someone I love today, just as I did then. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I will always protect the ones I love, even if that makes me immoral, even if it makes me a sinner beyond salvation.
“You did protect me,” Mercy says, her arms tightening around me. “Let me thank you.”
When her body sways into mine, I lose whatever shreds of sanity remain. She is my salvation.
“Fuck it,” I grit out, and then my lips are on hers again, and I’ve backed her over the body, my mouth never leaving hers. My tongue demands entrance, and she opens with a soft moan of pleasure. I sweep my tongue over hers, tasting her sweetness, her hunger.
I’ve already broken my vows, after all.
One kiss,I tell myself.It’s one kiss. I can have that.
I’ve been without touch for so long, I’m a starving man.
And here is this lamb, this perfectly shameless goddess shaped by my hand, formed into the perfect woman by my hand as surely as man was formed from the clay by God Himself.A woman who’s cast off her demons and embraced her truest nature, a temptress who now urges me to do the same.
For her, I can admit the truth, just as she has admitted hers: that she may look like angel, but she fucks like the devil. And my truth is equally simple: I want her. I will take her. It’s as simple as that.
But my truth is far more blasphemous than that. I want to take whatever I want because it is my right to do so. I don’t want to obey the rules like any ordinary man. I don’t even want to obey God. I want to be God, to be worshipped in whatever twisted form of this religion we’ve created, just as I want to worship the body of the woman before me. I want my disciples to obey without question, to worship her without question when I tell them she’s worthy of their reverence.
I have created bonds with the Hellhounds that ensure just that. I am not a passive watcher as I have led them to believe—as I have convinced myself to believe. I have shaped them just as I’ve shaped Mercy; have led them down this path, to this final crossroads, this hallowed ground between her thighs. I am not an observer, an audience member. I am the puppet master.
I have always been part of it, even as I’m above it. Pulling the strings, making them dance. And now, they will dance with me instead of for me. Now she will open herself not only for them but for me. I am as necessary to the group as she is, having orchestrated it all from the start. Now it is time for me to stake my claim, to take my rightful place in the group, in her bed, in her body.
But will I ruin it all if I take her for myself?
eighteen
The Merciless
Father Salvatore draws back from our kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild.
“I can’t, lamb,” he says, his velvet voice now tormented.
“You can,” I say firmly. His hand is still resting on my hip, and I take it and slide it up, under the canvas top. He doesn’t stop me, and I lift it all the way to my breast.
We both suck in a shuddering breath when his palm connects with my soft flesh. My nipple pebbles painfully hard, and I moan softly as my clit throbs violently.
“Please, Father,” I whisper, my knees going weak.
When he doesn’t move, I release his hand and reach down, drawing the shirt over my head. I let it fall to the floor, then quickly strip off the bottom of the uniform. I stand before him, bare and shaved, the golden light from the candelabra glimmering over my curves. He stares at me like a starving man given a feast, like he can’t quite trust that it’s real.
Before I can second-guess myself and back out, I reach for his belt. I watch his eyes blaze with heat as I undo it, never dropping his gaze. I slide the belt free, then unzip and let his pants fall to his ankles. He wears a pair of black boxer briefs that hug his bulge and make me gulp at the size of it. I let my eyes skim over his muscular thighs, the ones that have tempted me to the most sinful thoughts as I watched him move around his classroom.
“Lamb,” he says, his brow furrowing, a pained expression on his face.
“Yes, Father?” I ask, batting my lashes and biting my lip as I look up at him. I grip the edge of his sweater, tugging it up with the shirt he wears under it.
He hesitates, then reluctantly lets me draw it over his head.
When I drop it to the floor, we stand before each other, each of us taking in the other. He’s seen every part of me, but I’ve never even seen his bare arms. They’re muscled but not bulging like Angel’s. His is a quiet strength that speaks to his dignity. Unlike the three boys, no ink marks his skin. He’s pure and unadorned, and it fits him. He needs no decoration. Every inch of him is perfection. Swallowing hard, I slide my fingers into the elastic of his boxer briefs.
“Lamb,” he whispers, his voice raspy with desire.
“Father,” I whisper. “Forgive me.”
