Page 63 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

My chest constricts with the urge to hold back what I’m about to say. But call it divine, call it faith, or call it intuition … I feel as though he’s one of us.

“What do you think about Jasmine’s story?”

Steady, gray eyes meet mine. “I think she does not tell the truth.”

I exhale. “So, you don’t trust her either.”

A grim shake of his head as he reaches for his trousers.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble in English, pointing to his clothes, half hoping he doesn’t understand my apology.

“No, you are not.” His eyes crinkle.

“Suppose I’m not.” I give his incredible body one last appreciative look. He’s the only eligible bachelor at the abbey. A week ago, I propositioned him. He said no. “My offer still stands, Saint.”

His lips curve as he buttons up. “Answer is still no.”

“Shame.”

He chuckles. Nods in the direction of Cisco’s room. “Go to him.”

In the hallway outside Cisco’s closed door, I fluff my hair, pinch my cheeks, and strategically slip my slouchy hoody off one shoulder again. I’m tired, frazzled, and could really use a good fuck now more than ever, but that can’t be why it happens. If it happens.

Things have already veered sideways from logic this morning. I take a moment to center myself, to put on the persona, and steel my resolve … but for what, I’m not sure. Fuck him. Kill him. Those are my two options, because I know I’ll be unable to ignore him.

I’m on my own, in a nervous state, no cilices in sight.

Wesley comes up the staircase and makes a beeline for me. He pushes something into my hand, then darts a glance over his shoulder as if he’s afraid of being watched. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod and then continues to his room.

Okay.

That was … odd.

I lower my gaze and unfold the paper. It’s the new translation from Mary’s Gospel that I asked him to show Thea—now with her notes in the margins. My heart skips a beat as I read the lines.

He who denies his soul to starve the dark

shall find his own ribcage has become the monster’s mouth.

Only an archangel’s flame will cut the cords of spiritual deception.

To slay the starvation of the world, the Saint must devour the Sinner.

I calmly fold the paper and slip it into my hoodie pocket.

Twenty-Two

Cisco

Where is she?

My shoes have worn a groove in the rug as I pace between the locked door and window of my monastic cell.

On my next turn, I pull aside the curtains and check the sun’s position. It’s overcast, yet I think I see the bright ball of light above the lake. Maybe.

Maybe not.

A fly buzzes nearby, in and out of earshot. The thing has been a thorn all night and won’t leave when I open the window and shoo it out.