Page 12 of Lustling

I can’t see him anymore. But I feel him.

His presence coils around me, inside me. His voice doesn’t come from the other side of the screen—it comes from thewood.From the seams in the grain. From my bloodstream.

"Tell me your sins."

The words crawl through me, slick and slow.

I tremble. My thighs press together, trying to relieve the pressure building, burning, tightening beneath my skin. The air smells of incense still—but it’s wrong now. Metallic. Like blood swirled into holy water. My head swims. My mouth is dry. The bench beneath me is damp, groaning under my shifting weight.

And still I speak. “I dream about things I shouldn’t.”

A breath ghosts along the shell of my ear. Wet. Hot. "Like what?"

I grip the edge of the bench. My fingers dig into the wood until splinters bite beneath my nails. “Being touched.”

He chuckles. Low. Velvet and razors. "By whom?"

I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t know. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s always been him.

The space grows tighter. The air thickens. The scent of rot sweetens around me like overripe fruit. And then?—

He’sthere.Behind me.

I don’t hear a door. Don’t feel a shift in weight.

But hands settle on my waist. Warm. Possessive. Solid.

His body presses close. Heat seeps through the thin barrier of my clothes, and I gasp. My breath hitches. My hips jerk without permission.

His lips graze my ear. Not a kiss—aninvitation to burn.

"You came to be cleansed, didn’t you?"

My answer is a moan I don’t mean to make. It slips from me like a secret I’ve never spoken aloud. My thighs shake. My chest heaves. My skin sings.

His hands trail lower.

The box groans, shrinking around us. The walls are too close. Too damp. Too alive. The air has turned rancid sweet, like incense left too long to rot. I can taste guilt. Metal. Ash. My knees scream with pain—but I can’t move.

A hand touches?—

And I wake.

My breath rips free like I’ve broken the surface of deep water.

I sit upright, heart hammering, soaked in sweat. My dorm is dark. My sheets are twisted, clinging to my skin. My thighs ache with phantom pressure, the echo of a dream that felt far too real. My hand presses to my chest, trying to calm the frantic beat beneath my ribs.

No shadows move. No candles burn. No violet eyes gleam in the corners.

But my pulse won’t slow.

I look to the desk—and there it is. The flier. The church. The confessional.

Wednesday night.

And I know—Iknow—that I have to go.

No matter what waits for me there.