Page 8 of Lustling

He tilts his head at my sarcasm, like he finds it quaint. Or maybe amusing.

“We also take confessions on Wednesday nights,” he adds. “And there’s a bonfire this weekend. You should come.”

The words aren’t a suggestion. Theysettleinto me. Like an instruction I’ll obey whether I mean to or not.

I nod, slowly, fighting the fog in my brain. “You’re a priest?”

That grin again. Slow. Dark. Absolutely fucking delighted.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

He steps closer. Too close.

And I smell him—smoke and spice and something older. It curls through my lungs like incense from a burning cathedral. Beneath the sweetness there is iron and old prayers, like vowsmade before names were written, of power folded into ritual and left to ferment. It sinks into me, a slow brand that slides under my skin and makes the world feel smaller and more terrible.

Before I can respond, the distant clock tower tolls, slicing the moment like a blade.

I flinch.

“You better run along, little lamb,” he murmurs, and reaches up—fingertips gentle as they twist a strand of my hair. The gesture is light, almost affectionate.

But it feels like a claim.

“Erit tua caro cibus,” he whispers.

I blink. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. He just smiles again, slow and quiet, and lets my hair slip through his fingers like it means nothing.

“I’ll be seeing you soon.”

His voice isn’t flirtation. It’s apromise. Or maybe a threat.

My pulse skitters. My breath comes too fast. I turn away, forcing my legs to move, to carry me down the hall before I do something insane likestay.

But the moment I leave him, a cold sweat breaks out along my spine.

Something in me knows.

Knows I’m not safe anymore.

At the end of the hallway, I look back.

He’s still there.

Still watching.

And then—he’s gone.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, the afternoon light slicing in through the blinds in narrow gold bars that stripe the comforter. The flyer rests in my lap, its edges fraying slightly where I’ve been worrying them between my fingers. The print is glossy, dark, and unnervingly elegant for a campus handout.

Confession. Worship. Redemption. It reads like a promise. Or a threat.

My phone vibrates against the mattress. I glance at the screen and sigh.

Mom

Of course. Monday check-in. A ritual she won’t let go of, even if she’s scaled it down to once a week after I finally broke down and told her I needed space. It used to be daily. Then every other day. Now—Mondays only. I press the green button, already bracing myself.