Page 9 of Lustling

“Mom,” I say, as gently as I can manage.

“Lillien, how are you?” Her voice is too bright, too…expectant.

“I’m okay. Just tired this week.” I flop back against my pillows, phone cradled to my ear, eyes flicking again to the flyer on my lap.

She’s silent for a beat. And then, like clockwork?—

“And are you behaving yourself?”

The words hit with the same dull thud they always do.Behaving.It’s code, and we both know it. No sex. No boys. No sins of the flesh or mind. No temptation. I picture her sitting in her spotless kitchen with a cup of herbal tea, rosary on the table like a paperweight of guilt.

“I’m behaving,” I answer lightly, fingers rubbing at the sudden ache behind my eyes. It’s not a lie, not really—but it’s not the truth either. Not when I woke up sore and shaken, dreaming of strangers and shadows and mouths I never asked to kiss.

Another pause. Then the real concern spills out.

“Have you found a church, sweetie? You know your father and I worry about you.”

I sit up a little, the flyer now a sudden weight in my hands. I glance down at the ink again, at the gothic lettering and the subtle shimmer hidden in the dark border. My mind flicks to violet eyes, inked forearms, a voice like sin wrapped in silk. Whatever this is, whatever they’re offering—it isn’t salvation. Not in the traditional sense.

And yet...

“Actually,” I say slowly, “yeah. They started something new on campus. A church. I got a flyer. They offer confession on Wednesdays.”

Silence again—but this time it’s sharp with surprise, followed by a soft gasp.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Lillien!” she says, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for months. “Confession is good for the soul. I always told you that.”

Yeah. She always has. And for years, I tried to believe her.

I sigh, leaning back again, the mattress dipping beneath me. “I know. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m fine. I’m behaving. I’m focused on school. Tell Dad I love him, okay?”

“Of course, sweetie,” she says. Her voice softens, dipping into something almost fragile. “Call me anytime. We miss you.”

A tightness winds through my chest, sharp and sudden. I shut my eyes. “I miss you too.”

I hang up before she can drag out the goodbye.

The silence in the room is too loud now. I stare at the ceiling for a moment before letting myself fall fully onto my back, arms spread, the flyer still clutched in one hand. The second my eyes close, I see him again. The priest—if that’s what he really is. I picture the smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way he saidlittle lamblike it tasted sweet on his tongue.

God, he was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of man who shouldn’t be real. And yet... the heat that flushed through me the moment he touched my waist, the way his voice wrapped around me like velvet—it wasn’t imaginary. It wasn’t a dream.

The way he looked at me...

Like he knew something I didn’t. Like he had seen straight through me, through my skin and shame, right into the trembling want I tried to pretend didn’t exist.

A shiver rolls through me.

I don’t even know his name.

But something tells me I won’t have to wait long to find out.

THREE

Idrop into the oversized armchair, sinking into the leather as though it’s a throne built for a king who has long since forgotten his crown. The weight of the room presses against me. Bastion sprawls across the couch opposite, his massive frame taking up nearly all of it. The firelight licks at his tattoos, casting them in molten gold as his thick fingers cradle a bottle of whiskey. He is already halfway gone, eyes hooded, his free hand idly tracing the edge of his belt. The scent of smoke and spirits clings to him, heavy and intoxicating.

At the far end of the room, Cassiel sits at the grand piano. His fingers move like water over the keys, weaving a melody that feels older than memory, a song that could summon ghosts from their graves and make them weep. Even now—especially now—he is all grace. All composure. His hair falls in soft gold strands over his forehead, his expression distant, like he’s somewhere beyond the flames, beyond Hell itself. He looks divine. Untouchable. Sometimes I hate him for it.

I lean forward, snatching the whiskey from Bastion’s grip before he can react. He growls low in his throat, a warning that vibrates through the room, but I only smirk, taking a long swallow that burns all the way down. When I pass it back, hishand closes over it with deliberate slowness, his eyes fixed on the flames. The fire cracks and pops, the only sound besides Cassiel’s music.