Page 66 of The Idol

Every time I breathed, I heard the soft, broken cries he tried—and failed—to hold in.

I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, hands pressed to my forehead like I could smother the memory if I held hard enough.

It didn’t work.

I was still replaying Elior’s shoulders tightening right before each strike and the way he tried to lift his head, like he wanted to be brave.

I hated Malachi for going through with it.

I hated the congregation for watching it.

I hated myself for letting it happen.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight enough to ache.

He’d looked for me.

Just once.

Before he faced away from everyone, he looked up into the crowd—searching. I saw the moment his eyes met mine. I saw the flicker of fear, and hope, and something unbearably soft and vulnerable before he looked down again.

He’d wanted me to stay with him in that moment.

He’d trusted me to.

And what had I done?

Nothing.

I was supposed to protect him.

Not because I was a government agent, and not because he was supposed to be holy, but because he was kind and gentle and believed people were good even when they weren’t. Becausehe smiled like he didn’t know how rare it was for something to shine so bright. Because he blushed at the smallest things. Because he touched his fingers together when he was nervous and thought no one noticed.

Because he deserved peace.

And I’d let him suffer publicly for a sin that wasn’t even Silas’s.

It was mine.

My throat tightened painfully.

I thought of last night—of Elior writhing and shaking under my attention. I thought of the note I’d left on his desk because I was selfish and reckless and wanted him to know he tasted divine.

I’d wanted him to know it was me.

Instead, he’d probably woken up to confusion and shame, and then stepped into a chapel where his fucking father proclaimed him pure enough to take someone else’s punishment.

Father.

The word was bitter on my tongue.

Malachi didn’t love Elior. He loved the idea of him. The symbol. The control that came with wielding a living icon—not the boy.

Not the trembling, gentle-hearted angel who’d prayed under his breath while he braced for pain.

I pushed off the bed and paced again, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists.

If I’d had any less self-control, I would’ve gone to Elior immediately.