Page 96 of The Idol

Two days until the world tried to take him from me.

And God help anyone—including the FBI—who thought I’d fucking let them.

17

Elior

I woke just before dawn, with Daddy’s warmth still clinging to my skin. He’d slipped out hours ago, but the memory of him lingered, and the sheets smelled like him. I shouldn’t have felt so peaceful, wrapped in his scent. Father taught that yielding to the flesh brought only corruption.

But when I thought of Daddy’s hands, his voice in the dark, the way he made me feel soloved, I didn’t feel corrupted.

I felt whole.

And lately, that feeling wasn’t fading when he left. It was staying with me, following me like a little happy shadow. Even now, as I washed and dressed for the day ahead, there was a hum under my skin, a brightness I didn’t know how to hide.

Father had noticedsomething—that much was impossible to miss. The past few days, he’d been taut as a pulled wire. Short-tempered, erratic, and always watching me with this scrutiny, asif he were trying to solve a puzzle he wasn’t sure existed—as if he could smell sin on me but couldn’t quite place the scent.

“Elior,”he’d say, whenever he caught my eye, his voice dipped in warning. No reason, no explanation.

The congregation had noticed his shift, too. They looked at Father with even more fear and doubt in their eyes.

Yet every forbidden moment with Daddy only deepened the ache in my chest, made me want more—more warmth, more closeness, more of the quiet safety I never knew I’d been starved for.

I tried to bury it—the want. But sometimes, I just couldn’t. And when I caught myself smiling at nothing, I felt an icy chill run through me at the thought of Father finding out.

Standing in the narrow window of my room now, looking out toward the fields, I rubbed my thumb over the faint bruising on my hip, no doubt left from Daddy’s fingers pressed against my skin.

I should have confessed.

But confession meant punishment.

And punishment meant losing the only thing in my life that felt good. The only thing in life that wasmine.

I told myself Father was simply distracted, or tired, or angry about something else entirely—that he couldn’t possibly suspect the truth. That he wouldn’t imagine I could ever disobey him so profoundly.

A knock sounded at my door.

A precise, sharp rap.

Father’s knock.

My breath stalled.

“Elior,” Father’s voice called through the door, calm but clipped.

My heart gave a single, jarring kick. I smoothed my robe, forced my breath steady, and rushed to the door leading to the chapel.

I hurriedly opened it.

Father stood in the hallway, his robe as immaculate as always, his hands folded behind his back. He wasn’t scowling, but something in his expression was tight, like he’d been awake for hours, overthinking. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to confirm that.

“Good morning, Father,” I murmured, bowing my head.

His gaze traveled over me, assessing. “You look well.”

I swallowed. “Oh, um, thank you, Father…”

“The Light has been shining through you,” he said.