Page 12 of Unholy Vows

Layla

F ather Malachai O’Connor was a fraud.

A liar.

A stalker.

Unable to sleep, I’d spent the previous night digging into the esteemed leader of St Augustine’s church. His family had moved from Ireland in his early teens, and when he reached adulthood, he joined the priesthood.

I didn’t get it.

The man had very particular tastes and a raging sex drive. So, why in the name of all things holy would he join the church?

And then there was his profile picture, which accompanied his bio on the church’s home page.

Damn! Father Malachai O’Connor was made for sinning.

He had a rugged and intense appearance. His dark, messy hair was cropped short on the sides, with longer strands on top that fell over his forehead.

It gave him a raw, untamed look. His sharp facial features and piercing blue eyes were so striking that I found myself holding my breath as I stared at my screen.

It was the first time I’d seen his face. And now I understood why the devil was so beautiful. His beauty was a distraction, keeping you transfixed while he snuck past all your defenses, stealing your soul from right beneath you.

And God, did I want him to steal my soul. I wanted to offer up every part of myself, willing him to consume me whole.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to erase the images burned into my mind. The way he had overpowered me and held me down, completely at his mercy.

Yeah, there was no chance that memory was leaving my thoughts anytime soon.

With a sigh, I pulled my blanket back, reluctantly forsaking the warmth of my bed, and headed for the kitchen.

I was in desperate need of coffee.

The frigid temperature of my apartment was a sharp contrast to my toasty bed, and I wrapped my arms around myself to ward off the chill. Ignoring the lingering haze of sleep, I forced myself to focus on the mundane task of brewing my morning coffee.

But not even the promise of caffeine could banish the twisted fantasies I’d had of Father Malachai. They clung to me like cobwebs, unwilling to let me go.

How the grooves of his tongue felt as he traced my skin. The feel of his blade pressed into my flesh, drawing blood. The way his eyes lit up beneath his mask as he choked me. It was as if the thought of watching the life drain from my eyes turned him on.

I shuddered and shook my head to clear my thoughts.

Yeah, I definitely needed a therapist. There was no way that was meant to be arousing.

I fumbled with the bag of coffee grounds, my fingers clumsy from sleep, and spilled a handful onto the floor.

“Shit.”

Too tired to care, I poured water into the machine and pushed the button to turn it on. Grabbing a mug from the cabinet, I placed it under the spout and waited. The machine gurgled to life, and the rich, bittersweet scent of coffee filled my apartment.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma.

“Ah, the beans of life.”

Once my coffee was ready, I trundled over to the sofa and mindlessly scrolled through the social media apps on my phone. The caffeine was working its magic, and I was already starting to feel more human.

Then I glanced toward the kitchen and groaned. The scattered coffee grounds stared back at me.

I was about to push off the couch to clean it up when something else caught my attention.

A tiny, almost imperceptible glint of light peered back at me from the small shelf above my television. I frowned, unable to decipher what it was. My pulse quickened as I stood from my seat and moved toward it.

The closer I got, the more certain I became it wasn’t just a trick of the light. I rose onto my toes and reached up, running my hand along the shelf. My fingers grazed something cold, barely bigger than a button, and I plucked it from its hiding place before depositing it into my palm.

The black device glared back at me as I turned it over, and my breath caught in my throat when a small lens peered up at me. My heart hammered against the inside of my chest when I realized what I was holding.

A camera.

A fucking camera.

Someone had broken into my home, invaded my personal space, and hid a fucking camera so they could what? Watch me?

Fear tightened my chest, and I could feel the beginning of a panic attack starting to take hold.

Who could have done it? Who would be so brazen as to…

My fear abated as my blood slowly turned molten.

“That motherfucker!”

Rage and adrenaline flooded my veins as I swept my gaze over my apartment.

I wasn’t stupid.

If there was one camera, there were bound to be more.

My breath came fast and hard, but I forced myself to move as I tore through my home.

I yanked books from shelves, ran my hands along picture frames, and ripped open every drawer.

As I dropped to my knees, I felt under the couch, under the coffee table — anywhere those tiny, insidious eyes could be lurking.

My mind raced with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.

How long had he been watching? What had he seen? Had he shared the videos with anyone else?

Every second I had spent inside my apartment, every vulnerable moment, had been his to consume.

The realization sent a sick thrill coursing through my veins, but it was laced with fury. He hadn’t even tried that hard to conceal the cameras. It was as if he wanted me to find them — wanted me to know that he saw everything.

That I had no secrets from him.

Over an hour later, sixteen tiny cameras lay in a pile on my living room floor.

Sixteen!

I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette — it was a little over the top.

He had been methodical as he placed each camera throughout my home.

Three in my bedroom — one tucked in the corner of the ceiling facing my bed, one on the opposite corner of the ceiling facing my wardrobe, and another in the smoke detector.

Four more in the living room, two in the kitchen, and one more on the windowsill by the fire escape.

He even had the audacity to place six in the bathroom.

Six fucking cameras!

The space was so tiny that I was surprised he even found so many hiding spots. Two would have given him the perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view.

I sank back onto my couch as I stared down at the cameras. I should have been afraid. Any sane person would have been.

But I wasn’t.

What I was, was livid.

I retrieved my phone from the coffee table and pulled up Margot’s contact information, hitting the call button. She answered on the third ring.

“Hey, you!” Her cheery voice rang out from the speaker. “What’s the latest with his holy hotness?”

“At what point does a stalker transition from the good kind to the skin-wearing kind?” I asked, cutting straight to the point.

“Why? What happened?” she asked, all traces of amusement vanishing from her tone.

“I just found sixteen hidden cameras scattered throughout my apartment.”

When Margot didn’t respond, I asked, “Margot? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, sorry, Layla, I’m just trying to figure out if I’m repulsed or aroused right now.”

“For fuck’s sake, Margot! Can you be serious for one damn second?”

“Oh, honey, I am being serious. That might be the hottest thing I have ever heard. The man is so obsessed with you that he broke into your home and planted hidden cameras so he could always watch you. Don’t you find that a tiny bit hot?”

Truth be told, I did find it hot. Which is why I was so fucking irate. Father Malachai O’Connor had turned me into a sexual deviant.

The man was a walking contradiction, though. He was a wolf concealed beneath the robes of a shepherd, feasting on the sins of his own creation.

The priest who wasn’t a priest. The sinner who wore the mask of a saint.

“So, what do I do about the cameras?” I asked.

If I thought she would ignore my attempt to avoid her question, I was sorely mistaken.

“Fuck, Layla! It does turn you on, doesn’t it?” she cackled.

“Margot,” I snapped, my frustration bleeding through my wavering outrage.

“Okay, okay,” she wheezed as she drew in a steadying breath. “How about you give him a taste of his own medicine? Turn the tables and fuck with his head.”

“Next time you talk to your therapist, mention that when I told you someone broke into my home and planted hidden cameras, your first reaction wasn’t to call the police, but to tell me to fuck with him.”

“Eh, I’m a dark romance reader, Lays. We forgive the murder but not the cheating.”

“Are you seriously quoting memes right now?”

“Do you want my advice or not?”

“Go on.”

“Have you destroyed the cameras?”

“Not yet.”

“Then this is what you’re going to do.”