Page 16 of Unholy Vows

Layla

A s I stepped out of the cab, I glanced up at the old church, taking in the decay from years of neglect. I shoved my hand into my coat pocket and retrieved the note Malachai had left me.

It was the right address.

Confusion wrinkled my brow, but I closed the car door and waved the driver off.

My breath was visible in front of me, like little puffs of smoke. The night was still damp with rain, and I pulled my coat tight around me, as if it were my last line of defense.

Forcing my feet to move, I approached the entrance. The street was deserted. The only sound was the soft scrape of my boots on cracked pavement. The wind rustled in the nearby trees, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold shot down my spine.

As if warning me against what I was about to do, the folded paper trembled in my grasp.

Time to play, Little Sinner. Go back to where it all began. Where people go to lie.

The words were simple, but their meaning was a puzzle I couldn’t piece together.

I peered down at my phone. I was early.

But waiting outside in the dead of night, unable to see beyond the shadows, was not something I was prepared to do.

The front doors were just up ahead.

All I had to do was climb the stairs, grip the handle, and pull.

I had to go in .

The idea both repulsed me and enticed me.

I had to know what waited inside.

A slight tremor racked my body as I pushed the door open. The aged wood creaked as it reluctantly welcomed me into its shadowy embrace. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust, timber, and decay.

Debris littered the floor, and torn plastic sheets draped over the pews billowed in the faint breeze slipping through the broken windows.

A haunting stillness filled the room, disturbed only by the shuffle of my feet.

My footsteps faltered as I surveyed the abandoned church. My heart pounded in my chest, and I brushed my fingers over the rough wood of a nearby pew to ground myself.

The stillness felt heavy, pressing against me from every side, and making it difficult to breathe.

It was an unnatural quiet. A silence that wasn’t peaceful, but suffocating.

My skin prickled, and my gaze darted around, searching every corner for something or someone hiding there.

The feeling of unseen eyes assaulted me, and I inhaled a deep breath as I tried to steady my racing heart.

Then my gaze locked on a familiar sight, and the meaning of Malachai’s note became crystal clear.

Bathed in the faint glow of the moon, stood the confessional.

It waited at the far end of the church, pulling me in like a ship to the rocks.

Go back to where it all began. W here people go to lie.

Malachai’s words echoed in my mind. He didn’t mean the church; he meant the confessional.

It was the place where I’d confessed my darkest desires.

Where we had sinned.

It was the beginning of my unravelling.

My feet moved of their own accord, each step deliberate, yet unwilling. The church was so silent, so still, it felt like walking through a dream. One where nothing was real, and yet, everything was too real.

My breathing grew shallow, and my senses heightened as I glanced around. A slight tremble shook my hands, and I clenched them into fists in the hope it would banish my unease.

The darkness seemed to consume everything, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

My fear propelled me forward, and I yanked the door of the confessional open harder than I intended. A cloud of dust billowed out of the enclosed box, invading my lungs and making me cough.

When I stepped inside the confined chamber, the soft light of a candle captured my attention. The tiny flame flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls.

But there was no sign of Malachai. No trace of his presence except for the faint, underlying tension that seemed to permeate the air.

I glanced around the space, taking it in for the first time.

A sharp gasp flew from my lips when I finally registered what I was seeing.

Tiny Polaroid pictures were pinned to the walls, scattered on the floor, and taped to the grille.

Hundreds of them.

And they were all of me.

Pictures of me in bed, exposed and helpless, unaware of the eyes watching me, of the predator in the darkness.

The blood drained from my face as I stared at the photos. Each one represented an intrusion into my life. The small, intimate moments when I thought I was safe, alone. But I’d never been alone. Malachai had been there the whole time.

Watching me.

My breathing hitched as I staggered backward. My hand darted out, gripping the edge of the booth for support. The shock of realization burned through me like acid.

He’d never left.

I felt exposed in ways I couldn’t even name.

The four walls of the confessional seemed to close in around me. It was too much. Too real.

The control I believed I had over my life was only an illusion. In that moment, I knew with sickening clarity that he would always be able to reach me.

Nothing in this world could keep him out.

There was no escaping him.

I studied the photos again. Each one was a snapshot of my vulnerability. In taunting Malachai, I’d placed my trust in him. I’d invited the devil to play, and I’d trusted I would be safe with him.

But trust was foolish where Malachai was concerned. He never cared about trust. Only control. Only the thrill of watching me come undone.

The urge to flee, to run and never look back, overwhelmed me.

I should go.

I should run far away from Father Malachai O’Connor.

Nothing good could come from entertaining his dangerous game.

And yet, something — something dark — kept me rooted to the spot.

A heady blend of terror and arousal swirled within me.

What was it about Malachai that held me captive?

I knew I should leave. I knew I should burn the photos and never think of him again.

Instead, I brushed my fingers over the fabric of my dress. Then I lifted the hem above my waist. Slowly, I slid my panties over my hips and down my legs. As I cradled them in my palm, I removed one of the pins holding a photo in place and replaced it with my panties.

I retrieved my lipstick from my handbag and unscrewed the lid, then I scrawled a message across the bench.

A message, and a challenge.

Your Move.

He would find it. Of that, I had no doubt.

Part of me feared what he was capable of, but a darker part reveled in it.

I craved the attention, the danger, that only he could deliver. That sick, delicious thrill that whispered, “He’s here, he’s close, he chose you. ”

The twisted connection between us was intoxicating.

I wasn’t sure whether I hated it or loved it. All I knew was that I needed it.

I turned away from the bench, forcing myself to breathe as I crossed the threshold of the confessional.

But I was no longer afraid.

I was part of the game now.

And there was no turning back.

I could feel his eyes on me as I exited the church. But I didn’t seek him out.

I didn’t need to.

He would always be watching.