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I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to ask him. Maybe because it is ridiculous to even think someone as gorgeous—as holy —as him would ever degrade himself to want me.

There’s no way he was the masked man.

But there was a moment. An . . . essence . When he spoke about his past, when he sounded . . . real, and not like the persona of the traveling priest—where he sounded like my masked man. His voice. His cadence.

It’s not lost on me he arrived in my life on the same day .

But to delude myself into thinking this man would ever . . . touch me? It’s insane. Absolutely delusional.

No, the man who touched me has to be grossly disfigured. Maybe with three eyes and no teeth. He has to be clinically insane or an absolute figment of my imagination.

Some real Phantom of the Opera type.

Though, I always was Team Phantom.

Father Marcelo smiles before me, nodding his head. “It was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever heard.”

After the service concludes, I walk Father Marcelo down to the main floor and instead of meeting up with Mother and Daren first, I show Father Marcelo around the cathedral.

He seems to already know most of it—it’s not a very large building. There’s the priest’s office to the left of the sanctuary, the sacristy to the right, and then more empty rooms beyond my little staircase—two plain offices, one room for gatherings, and, finally at the end of the hall, the guest living quarters. I know behind that cherry oak door is a small bathroom, a tightly packed kitchen connected to a living area, and a small bedroom with one window. And all of Father Marcelo’s things.

I can’t help but wonder what they smell like. Would they have the lingering scent of cigarettes and frankincense? Like the deeper, intoxicating scent that makes my knees weak?

“It’s very quiet in my quarters. Almost unnervingly so.” Father Marcelo chuckles. The rectory sits behind the church, so Father Marcelo’s apartment is the only one in the actual cathedral.

“It’s a little like a horror movie, right? Sometimes I’m here alone, Father Callum in his cottage, and I can’t help but feel eyes on the back of my neck.”

He smirks, but his eyes linger on me for a moment too long.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Like a horror movie.”

Once we turn back and walk down the passage, it’s only a matter of moments before we’re back at the doors to the sanctuary. Every fiber of my being wants to stay. Stay here, stay with Father Marcelo.

But reality is ready to steal it all away.

I press into the door just as a hand gently wraps around my arm.

“June . . .” His voice is just as soft as his touch.

A lump forms in my throat.

Masked man, masked man, masked man. My eyes fall to his hands, those hands that were possibly soothing my pains, rubbing where the bra wire had repeatedly stabbed into me. Then I meet his eyes—eyes I couldn’t see in the dark, but eyes that potentially saw a lot of me.

Suddenly, it feels too warm in this small, dim hallway.

His eyes are such a dark brown—not quite black, they’re too warm for that. No, they’re almost like a cherry-coated chocolate, a burnt umber, or the darkest shade of maroon imaginable. They’re rich and terrifying, yet utterly captivating.

Father Marcelo takes a small step back, scratches the back of his head, and says, “You played beautifully today. I look forward to hearing you tomorrow as well.”

A blush creeps over my cheeks. “T—thank you.” I turn back to the door just as Father Marcelo pushes it open for me.

The congregation sits on the other side. Father Callum is speaking to my mother and Daren, again. The rest of the parish either lingers about or makes their way back to their regular lives.

But something isn’t right—

I flinch back into Father Marcelo, my back bumping his chest as my heart stops dead in its tracks.

It’s gone between blinks—where now all I see is a stained glass window, reflecting shimmering blues and reds—before I saw a black mass, shadowy and moving like smoke. It stood at the back of the church, watching . . . me? Father Marcelo?

“What is it, June?” Father Marcelo’s hands are wrapped around my arms as he holds me to him, almost as if he’s ready to toss me behind him at the first sight of danger.

When I look back to the spot with the shadow, there isn’t a single trace of it left. Just the window, light shining through.

“N-nothing.” I blink a few times, willing my heart to slow down. Lord, getting scared of a shadow? I need to stop sneaking horror movies.

“Junia?” my mother calls. When I find her, her eyes are locked on Father Marcelo’s hands. As are Daren’s.

“Coming,” I call, and step out of Father Marcelo’s grasp, leaving a cold wake in its place.

The day has been long, and I have begged for night to come like no other. Mother didn’t take kindly to my . . . closeness with Father Marcelo today, so it was another whipping, this time, with Daren holding me down. I can still feel his dirt-covered fingernails digging into my hair at the base of my skull, pressing my face into the back of the couch as he watched Mother whip his belt across my back.

It was less than yesterday, but it hurt so much more.

Skipping dinner, I slunk into my room as fast as possible. I couldn’t deal with them anymore. I just wanted . . .

Salvation.

And Salvation is here again, waiting, as if he knows I need him. He’s standing outside my window, watching. Just like last time. His black hoodie is pulled over that terrifying mask, but . . . I don’t feel afraid. I should. I most definitely should. Scary huge man outside my window watching me? What’s not to be afraid of?

Especially with that thin white cross jaggedly painted over the thick black material. Is he mocking my faith? If that was his goal, it’s not working. If anything . . . it’s just making him my new faith.

He isn’t scary. Or, at least, I’m not scared. Maybe it’s because I’ve already dealt with enough horror for the night. My threshold is maxed out and nothing new can affect me. Maybe it’s because my masked watcher has already done this before and everything was fine.

Maybe it’s because, compared to the shit that is my life, the masked man feels more like a protector than a stalker. Like a comfort than actual danger.

He sees me watching him through the window as I curl in bed, his head tilts to the side. I think some part of me hoped he’d come tonight, and I can only assume he’s seeing that on my face. If he can see through that thing. It looks so alien and . . . unhuman. No eye holes, no mouth—nothing but black and the thin cross drawn across it to face me. I don’t even know if he is human.

I wipe one of the tears from under my eyes and lean up in bed. The masked man tenses, but doesn’t move, staying just in the bushes a few feet from the window. But I see the stiffness in his shoulders. It’s like he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him.

Tossing the blanket off, I stand, completely unsure of what I’m doing. I walk over to the window and stand just in front of the glass.

I don’t know if it’s the anonymity of it all, but . . . I like the masked man watching me. I feel oddly safe under his sightless stare, knowing that if he hurts me, it’s my own damn fault and not some made up, gaslit version of the truth.

I unlock my window, push it open, and step back, meeting the face of my watcher.

He once again tilts his head, then steps forward. Within three long strides, he stands at my window, and my chest hurts from the lack of breaths I’ve taken since standing.

A gloved hand hovers over the windowsill, and the thought of those gloved hands tangled in my hair, holding my face down, sends shivers all throughout my body. I suddenly realize what my body has known all along.

I want him to touch me.

I want him to taint me—before someone else does. With each day, I realize how afraid of Daren I am becoming. Each day, I realize he isn’t here for my mom—there’s no love, no security, and no money. No, Daren is here to play a game. A game in which he decided I was the prize for winning.

But he can’t have his prize—it’s not his to claim.

The masked man easily swoops into the opening, and as he stands at his full height, I feel my thighs clench with wrathful need.

I can pretend.

I can pretend whoever I wanted was under that mask.

My first thoughts are of Marcelo, my raging desire for him, knowing I’ll never have him. I’ll never feel him touch me beyond his gentle hands wrapped around my arms, his chest pressed against my back.

But this? This I can have. And what consequences will there be when a masked man wants to stay hidden, and a virgin slut wants to just feel anything ?

I blow out a shaky breath and step closer to the man, slowly lifting my hand to touch him. He grabs it in the air, clutching it so tight, it almost hurts.

I wince, but I know what I want. I want his touch. I crave it.

With his hand wrapped around my wrist, I guide it toward my breast, grazing his knuckles just along the underside once more.

Within a breath, the man is on me, pushing me back into the wall next to my bed. Alarm bells ring, but I still don’t think this was a mistake. Not as I feel a hard length press into my hip, not as his hand pins my wrist to the wall, not as his masked face hovers just above mine.

“Is this what you want?”

The shock of a robotic, altered voice jolts me to reality—to the decisions I’ve just made, the very real , very stupid decisions.

Unlike last night, he has a voice changer in his mask. This isn’t just some creep lurking outside girls’ windows. This is someone with a purpose that brought him here.

The man leans back to look at me, releasing my wrist but raising both arms to either side of me, locking me within.

“What? You scared now?” He presses his forehead against mine, forcing me to see nothing but the cross on his face. “You want me to leave?” The man digs his hips into me further, the length between his legs pressing into my damp core.

Fuck , it feels good. Better than I imagined. A shuddery breath escapes my quivering lips.

“Needy little church girl letting a stranger into her room when Mother’s back is turned.” Another thrust, and I throw my head back.

“M-m-mistake,” I stutter.

He nuzzles my cheek, the thick material dragging on my skin. It feels like . . . rubber. Or silicone. Not leather at all.

“Was it?”

His hands drop to my thighs, and by some act of God, he grabs them and lifts me against the wall, pressing directly against that sensitive spot I’ve only ever touched myself.

How he is able to carry me is beyond me, and a rushed gasp turns into a vicious moan when he presses into me.

The man chuckles under the mask, sliding a free hand up my stomach, between my breasts, and around my neck before finally settling over my mouth.

“Shh. You don’t want to wake Mommy, do you? Not with those sweet little moans.”

Maybe this was a mistake. I can admit that. But as his firm body is pressed to mine, it feels like anything but.

I shake my head and buck my hips forward, grinding his length.

He chuckles, and I swear he kisses me through the mask. “There’s a good girl.”

The masked man grinds against me, and for a moment, I lose myself in it. I think of Marcelo again, his sweet voice calling me a good girl. His hands on my body. His erection pressed against me.

I shudder—just thinking it feels so wrong. But I find my toes curling all the same.

The man takes a step back, letting my legs fall back to the floor before he completely unpins me from the wall. It’s . . . odd. The gesture is . . . thoughtful. Almost kind. He doesn’t let me fall. And though he’s been slamming me around, the fresh wounds haven’t stung once.

“Take off your clothes,” he orders. I blink, unmoving. But the masked man doesn’t let me think. He tries to lift my sweater over my head, saying, “Show me the wounds she gave you.”

I don’t know if it’s the way he said it, but even through the robotic voice, I can feel an inkling of warmth.

I take a half step back, closer to the wall. “N—no,” I whimper half-heartedly. I don’t want him to see more of me. He’s already seen too much.

“Now, songbird. Or I’ll do it for you.”

I bite my lips. I know he will. He already tried to take off my sweater and has proved he has no fear of cutting my clothes off of me.

But . . . if I do, then he’ll see me.

The masked man pulls something from his pocket—his knife. He waits a moment, letting me see it, before flicking it open.

Quickly, I unbutton my skirt and let it fall to the floor around my ankles.

“Fuck,” he groans. His hand holding the blade travels to my outer thigh, and he slowly caresses his gloved hand along my goosebumps. “I want these wrapped around my body, my face—” The masked man squeezes. “I want to feel these between my teeth.” His other hand travels to the hem of my sweater again. “Continue.”

I feel my cheeks heat, but I pull it over my head and let it fall with my skirt. It only took mere moments, and I’m yet again, standing in nothing but my underwear and socks in front of this man.

“So fucking beautiful,” he breathes, and I can feel his eyes taking me in. I go to fold my arms over my stomach, feeling my heart pound in my chest, but the masked man quickly grabs them, tossing my wrists to my sides. “Don’t you dare fucking cover yourself. You are stunning, and I want to admire every inch of you.”

He steps forward, reaching for my breasts. I shut my eyes, anticipating his touch again, but instead, I just feel a tug.

As I open my eyes, I want nothing more than to super glue them shut forever as mortification swallows me whole. The masked man tugs on the two socks I laid flat against my nipples this morning, pulling them out from behind my bra.

“I’ve heard of women stuffing their bras, but . . . I don’t really think you need it, songbird.” The masked man chuckles, tossing the socks over his shoulder. “Your tits are already perfect as is.”

I take a step back from him, trying to hide my shame, but his fist curls around my hair, the leather gloves tugging harshly at my scalp—just like I want—as he pulls me forward and tosses me onto my bed.

I fall, sprawling over the mattress and propping on my elbows to meet his gaze. He stands over me, so large it makes it seem like the room is too small for him, and I feel those sightless eyes careen down my body.

“You’re so fucking wet already,” he hisses, almost to himself. I look down at myself, and a small wet spot has formed just between my legs, just under the word Thursday . My lips fall open, but he doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Do you want me to make you feel good?”

Silence beats loud through the space between us. His chest rises and falls, waiting for me to answer.

I should say no.

I’d only be proving my mom right—I am a slut.

But . . .

“I want to admire every inch of you.”

The words rattle in my mind, repeating over and over. He makes me feel . . . seen. He makes me feel warm.

So instead, I nod. The man tilts his head, and I add, “Please,” just for good measure.

He looks down at himself, unzipping his hoodie to reveal his fitted T-shirt snug around his thick biceps.

I swallow, imagining this man must have a hideous face. Something that would make him stoop low enough to want to touch me .

Maybe I’ve been the only victim willing.

The masked man stands tall, tossing his jacket on the foot of the bed, his arms covered in stunning dark ink, and as I study the art over his muscles, he steps forward, nudging my thighs apart to make room for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, songbird.”

And for some reason, I believe him.

Delicately, carefully, he lowers his hand to my hips, gently sliding against my skin. I feel the pores of the leather, the softness, rub against the goosebumps I now have.

With a violent, unexpected tug, he flips me onto my stomach and pushes my hair off my upper back. The lashes down my back, old and new, sting from the cold bite of the AC.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy, as I feel his eyes roam the length of the cuts, the scars underneath, as his gaze wanders down my spine, over my hips, my . . . ass.

“What was your sin this time?” His voice drips with disdain, even with the robotic filter over it, like the mere thought of my punishment is the sin—that nothing I could’ve done would warrant this.

I’ve never had someone on my side before, about anything. His words, his tone, it fills me with a sense of . . . self preservation, of hope.

Of not feeling alone.

As this all dawns on me, my masked man slowly comes around the other side of the bed, and crouches down to my eye level. He doesn’t say anything more, waits for me to respond, and carefully works a small towel and water bottle from his bag. He dabs my back with the towel, cleaning the fresh ones.

Being with him, it makes me realize how . . . empty I’ve been. He may be the one wearing the mask, but he has shown me more of his personality in these two nights than I think I’ve been capable of showing anyone—even myself—for years. I . . . I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I like—other than playing the organ—what I don’t like, what I care about, what my interests are—nothing.

Except, now I know one thing. I like him .

“I was punished for being seen.”

His hand pauses just over another slash. “Explain.”

I rest my cheek on the mattress below me, my head turned to the side, facing the mask dead on. “She wants me to be a shadow. Always following behind her, but never outshining her. He wants me to be his . Today, they saw . . . someone . . . notice me. And they didn’t like it.”

The masked man is absolutely still, but I can see the muscles strain in his neck, the bulge in his forearm under his fitted black long sleeve.

“Listen,” he says through gritted teeth. In a quick motion, he cups my chin between his thumb and finger, pinching my cheeks to meet his eyes. “You will never be his, because you are already mine , songbird.”

My heart stops, the claim doing more for me than I thought possible. Heat coils between my thighs, my core tightening.

His thumb on my cheek rubs small circles before moving to tuck a loose strand behind my ear. I haven’t breathed since he called me his, but the masked man stands, and sits beside me on the bed. He reaches in his bag once more, pulling out an ointment, and dabs it on the welts down my spine. “You are so much more than a shadow, songbird. You’re a ray of sunlight in this shithole,” he whispers. His voice is gruff behind the mask, and somehow I still hear the cadence, the tone.

The care.

Once he finishes, he helps me sit up, my thighs touching his, my shoulders against his biceps.

“I got something for you.”

I flinch back and look up at him. “You did?”

He reaches into his bag again and pulls out a small pink shopping bag. “To replace what I ruined.” The masked man stands and steps in front of me. My eyes are level to his belt, and I—suddenly—want so badly to see it undone.

His gloved hand comes under my cheek again, forcing my eyes on his. The leather feels so soft on my skin, but his grip squeezes, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.

The pink bag is placed on my lap, cool to the touch, but I can’t look into it as the masked man bends at the waist. I can smell the thick leather—it’s intoxicating. His breath is heavy as he hovers just a few centimeters away from me.

“Open your mouth for me and stick out your tongue.”

I don’t even think about it—I do as he says.

He closes the gap, my tongue on the thick leather, licking the small pores just over where his lips should be—the tip of the white cross.

And I feel his mouth through the mask.

My breath catches in my throat, but before I can regain it, before I can throw my arms around his neck, before I can go farther, he’s taking a step back.

“I want you to think of me when you wear those,” he says, pointing at the bag. He then grabs his bag and leaves through the window.

It’s only after my eyes follow him for as long as they can see him, only after his silhouette completely disappears, do I look in the bag.

Inside is the softest baby-pink lace bundle I have ever felt—a bra and panty set.