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Puta mierda .

Those fuckers. What or whoever the fuck is trying to oppress and influence me into fantasizing of fucking June, I’m going to butcher them. I want to do the things I’ve imagined to her anyway—I don’t need some twisted pendejo forcing that want onto me.

It’s between us , not us and all of Hell.

I stomp through the cathedral, searching for any sign of the demon—that tall fucker with the horns. It’s about damned time I exorcise the bastard and send him back to where he belongs. Fuck the cult—I’ll figure them out later if I have to. All that matters right now is finding this demon and stopping him from coming between June and I.

I stalk through the halls of the church, searching in rooms I hadn’t been in before: the room I was in with Callum earlier today, the sanctuary, the garden outside, June’s balcony—but I don’t pick up even the faintest hint of demonic activity. No imps, no demon—nothing.

Slumping onto June’s organ bench, I lean forward, my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. I haven’t felt this useless since . . .

Since my parents.

I groan and slam my fist down on my knee, ignoring the sting of pain and grunt through it. Fucking Hell. It’s been days now, and I don’t feel any closer to exorcising this thing. I’ve been distracted, prioritizing what I want for the first time in thirteen years instead of what God wants, instead of what the church wants. Yet while it has felt so damn good , I know I’m failing my duties. And, worse, by failing those duties, I’m failing June.

This demon is just as much after her as it is now after me. It wants something from her, I just don’t know what. It could only be Daren. But I doubt he’d get all those men I saw outside the forest to commit blasphemy and turn from their God to a demon. Not when his motives were as revolting as forcing his step-daughter to be with him. No, it had to be more than that. The cult was more than that.

My mind feels fried, like putting a fork in an electrical socket. I’ve never been this frazzled on the job, not even the first time I wore the mask, the first time I killed a cultist. And I can’t help feeling that it all has to do with June. The stakes are higher now. I have to protect her—keep her safe from the Hell that’s here , in this world, rather than the next. I can’t handle having her suffer, even in the slightest. Not anymore. She’s suffered enough. And my God let that happen, let her mother abuse her.

I sigh again, scrubbing my hand through my hair. The curls tangle around my fingers, still damp from my shower before bed.

It’s a thought I hadn’t even allowed myself to voice yet, even in my mind. My God let that happen to her . I know the implications. I’m doubting Him. I’m doubting everything. And therefore, I am weak. My faith isn’t strong enough to cast away demons . . . it’s not even strong enough to cast away these thoughts.

Somewhere, I know He didn’t guide Daren’s eyes to June, He didn’t guide the belt in her mother’s hand. But . . . He didn’t stop them either. He didn’t give June anything to protect herself with.

All He gave her was me.

And I’m a damn awful consolation prize.

I tilt my head to either side, cracking the column of my neck in numerous places. I need a plan. A plan that’ll get me back on track, get me closer to finding these sons of bitches, and a plan to exorcise the demon plaguing June and I.

But first, I need to atone. First, I need my strength returned to me, my power over the demons.

First, I need to confess my sins and reunite with God.

I make my way back downstairs and head into the confessional booth, closing the door behind me. I don’t have my rosary to pray the Hail Marys, but I do them anyway, my hands clasped together, my head bowed before God.

“Father, forgive me for my sins . . . they are plenty.”

And then I pray. I pray for forgiveness, for strength, for union. I don’t pretend to hear God’s voice speak directly to me. That’s for saints and Mormons. No, I just follow my feelings. I believe God feels through me, and what my heart wants is what God wants for me. And what my heart wants is June.

I don’t ask for forgiveness for touching her, for wanting her. I can still feel the ghost of her tongue wrapped around my cock, her lips on me, and I know her Heavenly mouth is no sin. Just like her hands that come together in prayer are no sin, her breasts that protect her heart are no sin, and her perfect, tight cunt that will one day bear my child is no sin.

My feelings and want and desire for her are not a sin. Not a sin God planned for man. How can God have created Adam to not desire Eve, but still expect man and women to love each other, to lie together, to make love and bear children together? No. God created desire. God created love. And my God is a god of love.

Man created the sin of desire, for desiring that which he could not have, that which he wanted to take without permission, without want. That is sin.

“God, forgive me for my distance,” I say, sorry for it. Sorry for my anger at Daren and Jill. Sorry for my lack of attention to my faith. Sorry for my distance from my real family, from Rodrigo and Rowan and Willow. And sorry for not meeting June sooner, for not saving her the moment I first laid eyes on her, for not stealing her that first night I crept in through her window.

I feel God in my heart then, guiding me through my confessions, strengthening me with each moment. And not once does he guide me to confess any sins of my body, of my wants, of my passions. Not once does he guide me to confess of June. Because I am not sorry for my affection toward her. I am not sorry for my desire for her, my want to break my vows and make endless love to her. I am not sorry for my love—because loving Junia Forest is not a sin.