Page 7

Junia Forester. June. My songbird. Shortly after she was taken from the cathedral by her overbearing mother and Daren , I excused myself from Father Callum, telling him I needed to scout out Belmouth, get supplies, see what I could find.

In reality, I just followed them home.

After a quick trip to my room, I removed the collar and changed into a fitted black tee and hoodie, shoving the metal rosary into my pocket just in case I needed to exorcise whatever I assumed was following June. And, just so she wouldn’t recognize me if she did see me, I tucked my mask into my hoodie.

Now, I’m parked down the road from her shitty little house, mask on and hood up, standing about ten paces from her bedroom window.

It’s still daytime, but she doesn’t even notice the figure in all black staring at her as she bursts into her room.

In . . . just her underwear.

What the fuck?

June slumps to the floor, her knees buckling under her, and just a moment later, her entire body shakes with what look like sobs. All I see are her pale shoulders shaking, and her thick brown hair covering her face.

This was . . . not what I was expecting.

Why is she just in her underwear?

After watching her for what has to be over an hour, her shoulders finally relax, but she doesn’t move. The sun is nearing the horizon, creating a lilac sky with orange and pink clouds.

I have never been good with crying women. If my mother or sister cried in front of me, it was over. I would do anything they said. Same for Willow years later. If she cried over a stupid boy, I’d go beat him up for her. She cried ’cause someone said something awful about Rowan? I made sure they never said anything about him again.

Seeing June cry strikes that same need inside of me. The need to protect, to help, to make it right.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I step forward. Actually realizing what I’m about to do, I still take another step.

Something, or someone, made this little songbird cry herself to sleep before nightfall.

The dry grass crunches under my black boots with each step and, with the mask on, it feels like every shred of hesitation or second guessing falls away. If she wakes up, she’ll be terrified, and I don’t quite hate the idea of that. I reach her window, and though my shoulders are nearly the width of it, I’m determined to climb in. I test it, making sure it’s not locked, and when it slides up with only a little hesitation, I ready myself to enter.

The masked me is supposed to be saved for killing those too evil to be alive. Those summoning demons and devils into our world, sacrificing innocents for their hellish goals. It’s meant to fight the root of the problem, as the priest fights the results of the problem.

But right now, the masked me wants nothing more than to sneak into this girl’s bedroom and ease all her sorrows.

I push the window up, and carefully—quietly—climb in.

The room is small, and it smells of wildflowers and laundry detergent. Her small bed is centered, with nightstands on either side, one holding a Bible and the other a notebook. Across her bed is a small, old dresser and beside it is a full-length mirror.

And that’s it.

Nothing on her walls, nothing on her floors. There’s a small closet door on the other side of the dresser, but when I peek inside, all I see are blankets.

I can tell they’re not well off, but this girl has . . . nothing. There is absolutely no character to her room, not a single book, I don’t even see a phone.

What twenty-something-year-old doesn’t have a phone?

As expected, June is asleep, her breaths like a small animal.

And as I come closer, I see them—the raging lashes. Blood is dripping from two wounds on her back, and another on her round, plump ass. Beside them are angry swells coating the backs of her thighs, red lines marring that porcelain skin.

My gloved hands fist tightly, and my jaw hurts from how tightly I clench it. It takes everything in me not to throw open that door she’s slumped in front of and murder those two dumbfucks who did this to her.

But then I’d be leaving my broken little songbird alone. And I can’t .

I quietly ease down and move her, just a bit, to make sure she’s fully asleep, then I pull her toward me and lift her up.

Fuck. She’s gorgeous. These porcelain thick thighs, her little belly. It makes me want to bite her. Kiss her. Lick her.

And her fucking tits? They’re so much larger than I thought they were in that frumpy sweater she wore earlier. I knew she was hiding something , but Father in Heaven, I didn’t know she looked like this .

A gorgeous, thick goddess. I could drown in her and it still wouldn’t be enough.

I don’t realize how tightly I’m gripping her thigh as I cradle her to me until she jostles in my arms, whimpering, before settling back down again.

Fuck. What the Hell is happening to me?

I walk June to her bed and gently place her on it, turning her onto her side, away from me. Absently, I notice she’s wearing two bras that are digging into her skin.

I can’t leave her room, so instead of properly cleaning her wounds, I dab at the drying blood. Saliva has healing properties. I could lick them , I think to myself for the briefest moment before coming to my senses. Again.

After making sure none of the wounds are still bleeding, I cover June in the heaps of blankets she has on her bed and stand above her. Watching her.

My hard cock is begging to be set free, begging to be shoved inside of her, and take her—even as she sleeps. It’s pressed so tightly against my pants, it’s almost painful. I take a shaky breath, trying to calm myself down. I’ve never felt desire as strongly as I have today. I feel . . . unlike myself. Like an animal. A demon.

And it is the one reason why I don’t leave.

Because I am convinced a demon is influencing my poor songbird, and now me along with her.

I sit on her bed beside her—probably a mistake, but one only me and God will ever know about—and I pray. I pray for June, for her troubles and her soul.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is—”

June shudders beside me, and a small, faint moan escapes her breath.

I go absolutely, wildly feral.

I throw the blankets off her and watch as her thighs squeeze together, those little teddy bears getting lost between them. Perky nipples are pressing through the fabric of her bras, and it takes everything in me not to rip the final threads of these things apart and take those glorious breasts into my mouth.

Lowering myself beside her, I breathe her in. She smells nothing like laundry detergent and everything like wildflowers and tears. It sends jolts to my cock, and the only thing I can do is press it into her round ass as I lie next to her sleeping body.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I am committing a carnal sin. But, as long as I don’t break my vows—as long as I remain abstinent—it’s okay.

Right?

June backs her ass into my cock, and I curl my arm around her waist, hugging her to me. I can hear her deep, sleeping breaths.

But it’s not enough.

I need to feel them.

I trail my arm up her abdomen, refusing every urge to grab her stomach and squeeze her. My hand drifts between her breasts, resting on her chest.

Up, down. Up, down .

I tune my breathing to hers, feeling each inhale of life, and as I drive my cock against her ass cheek again, I feel another moan escape her chest.

Before I can stop myself, I pinch one of her perky nipples between my finger and thumb—and I twist .

June moans again, jerking into me. It takes everything in me not to touch her. Not to rip those little teddy bear panties away from her cunt and shove my gloved fingers into her desperate pussy.

This is all , I tell myself . I will not indulge more.

But I keep toying with her breast, cupping it in my hand and squeezing, pinching her nipple and rolling it between my fingers.

She turns onto her back, giving me better access to fondle her. Fuck, she really is gorgeous. Her bangs fall into her eyes, and her perfect, plump lips are open.

Wait.

Her lips are pressed together.

It’s her eyes that are open.

She freezes, like a little deer caught in the headlights, and I can tell that she’s trying to figure out if I’m even human. After all, all she can see is a black mask with a thin white cross coming down on her.

Her wide doe eyes study me as her plump lips quiver. She’s terrified. Justifiably so, but it still stings to know I do this to her. And some sick part of me also finds it a little hot.

June’s breathing has completely stopped, and I can tell before even she can that she’s about to scream. The change in her eyes, the sudden stiffness of her body, the recognition of something not being right painted all over her face. As she takes a sharp inhale, I pin my body over hers and press a gloved hand tightly over her mouth, grabbing her scream and taking it.

Tears prickle her eyes and I can’t help but find her absolutely stunning like this. She tries to fight, jerking under me as if to get away, but a sharp hiss leaves her lips and escapes between my fingers. She spasms, and I can tell it’s from the pain raking down her back with each welt her wicked family left on her.

I don’t want my songbird in pain.

Still holding her tightly, I straddle her wide hips and pin her to the bed with my knees, easing my weight from her chest and hovering over her.

She exhales, her eyes closing in a form of relief.

Something compels me to speak. God, the Devil—maybe my cock. But I need her to know she won’t be hurt, not by me. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I deepen my voice, trying to suppress my accent as much as possible. Fuck, how do British people pretend to be American all the damn time?

June blinks her eyes up at me.

“Are you going to scream?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head.

“Good girl,” I mutter, and slowly lift my hand from her mouth, testing—waiting—to see if she truly is a good girl .

When she doesn’t scream, I brush the tears from her cheek. She whimpers, swallows, and then whispers, “Wh-Who are you?”

Instead of answering, I ask, “Why did they hurt you?”