Page 9

Spending the night watching June left me no closer to any answers on the demons plaguing this town.

June made me feel like an animal last night. I had the primal need to protect her, to take care of her, to fuck her. It was early morning when I was finally able to tear my eyes from her, to leave the shadows of the trees outside of her window. My chest twisted with each step—a gut feeling I haven’t felt in years. I’m not sure what this sick obsession I have with her is but there’s more than lust. I have a bad feeling leaving her alone. A guilt, a fear—that something might happen to her.

But I very well couldn’t stand at her window in the light of day, not when the mask has to be tucked away, and Marcelo the priest must take the mantle.

Now, I’m on my knees, rosary tangled between my fingers, and I’m praying. The frankincense drifts around me as I beg for forgiveness for everything I did last night.

It’s odd. I should feel so much more guilt for the sins I’ve committed. For touching her, lusting after her, stalking her. Not only are they against my vows and the church, they’re against the law. I broke into her home last night.

But I don’t feel guilty for any of it.

I don’t feel guilty for anything related to June and something about that should be . . . troubling. But, instead, it just leaves me to wonder—maybe this is a part of God’s plan for me. Maybe she is a part of God’s plan.

I have never been a perfect priest. It’s part of the reason Father Rodrigo asked me to become an exorcist so early on. I can’t even remember the time of priesthood before I exorcised demons. It was always part of the lure to the church.

To fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.

To get a chance at revenge.

I’ve probably broken every vow I took, yet I am still embedded with the power of the holy fire to execute foulness from the world.

Maybe I’m special, sure. But in reality, I know it’s not that. I know it’s the false rules man set to follow a God they couldn’t see. Rules set to favor themselves , not the Father. The one and only thing I believe in is Him. The Bible be damned. The Church be damned.

So I won’t fight these lustful thoughts for June. I will taper them. I will restrain them. But I will not fight them, I will not stop them.

Because something about that woman sings to me. My little songbird.

And I am desperate to match her tune.

The first service is set to begin in just a few minutes, and I stand with Father Callum at the doors, greeting all the parish as they enter. My official introduction into St. Mary’s. I can tell the “devout ” from the casual attendees. The “every morning, three times a day” visitors, from the “on holidays and when I need something more from the Lord.”

I always seem to favor the latter.

The “everydayers” look at me with confusion, fear, and something akin to distaste. They don’t like new , they don’t like change , and they definitely don’t like a grumpy priest with tattoos on his hands.

But who fucking cares?

The faces go by, bland and boring, telling me their names as if I’ll remember any of them. But I can feel my entire demeanor change when I spot her . My shoulders roll back, my spine straightens—I even puff out my chest a little.

June hobbles behind her family, and I can tell she is trying her best to hide the pain beneath the old, moth-eaten sweater. The equally drab cardigan she wears over it weighs her down.

She shyly peeks up at me through her honey brown bangs, and the smallest smirk tilts her lips. I go to greet her, but the moment I open my mouth, her mother’s in my face, pushing herself at me.

“Ah, Father Marcelo, Father Callum, good morning!”

Her makeup is caked on, and her dress is cut low at the cleavage. Unfortunately for whatshername, June’s figure must’ve come from her father’s side. Where June is filled out wonderfully, curves and soft spots in all the best places, her mother is as thin and flat as plywood. And where I don’t regularly find myself commenting on women’s bodies, I do find the bodacious nature of her outfit is only making her thinness more apparent.

She looks almost sickly. And the smell of cigarettes on her breath doesn’t help.

“Good morning,” I mutter, and let Father Callum take the reins of the conversation.

The mother’s fiancé—Daren? Darien? Whatever—stands between the two women, his arms crossed over his chest almost as if he’s acting as a personal bodyguard to the two.

“Ah, Daren, I meant to tell you—the men’s group is rescheduled from this Friday to Saturday,” Callum says.

And as I watch, June takes the smallest step from him, just enough so his elbow doesn’t touch her arm.

I hear Callum continue speaking, but the words don’t register—not as I watch the man notice the lack of contact with his almost-stepdaughter. Watch as annoyance and rage . . . and something more disgusting—something like challenge —enters his eyes.

It’s a second of time. A moment. But it tells me so much more of this dynamic. It tells me that all the fear I had leaving June this morning . . . is possibly valid. Yes, she’s being abused at home. Her mother is vile, June is sheltered, and this man is disgusting. But that singular look —the look of a man who thinks he is owed what is not offered—is cause for concern. That tells me this isn’t just an overly zealous mother.

This is danger.

Before I think any better, I place my hand on June’s upper arm.

“June.” Her name on my tongue feels like honey. Her stormy blue eyes meet mine—they look like the ocean in a storm, full of gray clouds and massive waves. But on her cheeks, there’s a warm sunrise welcoming a new dawn. “Father Callum has told me you are here nearly as often as he is. I still have not properly toured the cathedral. Do you think you could show me?”

The sunrise turns into a full on blush, and—thankfully—she steps closer to me. Away from her stepfather.

“I would be happy to, Father Marcelo.” My name on her lips nearly brings me to my knees. My sweet songbird.

Marcelo , I imagine my name on her lips in the dark. Her voice whimpering as I touch her, love her, show her just how perfect she is. Marcelo , she’d moan, and I would be completely undone.

“—prefer after the service?”

Fuck . She was speaking . I mentally curse myself and the growing hard-on in my pants. “ Perdón . Can you say that again?”

She presses her lips together. I wonder if my Spanish turns her on.

“Would you like a tour now? Or would you prefer one after the service?” Her full lips raise on one side.

Mere moments have passed since she walked up to me. Her mother and stepfather still stand beside her, but for all I care, they could not exist. Even Father Callum has blended into the background.

It is only the ringing of the church bells above that forces me to realize this moment is more than just between June and I.

“Well.” I chuckle lightly. “I think the bells just answered for us. I believe after will be wonderful. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to join you in the mezzanine. I want to see you play.”

Her cheeks turn a bright red, and I give her a moment by turning to Father Callum. “If that is all right with you, of course, Father. I think I’d rather watch the parish than join them for my first service.”

Callum’s eyes widen for a moment before he nods, clearly thinking of what I am actually here for. “Of course.”

I turn back to June. “Well then, Miss Forester, please lead the way.”

Without another glance at her parents, I follow June into the church. The pews are still filling, but most of the parish is seated, facing forward. We walk between them. The sunlight shines in through the stained glass windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colors all around the dark wood and cream marble flooring. Before we get to the carved crucifix, June turns right, exiting through the same espresso-colored wooden door I’d take to get to my quarters. The moment the door shuts behind us, the chatter and rustling of the morning crowd muffles, and all I can hear are the taps of our footsteps.

“How long have you been coming to St. Mary’s, June?”

She looks back at me over her shoulder as she turns into a small alcove leading directly into a spiral stairway. “Pretty much as long as I can remember. I wasn’t born in Belmouth, but I’ve spent most of my life here.”

I nod, following behind her as we ascend the stairs. “Where are you from originally?”

She shrugs. “Boston, I think? My mother doesn’t talk about it much, but I know I was born in a hospital there. I think we moved here before I was even five.” She pushes a plain door open at the top of the stairs, leading to the mezzanine balcony looking out over the parish. “Right around the time Father Callum became priest here, actually. It was just a year or two later, I think,” she adds.

The half-circle shape and tall railing make it difficult to see the people below, especially from the backside of the balcony. I imagine I’d have to stand right against the railing to see everyone. All that can be seen is the gorgeous brass pipes of the organ.

As June walks up to it, I marvel at its beauty. For a church so small, the organ looks priceless. It’s massive and warm, with numerous sets of keys, and several buttons on panels to both sides—she tells me they’re called pistons and stops. The small bench sits over pedals with even more of those buttons and a number of other nobs. Truthfully, I can’t even fathom what I’m looking at, nor how one person is supposed to use all this . It looks like a contraption, like a time machine from a sci-fi movie, or a box that could take you to another realm.

June pulls one of the random chairs strewn about over to the balcony—facing away from her. “Would you like to sit here?”

I smirk and tilt my head before walking over to the chair and lifting it with one hand, placing it directly next to the organ. “I’ve seen a million services. I wanted to watch you .”

She takes in a sharp breath. “Ah—oh. Of course, I just thought—no one has wanted to watch me play before. I didn’t—”

“Really? I heard you yesterday. You were amazing.”

The blush on her cheeks deepen, and something about it makes me absolutely feral.

“I—Thank you. I think most people come here to hear Father Callum. Not me.”

I plop into the chair and cross my ankles.

“Well, I am honored, then, to be your first audience.”

June presses her lips together again to hide her smile, and I think it might just be my new favorite sight. Still clearly frazzled, she sits on her bench and scoots across it. When I see her ass struggle to slide, I have never been more jealous of a piece of wood in my life.

I take her in once more as she begins to organize her sheet music, fumbling the papers. There is so much movement in so little an action, it seems as though her entire body is reacting to . . . well, me.

Her breasts are nearly falling out of her bra. I see the plump line where the seam is cutting into them, nearly overflowing.

Another bra for me to cut apart tonight, when I sneak into her room again as her Salvation.

But I can’t think of that right now. Not while the collar is on. I dart my eyes away, trying to find anything else to focus on.

The little songbird riffles through her sheet music, placing them in front of her. “Ho—How was your first night here?” she breathes, and my chest feels like it’s running a marathon.

“Good. It was a quiet night.” I grin—lying. If only she knew I was the one laying atop her. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting up here? It just seemed like the best seat in the house, and I did want to see you play. If it’s too uncomfortable—”

She finally turns to me, a smile lifting her lips. But it falters, like it slipped of its own accord without her permission.

“I don’t mind at all. Just a fair warning, it’s really loud up here during the music, but during the sermon you can hardly hear a thing. Father Callum isn’t too great at projecting.” She shrugs a shoulder, and I can’t help but smile.

“To be honest, neither am I. That’s ninety percent why they don’t have me leading my own parish,” I say jokingly.

Her eyes meet mine. “What’s the other ten percent?”

That I am the farthest thing from a good priest there is. That I want to take you over this organ and fuck you till you’re singing for me. That I want to make you mine in every sense of the word.

“I-I’m sorry.” She waves both of her hands in front of her. And fuck , she must’ve seen something on my face. “That was way too personal.”

I shouldn’t have come up here . . . not alone with her. I feel the familiar sliver of what I felt in the church yesterday. What I felt listening to her finger fuck herself in the confessional. Lust, yes. But deeper than that.

Desperation. Need.

“Not at all, don’t apologize.” I clear my throat, deciding to give her some truth. “The other ten percent is that my bishop is also the man who raised me, so he knows just how much of a lousy priest I make.”

At that moment, the opening procession begins, and it’s June’s cue to start playing, but instead, her eyes find mine once more.

“Father . . .” Her blue eyes search mine, and I can feel the seam between my eyebrows deepen as I search her face in return.

She knows something. And she’s incredibly afraid of what she knows.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “June, what—”

And then Father Callum walks out, and June scurries to the keys, her long delicate fingers on the white bars, and begins to play the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.

I stand, taking a step back in amazement, taking in all her glory—watching her and only her. Her fingers fly over the keys, her hands pulling on stops, then pushing on the little piston buttons. Her feet are everywhere, pressing pedals and pushing against more below. She truly is a masterpiece, working the giant contraption all by herself, and creating such beautiful sound with each of her movements. It should be a chaotic mess, but instead, it’s like watching a waterfall, stunning and gorgeous as it flows, but loud and destructive all the same.

Fuck the parish downstairs, fuck the procession, fuck everything.

All that matters right now is June’s playing, and the image of her beautiful fucking ass hanging off the bench.

Something takes over my mind again, as I find myself staring. God, what I would give to just squeeze her ass.

Fuck it , I think, and go to unbuckle my belt. I want her ass, right here, right now. I step toward her and push her over the keys of the organ, creating a jarring blast of notes that echo throughout the entire sanctuary. But no one notices. At least, I don’t notice if they do.

“Father Marcelo, what are you doing?” she squeaks. But she knows exactly what I’m doing, exactly what I want. Because it’s what she wants too. With her bent over the organ, I pull her big ass back toward my hard cock and shove her skirt up to her waist. God, I nearly come just at the sight of her exposed for me, exposed above the entire congregation and no one has the slightest idea what I’m going to do to her.

“Shhh,” I hum behind her.

“B-But you’re a priest! Your vows?!”

I glide my fingers under the seam of her pink cotton panties, and pull them over her hips and down her thighs, till they reveal her to me completely.

Fuck, she’s perfect.

“My vows . . . they’re not worth denying this .” I slip my index finger between her already-damp folds, and a small whimper escapes her lips. “I want you to moan for me, songbird.”

I run my finger over her throbbing clit.

“Ah, God,” she moans, looking at me over her shoulder.

“Not for him,” I say, not even recognizing my own voice. “For me .” I slide my middle finger into her wet, hot cunt, and she breaks.

“Father Marcelo,” she whimpers, pushing herself back, taking my fingers deeper, “I want you—”

“I know what you want. I watched you touch yourself, and I know exactly what you need.”

I slip my finger out of her, eliciting another moan to fall from those plump lips. God, I want to fuck every part of her. But I return to what I really want.

I rub my hand over the soft, smooth skin of her ass, before I slap it hard, leaving a red handprint, and then I do it again.

She shudders with each smack, and my cock is so fucking hard, I feel like it’s going to explode in my black slacks. I pull it out and fist myself as I touch her.

“You’re so fucking naughty,” I breathe through gritted teeth. “Making me want to break my oath to God. Making me want to sully myself with sin. God, June, I want to fill you up with my come and have you beg me to be sinful. I want to do so many things to you.”

I spank her again, my pinky hitting the plump lips between her thighs, and she jolts, her back arching from pleasure.

“You like when I spank you there, songbird? Let me hear it.”

I do it again, and she moans my name. Fuck, it’s so hot. I continue fisting myself, and it’s been so long since I’ve given into pleasure, I can already feel the tightening heat in my core, begging to burst out. I’m not even inside of her and I already want to come for her.

I pull her hips back again and slide my cock between her ass cheeks, pressing myself against her hole as I continue thrusting into my hand.

“June, you’ve done this to me. This is your fault. Fucking thank you .” I feel my balls slapping her pussy with each rock between her cheeks.

I want her to come. I want her to scream my name. I want to fill her up and have her leaking my fucking come.

I reach around, shoving my fingers between her folds and find that sweet little bundle of nerves. “Ah, Marcelo! Father Marcelo!”

“That’s right, June. Sing for me, songbird.”

“Marcelo!”

“Father Marcelo?”

My eyes flash to June as she sits on the bench, looking at me over her shoulder. Her skirt is still in place, and I stand a few steps behind her, hands gripping onto the balcony’s copper bar like it is the one thing between me and death.

Which, in this case, it might be.

What the fuck just happened? Was all of that an illusion?

June watches me in concern, but all I can think about is my hand on her ass, on her clit. All I can think about is how fucking hard I just was—fuck, am .

“Father Marcelo, are you okay?”

I let out a shaky breath. “Of course. Why?”

June shakes her head, saying, “I’m not sure. I heard you say ‘Sing for me,’ and when I asked you what you meant, you didn’t respond.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Sorry, June. I think my mind was elsewhere.” My mind was apparently too busy thinking about trying to fuck you than actually listening to you. “Are you done with your set already?”

She eyes me strangely—I don’t blame her, I just fantasized about bending her over the organ and trying to get her to come above the entire congregation—and then nods.

But her gorgeous ass is still hanging over that seat.

I bite my lip and grip the railing harder. I need to adjust my dick now , before she notices . . . if she hasn’t already.

I turn my back to her, pretending to look over Mass, while I discreetly adjust myself. June stands behind me, taking a tentative step closer.

“C-Can I ask you something?”

Fuck.

“Of course, June.”

Is this about last night?

“Before I had to play . . . I asked if you were actually here for church developments.”

I turn to her. “Yes. What else would I be here for?”

Or maybe she’ll tell me of the demon.

She fidgets with her hands, rubbing them together, and looks from me, to the floor, and then to me again.

“You can ask me anything, June,” I reassure. If it’s the latter, I need to know. So far, all I have is a feeling—and that is not enough to perform an exorcism.

She nods softly and then takes a breath. “You—” She pauses, looks me over, then shakes her head. “Did you like my set?”