The moonlight was a cold, silver blade cutting through the curtains of my bedroom, but I didn't see it. I was far away, transported to a version of St. Jude's that didn't exist in the waking world.
In my dream, the cathedral was a hollowed-out ribcage of stone and shadow. The familiar scent of frankincense had soured, turned heavy and metallic, like old blood and ozone. The pews were gone, leaving a vast, echoing emptiness that amplified the frantic rhythm of my own heart. The air wasn't just warm; it was thick, a haunted heat that felt like it was radiating from the very floorboards.
I was standing near the altar, clad in that same white and red dress, but it felt thinner now transparent, like a second skin.
Then, I heard it.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of a boot against stone.
Out of the obsidian darkness of the side aisle, he emerged. Zade didn't look like a parishioner here. He looked like the architect of the shadows. He was a silhouette of pure, distilled power, his shoulders broader than the pillars, his gray eyes glowing with a predatory, lunar light. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence between us was a living thing, screaming with an intensity that made my knees weak.
I backed away, my breath hitching in my throat, until my shoulder blades hit the rough, cold stone of a massive pillar. I was cornered.
Zade didn't slow down. He moved with a terrifying, fluid grace, closing the distance until the heat from his body began to melt the chill of the stone behind me. He stopped inches away, looming over me, his 6'1" frame making me feel like a child lost in a dark forest.
His jaw tight, his expression one of absolute, terrifying focused on me.
Suddenly, his hands were on me.
They weren't the "gentle" hands I had imagined a devout man would possess. They were large, scarred, and possessive. With a single, effortless motion, he gripped my waist and hoisted me upward. My feet left the floor, and for a heartbeat, I felt weightless, suspended in his strength.
He pinned me against the stone pillar, the rough granite scraping against my back while his massive body acted as a cage in front of me. I gasped, my hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders for balance.
"Hands up, Ciara," he commanded.
His voice wasn't a whisper; it was a low, vibrational frequency that seemed to bypass my ears and resonate directly in my womb. It was the voice of a man who expected nothing less than total, blind obedience.
Like a faithful girl,like a lamb following the shepherd to the slaughter.I did as I was told. I raised my arms above my head, pressing my palms against the cold stone.
Zade's eyes darkened, turning almost black. He reached up with one hand, his thick fingers encircling both of my wrists with terrifying ease. He held them there, anchored against the pillar, rendering me completely helpless.
Then, his other hand began to wander.
He didn't rush. He traced the line of my throat with the back of his knuckles, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I let out a broken whimper, my head falling back against the stone.
"Look at me," he growled.
I opened my eyes, drowning in that icy gray gaze. His hand moved lower, over the collarbone, settling for a torturous second over my heart, which was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise his palm. Then, he moved down over the swell of my chest, down the curve of my waist, his fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh of my hip.
He stepped even closer, sliding his body between my dangling legs, caging my small frame with the sheer mass of his own. I could feel every hard muscle of his thighs, the heat of his chest, and that same rigid, monstrous pressure I had felt in the communion line.
He was a mountain, and I was being buried in his landslide.
He began to bend down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the sandalwood and the dark, intoxicating musk of him. His mouth was a hair's breadth away from mine not a kiss of comfort, but a monstrous, consuming promise. I wanted it. I craved the destruction of it. I leaned forward, my lips parting, my soul screaming for the sin he was about to provide—
"CIARA! GET UP THIS INSTALMENT!"
The scream shattered the dark cathedral like a pane of glass.
I bolted upright in my bed, my lungs burning as I fought for air. The room was flooded with the harsh, yellow light of the hallway. My heart was still thudding in that same frantic rhythm, and for a terrifying moment, I could still feel the phantom pressure of Zade's hand around my wrists.
Mama was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her face a mask of morning irritation.
"I've been calling you for ten minutes! The decorators are going to be here soon for the house cleansing preparations, and you're still lounging in bed like a princess!"
I couldn't speak. I was trembling, my skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat. I looked down at my hands; they were shaking so violently I had to tuck them under the duvet.
"Are you listening to me?" Mama stepped into the room, squinting at me. "Your face is bright red, Ciara. Do you have a fever?"
"I... I just had a bad dream, Mama," I managed to choke out, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
"Well, wash your face and get downstairs. We have work to do. And wear something modest Father Miller's assistants will be coming by later to check the altar."
Mama turned and marched out, her footsteps heavy on the hardwood.
I stayed frozen for a long minute, staring at the empty space where she had stood. I slowly reached up and touched my wrists. They felt cold. I touched my lips, half-expecting to feel the burn of his kiss.
I was blushing a deep, shameful heat that spread from my chest to my forehead. It wasn't just a dream. It felt like a premonition. It felt like he had reached through the veil of sleep to claim a part of me I wasn't ready to give.
I slid out of bed, my legs feeling strangely weak. As I walked toward the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the long mirror. My eyes were wide, dark, and filled with a hunger I didn't recognize.
I was an innocent girl. I was a faithful daughter. But as I splashed cold water on my face, I knew the truth: the girl who had walked into St. Jude's last Sunday was gone. In her place was someone who had been touched by a devil in her sleep, and she was terrified of how much she wanted him to wake her up.