The house was suffocating.
What was supposed to be a day of spiritual cleansing felt, to me, like a slow-motion drowning. The thick, cloying scent of burning sage and frankincense clung to the back of my throat, making every breath a struggle. The living room was a sea of black lace veils and hushed whispers, centered around Father Miller as he moved from corner to corner, chanting the ancient Latin prayers of protection.
But there was no protection here.
Not for me.
Every time I turned, Zade was there. He didn't follow me, didn't speak to me, but he hovered in my peripheral vision like a looming storm cloud. He stood by the fireplace, the orange glow of the embers catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the meticulous trim of his French beard. He looked every bit the pious benefactor, yet his presence felt like a jagged blade held against the throat of the ceremony.
"Ciara, dear, could you check on the spare candles in the cellar?" Mama whispered, leaning in close. Her hand was cold on my arm, her eyes bright with the stress of hosting the "perfect" blessing. "The ones on the altar are burning down too fast, and I want the house to be radiant when the final prayer is said."
I nodded, the movement jerky. I would have agreed to anything just to escape the heavy, physical weight of Zade's gaze. "Of course, Mama."
I slipped away, weaving through the parish elders and the neighborhood aunties. I reached the heavy wooden door that led to the basement and pulled it open, the hinges giving a low, mournful creak that was swallowed by the priest's rhythmic chanting.
The cellar was a different world. It was cool and dim, the air smelling of damp stone, old wood, and the earth itself. I flicked the light switch, but the bulb overhead only gave a weak, pathetic yellow flicker before dying with a sharp pop.
I sighed, leaning against the doorframe. The only light now was the faint, flickering glow spilling from the open door at the top of the stairs. I navigated by memory, my flats clicking softly on the stone floor as I made my way toward the back wall where the crates were stacked.
I found the beeswax candles and knelt, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the wooden lid. Just grab them and go, I told myself, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Don't think about his eyes in the boardroom. Don't think about the hard pressure of him at the altar. Don't think about the dream.
A floorboard creaked above. Not the light, scurrying step of my sister or the brisk walk of my mother. This was a heavy, deliberate sound.
Then, the heavy thud of the cellar door closing.
The click of the lock echoed through the silence like a gunshot.
"Mama?" I called out, my voice thin and betraying the terror rising in my gut. "Is that you? The light went out."
Silence.
Thick and absolute.
Then came the sound of boots. Slow, rhythmic, and heavy, descending the wooden stairs one agonizing step at a time. My heart hammered against my ribs a wild, frantic bird trying to escape its cage. I stood up, the box of candles forgotten at my feet.
The silhouette that emerged at the base of the stairs was a nightmare wrapped in a white dress shirt.
Zade Ed Clarason.
He didn't say a word. He just stood there, his 6'1" frame cutting off the only exit, his broad shoulders nearly touching the low-hanging beams of the cellar. In the near-darkness, the white fabric of his shirt seemed to glow, the muscles of his chest and shoulders casting long, jagged shadows that danced against the damp masonry.
"The priest is asking for you, Mr. Clarason," I managed to say. I tried to sound firm, but my voice was a mere whisper. I backed away, my heels catching on the uneven floor until my shoulders hit the cold, unforgiving stone of the back wall. "You... you shouldn't be down here. It's not proper."
"The priest is occupied with his water and his empty prayers," Zade said.
His voice was a low, terrifyingly smooth rumble a sound that didn't just reach my ears but vibrated through the very floorboards and into the soles of my feet. He stepped forward into the single sliver of light coming from a high, dirt-caked window.
The "saintly" mask he wore upstairs was gone. In its place was the face of the man who had haunted my sleep hard, hungry, and entirely devoid of mercy.
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, like a predator who knew the prey had nowhere left to run. I tried to slide to the left, but he was faster. He reached out, his large, scarred hand slamming against the stone wall next to my head. The impact was silent but forceful, making the dust dance in the dim light.
"You ran from me at the store, Ciara," he murmured, leaning down until the scent of sandalwood and something darker something like woodsmoke enveloped me. His French beard brushed against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending a violent shiver down my spine. "You trembled at the altar when you felt me behind you. And now, here you are. Trapped in the dark with the man you're so afraid of."
"I have to go," I whispered, my breath hitching as his other hand came up, not to touch me, but to cage me against the wall. I was pinned between his massive, heat-radiating body and the freezing stone.
"You're so focused on being a 'good girl,' aren't you?" His voice was a silken trap, dripping with a dark, mocking tenderness. He leaned closer, the sheer mass of his muscular frame pressing into me, making my head swim. "You think these walls and those prayers upstairs will protect you from what's coming. You think your God can keep me out."
He reached down, his fingers grazing the silk ribbon in my hair. With a slow, agonizing tug, he pulled it loose. My dark curls tumbled over my shoulders, and I felt a sob catch in my throat. I should have pushed him away. I should have screamed until the whole parish came running.
But I couldn't move. The weight of his presence was a spell a dark, intoxicating gravity that I didn't want to escape.
"I saw you looking at me during the blessing," he whispered, his gray eyes locking onto mine, stripping away every defense I had left. "You weren't thinking about the cross, Ciara. You were thinking about this."
He moved his hand from the wall, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before pressing firmly against my lower lip. I was trembling so hard I thought I might collapse, but he stepped in closer, his powerful thighs pinning mine against the stone, exactly like the pillar in my dream.
"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his lips hovering just a hair's breadth from mine. I could feel the heat of his mouth, the humidity of his breath. "Tell me you don't want the devil at your door."
I opened my mouth to protest, to find the words of the faithful girl I was supposed to be, but all that came out was a soft, broken gasp.
He didn't wait. He claimed my mouth with a monstrous, consuming hunger.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a conquest. His tongue surged into my mouth, tasting of coffee and dominance, while his hands finally found my skin. One hand tangled deep into the hair at the back of my neck, tilting my head back to give him better access, while the other slid down to my waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above my skirt.
I was drowning. My hands, which had been pressed against his chest to push him away, instead curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. A low, shameful moan escaped my throat a sound of total surrender.
The heat between us was volcanic. He groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated possessiveness, as he ground his hips into mine. I could feel the rigid, overwhelming evidence of his desire the same monstrous pressure from the communion line, but now there were no pews to hide us.
His hand slid lower, bunching up the fabric of my skirt until his palm met the bare skin of my thigh. His touch was electric, searingly hot against my chilled skin. He moved higher, his fingers grazing the damp silk of my underwear, and I arched against him, a bolt of pure, liquid fire shooting through my veins.
"You're mine," he growled against my lips, his voice ragged. "No prayer, no priest, no god is going to take you from me. Do you understand?"
I couldn't answer. I was lost in the sensation of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the terrifying realization that the "cleansing" was over. The devil wasn't at my door anymore. He was inside, and I was holding onto him like he was the only thing that could save me from the very fire he had started.
Above us, the faint sound of the priest's voice continued, a hollow echo of a world that no longer mattered. Down here, in the dark, there was only Zade, and the beautiful, ruinous sin of his touch.