"Go on," he all but says, looking me dead in the eye.
Those eyes—the color of a brewing storm—yet still fatally calm.
Isn't he…isn't he supposed to be alarmed by what I just confessed?
Isn't he supposed to glare at me with disgust?
But I see none of that.
His demeanor is still and rigid. His expression flat, oozing apathy.
I swallow.
"That's all," I whisper, training my gaze to mirror his. If he's acting like it's not a big deal, why should I?
Well…because I'm the one who committed the crime?
My heart shrivels within its confines.
A whoosh of air fanning against my lips.
"That's fine."
His voice rings out, calm and firm. My eyes bulging against its socket as I stare at him.
Did I…perhaps hear wrong?
"He must have done something to deserve his fate," he continues. "God is the only one who decides how a life begins and ends. And if his was destined to end that way, then so be it."
My mind backpedals. I'm not sure soothing a confessor for the crime they've committed is part of a priest's job description.
Hell, I didn't even think he could speak in sentences that long.
So I sit there, blindsided—
Lips ajar, eyes wide.
But I can't deny the strange calm that hums through my veins, the fear that slowly simmers to a cease, dissolving—all because of him.
His slender, well-manicured fingers reach for his glasses. He adjusts them on the ridge of his aristocratic nose.
I know I'm not supposed to associate the term with a priest clad in holy robes…but the action is sexy.
Physically, my hand shoots to my mouth as if I'd said that out loud.
I peek at him from beneath my lashes.
This train of thought—it's not me.
I rarely have these kinds of thoughts. Rarely.
Mostly because my mind is always cluttered with darker, heavier, mind-consuming thoughts attempting to drive me to the edge.
But I'm strong. I have no choice but to be.
His voice cuts through the thickening silence like a knife.
"For your penance, you'll pray ten of the Lord's Prayer and ten Hail Marys."
Heat creeps up my cheeks, but I nod anyway.
He says nothing else, just looks at me with that same unreadable calm.
Maybe that's his standard way of regarding people, but still…
Sighing, I rise and bow to him. My voice slipping out in a whispered, "Thank you,"
Then I turn to leave—
Static rushes through my veins when his smooth, deep tone shuts the roaring in my head.
"Find forgiveness within yourself first," he says quietly. Calm. "Then come…back to me."
My lips part at his words. Saliva slides awkwardly down my throat as I stumble out of the booth.
What the hell was that?
With my mind swamped by question marks, I approach the chapel—purging away every intrusive thought that might involve a certain stoic priest with eyes the color of metal—as I begin my penance.
Kneeling before the sacred statue, I glare, my chest heaving as I exhale.
Gradually, the glare melts into the sad, sorry creature that I am.
And I begin;
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen."
I repeat it over and over like a mantra in my head.
I don't trust my voice—my throat already feels clogged.
I go at it for more than five minutes, my mind stumbling over some words, pausing to process them.
Then I move to the Hail Marys.
When I'm done, I take a moment to steady my emotions before standing and heading out through the exit.
As expected, Aunt Maya isn't home by the time I return.
Inserting my key into the lock, the aged door groans, loudly announcing my intrusion.
It's 10:30 Am.
On an ideal day, I'd rush for a quick bath and head straight to work at the Davidsons' house.
The reminder sends a sharp ache jolting through my spine.
Instead, I pace to my wardrobe, grab a simple change of clothes, and put them on.
My car keys sit idle in their usual spot. Wrapping my fingers around them, I leave the house, eyes set on the familiar route to the hospital.
Upon arrival—unlike three days ago—I park properly this time.
My gaze zeroes in on the influx of armed men patrolling the vicinity.
Clad in all-black suits and dark shades, their presence is intimidating.
Their postures, frightening.
My spine stiffens as a crazy feeling flutters in my gut—a terrible, creeping feeling.
But I suppress it.
I walk inside casually, a gentle spark of relief blooming in my chest when none of them turn to look at me.
A small spark, but it's there.
I carry that fragile hope into the ward where my father is kept.
But the moment I step in, the air is knocked from my lungs.
A man dressed in the likes of the ones outside stands beside my aunt—talking to her.
The façade I've worn all this time crumbles.
Heart drumming like thunder, I walk in—almost subconsciously.
My brows knit together, my eyes wide and glazed with cluelessness.
"Oh, she's here," Aunt Maya's eyes lit up when she spots me.
No. It didn't. It…stutters.
Tightens for a second, like a secret laid bare.
Terror curls through my veins, robbing me of breath.
What has she done?
A gut-wrenching fear slices through my skin—the kind that feels like drowning in silence.
Like a machine, the man turns to face me.
He's tall, packed with an unbelievable amount of muscles, his expression void of emotion.
My heart plunges to my stomach in a sickening 'plop.'
"Good," he says flatly. "Since everything's been finalized, you're leaving with us." His words land like a direct punch to my midsection. "Preston Miller insisted you come sooner rather than later."
My eyes—wide as hell—dart to Aunt Maya's frozen ones.
And in that moment, eyes have never spoken so loudly before.
I understand then.
Transaction successful.
I've just been sold.
And this time, the façade shatters to dust.