CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 14

DORIAN

It took the whole of me not to laugh.

Ezra had practically choked to death the moment I pulled my shirt off. He’d stood there coughing, stammering, his face red as fire, eyes darting everywhere but at me.

God. He was cute.

I knew what I looked like. Years ago, as a lawyer, I used my looks as much as my words. Men, women—it hadn’t mattered. There were weeks when I was in someone’s bed every night, sometimes more than one. That life was gone, buried under vows and black collars, but my body hadn’t changed. I was still broad, still strong, still marked with ink I’d chosen long before I chose God.

Ezra’s reaction reminded me of all of that.

Especially when I remembered the kiss. That brief, wild, desperate moment when his lips touched mine. He had been clumsy, terrified, but honest. And it haunted me.

He had a thing for me. I wasn’t blind.

And I liked the boy too.

But I was a priest now. My body, my thoughts, my desires—they weren’t mine anymore. They belonged to God. I couldn’t act on what I wanted.

Still, when I closed my eyes, an image slammed into my skull: Ezra, flushed, mouth open, riding me like he was made for it.

I cursed under my breath and slapped the side of my face, hard enough to sting. “No. Stop.”

I dragged on a black T-shirt, jeans, something casual, and shoved the image away. I wasn’t going to lose myself like that.

The bathroom door creaked. Ezra stepped out, hair wet, clinging to his forehead. He’d bathed and changed into a simple sweater and jeans, but the sight still twisted something inside me.

He froze when he saw me. “Oh. You’re dressed.”

I smirked faintly. “You sound disappointed.”

His eyes widened. “I—what? No! That’s not—I didn’t—”

I shook my head, fighting back another laugh. “Relax, Ezra. I’m joking.”

He made a face and rubbed at his damp hair with a towel. Too roughly. Drops of water clung to his curls.

Before I thought about it, I was moving toward him. “You’ll hurt yourself like that.”

He blinked up at me. “What are you—”

I took the towel gently from his hands. “Hold still.”

His breath hitched. But he didn’t move.

I rubbed the towel over his head, careful, slow. His hair was softer than I expected, his head small under my palm. He stood there stiff as a board, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You’re going to rub yourself bald if you keep at it that way,” I murmured.

He muttered, “I can do it myself.”

“I know,” I said calmly. “But you didn’t have to.”

He huffed but stayed still, his cheeks turning pink.

I kept drying, watching his curls bounce back, water darkening the towel. The size difference was ridiculous—he barely reached my chest, and here I was towering over him like some giant shadow.

Then he turned suddenly, tilting his face up to look at me. His eyes were wide, bright, so close I could see every fleck of color.

And just like that, another image hit me—Ezra on his knees, looking up with those same eyes, lips parted, waiting.

My grip faltered.

I dropped the towel like it burned.

He blinked. “Father?”

I stepped back fast, jaw tight. “You’re fine now.”

His brows furrowed. “But—”

“Get ready for dinner,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I meant.

His mouth opened, closed, like he wanted to argue but thought better of it.

I turned, grabbed my jacket, and left the room before I did something worse.

Outside, the cold air slapped me, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could put out the fire in my head.

Ezra Monroe was going to be the death of me.