CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 37

EZRA

The exam hall smelled like paper and sweat. My pen shook as I scribbled answers, the clock ticking loud enough to make my pulse trip over itself. One more page. One more theorem.

I muttered under my breath, “Please, God. Just let me pass.”

When the bell rang, I dropped my pen like it was on fire.

Lily leaned over from her row, whispering, “Dead?”

“Dead,” I whispered back, dragging myself out.

Jordan appeared by the door. “Library. Now. Both of you.”

We went, like we always did during exam week. Hours hunched over books, screens glowing, the quiet buzz of highlighters. At some point, Lily started humming, Jordan muttered about an equation, and my head hit the table.

And then—darkness.

Father Nico’s voice in my dream, soft and wrong. Hands gripping my shoulders too hard. My throat caught as he whispered, “Don’t resist, Ezra. A hug isn’t sinful…” His grip turned iron. I couldn’t breathe. I pushed but he didn’t let go.

I jerked awake, gasping, chest heaving. My heart slammed so hard I thought I’d faint. The library lights blurred, books stacked like walls.

I pressed a hand to my face. “It’s not real. It’s not real,” I whispered.

But the sickness in my stomach lingered.

I tried to keep reading, forcing formulas into my brain, but the words swam. Eventually, I stuffed my notes into my bag and stumbled home.

Genevieve was in the sitting room when I opened the door. Elegant, as always. Straight posture, pearl earrings catching the light. She held a stack of documents like a queen handing down a decree.

“Ezra, dear,” she said, her accent perfectly clipped. “You’ll take these to Father Dorian at once. Important parish files.”

My heart dropped. “Tonight?”

She tilted her head. “Yes, tonight. The weather is turning ugly. Best you hand them over before the storm worsens.”

I swallowed. “I—I have work to finish—”

She cut me off with one look. “Ezra, dear.”

I shut my mouth instantly.

“Pack an overnight change,” she continued. “The rain will not be kind, and I will not have you traipsing home in a downpour. Father Dorian will see that you are safe. You are a child of God; your wellbeing comes first.”

I wanted to argue. I really did. But “Ezra, dear” had already been spoken. That was the end of it.

Reluctantly, I trudged upstairs. Tossed a shirt, sweatpants, underwear into a bag. Showered fast, scrubbing harder than I needed to, like I could wash away the nerves. When I changed, my hands shook buttoning my shirt.

By the time I came down, Genevieve was waiting at the door. “There we are. Much better. Mind your manners.”

I nodded, tight. “Yes, ma’am.”

She handed me the envelope. Thick. Stamped with the parish seal. “Straight to him. Don’t dawdle.”

I nodded again, shoved it under my arm, and stepped into the night.

The church loomed against the dark sky. Lights glowed faintly in the stained glass, colors smeared by rain that had started to fall. Not heavy yet, but I could feel the weight of the storm coming.

Father Dorian’s house stood just beyond the parish walls, smaller but sharp, the kind of neat beauty that didn’t belong to anyone else.

My stomach twisted as I walked up the steps. My knuckles hovered over the door.

Why did this feel like judgment day?

I knocked.

The door opened almost instantly.

Father Dorian filled the frame, taller than the shadows behind him, shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked at me, then at the rain starting to pour harder.

“Ezra,” he said, voice deep. “Get inside.”

I obeyed before my brain caught up.

The door shut behind me, muting the storm. The air inside was warm, heavy with the faint scent of coffee and books. Too intimate. Too much like stepping into his life.

I clutched the documents like a shield. “Genevieve asked me to—uh—give you these.”

He took them from me, his fingers brushing mine, and I nearly dropped the whole folder.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

I nodded. “It’s… fine.”

A towel appeared in his hand. He draped it over my shoulders, not asking, just doing. His hands pressed briefly against me, rough, steady.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

I wanted to argue, say something dumb, but the words caught.

He rubbed the towel against my hair, rough, almost annoyed, but careful at the same time. My pulse stuttered.

The storm outside crashed harder, water beating against the windows.

And inside—silence. Thick. Heavy.

So heavy I thought I might choke.

“Have you eaten?” Father Dorian’s voice rumbled through the quiet like thunder under his skin.

I shook my head quickly. “Uh—no. I was… planning to, you know, later.” Lies. My stomach had been growling since afternoon.

He didn’t comment. Just walked into the kitchen, his presence filling every inch of the house. I hovered near the doorway like a stray cat.

My phone buzzed.

“Ezra, dear.” Genevieve’s crisp voice carried even through the line. “You’re there already, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Stay put. The storm will not ease until morning. Behave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Click.

I sighed. Before I could slip my phone away, it buzzed again. Lily.

“Ezzy!” she chirped, too loud in my ear. “You good? We freaked out when Genevieve said she sent you there alone. Didn’t want you getting rained on.”

I glanced at the kitchen where pans clinked softly. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Not the first time, remember?”

Lily hummed. “Hmm. True. Call if the thunder makes you cry.” She laughed before I could argue and hung up.

I groaned into my hands. “Kill me now.”

“Sit,” Dorian said firmly. My head snapped up. He placed two plates on the table.

Steam curled from roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables glistening in butter. I blinked. “Father, this is—”

“Dorian,” he cut in smoothly, sliding into the chair across from me.

I froze. “What?”

“You can call me Dorian. When we’re alone.”

My brain short-circuited. “Oh.”

“Try it,” he said, voice low, almost daring.

My lips felt clumsy. “...Dorian.”

He nodded once. “Better.”

My chest burned. I stabbed my fork into the food just to distract myself.

We ate mostly in silence, except for the rain hammering the windows. Every so often my eyes betrayed me, darting to his hands gripping the fork, his jaw flexing as he chewed.

By the time I finished, I stood quickly. “I’ll wash up.”

“No.” He rose instantly, gathering plates before I could snatch them. “I’ll do it.”

“I can—”

“You won’t.” His tone ended the argument.

I hovered by the counter as he rolled up his sleeves further and turned on the tap.

And that’s when I saw them.

Biceps. Big, veined, flexing with every movement. Water running down strong forearms.

Oh God.

Stop looking. Stop looking. Hail Mary full of grace—

Except I didn’t notice that I’d been staring so long my lips parted slightly.

And when I finally blinked—he was there.

Right in front of me. Close enough that the heat from his body drowned out the storm. His eyes locked on mine, unreadable but burning.

My breath stuttered.

“Dorian…”

The way his name fell from my lips—it was over.

He kissed me. Hard.

A gasp tore out of me as my back hit the table. His hands gripped my hips, lifting me onto it with terrifying ease, and suddenly he was between my legs, caging me in.

Our mouths clashed, messy and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. His beard scratched my skin and I moaned into him before I could stop myself.

He swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

Warning bells screamed in my head—sin, sin, sin!—but every time I tried to pull back, his hands dragged me closer, grounding me, burning me.

“Dorian—” I gasped against his lips, but it came out as a plea, not a protest.

He pressed his forehead to mine, breath hot, lips brushing as he spoke. “You drive me insane, Ezra.”

My thighs clenched around his hips. I didn’t care about warning bells anymore. I didn’t care about anything except the way his hands gripped me like he’d never let go.

I wanted him to break me in half.

I wanted him to manhandle me until I forgot my own name.

And when his mouth crashed back onto mine, I let him.