CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 41

EZRA

I woke up to sunlight cutting through the curtains.

And pain.

Holy hell. My legs felt like I’d been run over by a truck. My ass felt like it had been… well, ruined. Which, technically, it had.

I shifted and hissed. “Ow.”

“Don’t move.”

My eyes shot open. Father Dorian—no, Dorian—was already awake, sitting up, shirtless again, because of course he was. The tattoos. The broad chest. The calm, unreadable face.

He looked like sin wrapped in a priest’s body. And I had let him—

“Morning,” he said flatly, cutting off my spiral.

I swallowed. “M-morning.”

He stood and walked around the bed, crouching in front of me. His hand touched my cheek, surprisingly gentle. “You’re sore.”

I wanted to say duh, but my throat locked up. “A little.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “You can’t even sit properly.”

Heat shot up my neck. “Don’t say that.”

“Then don’t wince every time you breathe.”

I pouted, looking away. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?” His voice carried a hint of humor now. “You were the one begging to ride me.”

“Shhh!” I covered my face with both hands. “Don’t say that out loud.”

He chuckled low, then his voice softened. “Come on. Bath.”

“What?” I peeked between my fingers.

“You can’t walk.”

“I can walk!” I tried to stand. My legs shook, and I plopped back onto the bed with a hiss. “Ow.”

Dorian raised a brow. “Walking?”

“Shut up.”

He leaned down, scooped me up like I weighed nothing, and I squeaked. “Dorian—”

“Stop squirming,” he ordered, carrying me toward the bathroom.

“This is humiliating,” I muttered into his chest.

“No.” His voice was steady, calm. “This is me taking care of you.”

The bathroom smelled like soap and clean towels. He set me on the counter, turned on the water, then glanced at me. “Clothes off.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t bend. Do you want to bathe in pain?”

I gawked at him. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.” He started peeling my shirt off before I could protest. My face burned.

“Dorian—”

“Ezra.” His tone shut me up.

I let him. He undressed me like I was fragile porcelain, then helped me into the warm water. His big hands lathered soap, sliding over my shoulders, down my arms. Careful. Controlled.

I hated how much I liked it.

“You don’t have to—” I started.

“I do,” he cut in. “You’re mine now. I won’t leave you hurting.”

My heart stopped. Mine.

I stared at him, but he was focused on rinsing my hair, completely composed. Like we hadn’t destroyed every vow last night. Like he hadn’t made me scream into his mouth.

He dried me off, wrapped me in a towel, and carried me back to bed. I clung to his neck until he set me down gently.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched. My cheeks burned. I didn’t know what to say, so I whispered, “Thank you.”

He just nodded, expression unreadable.

Eventually, I dressed—well, tried. He buttoned my shirt when my fingers shook too much. The domesticity made me want to crawl under the floor.

When I was finally ready, I grabbed my bag. My legs still hurt, every step a reminder of last night.

At the door, I glanced back. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.

I stammered, “Bye, Father—I mean, Dorian.”

His lips curved faintly. “Bye, Ezra.”

I turned and hurried out, wincing with every step but refusing to look back. My heart was still hammering when the church bells rang in the distance.

God forgive me.

Because I knew I’d go back to him again.