CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 42

DORIAN

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Ezra.

The boy walked out of my house limping, wincing with every step, and all I could think was—mine.

I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. My chest still burned from the way he’d clung to me last night. His voice. His gasps. His pleas. I swallowed hard.

I should have been on my knees begging for forgiveness, not standing here wishing he had stayed.

“Christ,” I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand over my face.

What have I done?

I broke my vow. I shattered years of discipline in one night. Celibacy, obedience, everything I swore—burned the second Ezra Monroe looked at me like I hung the stars.

And God help me, I’d do it again.

I walked to the sink, poured water into a glass, and drank it down in one swallow. My reflection in the window looked back at me—tired, shadowed, and utterly corrupted.

But the guilt didn’t erase the truth. The truth was, I liked the way he looked sitting on my table, shirt torn open, lips swollen from my kiss. I liked the way he trembled when I touched him. I liked hearing him whisper my name like a prayer and a curse at once.

My name. Not Father. Dorian.

I slammed the glass down too hard. It cracked, but didn’t shatter.

“Get it together,” I growled at myself.

I paced the room, running a hand through my hair. Maybe if I repeated the Psalms, I could clear the filth in my head. Maybe if I wore myself out in prayer, the images would fade.

But no. Every verse I whispered twisted back into his voice, his face, the way he bit his lip when he was embarrassed, the way he looked up at me when I slid into him—

“Stop.” I snapped the word into the empty air.

I pressed both palms onto the table, leaning forward until my shoulders ached. The wood creaked under the pressure.

But it wasn’t pressure I wanted.

It was Ezra.

God forgive me.

I sank into the chair, burying my face in my hands. Last night, I’d touched him like a man, not a priest. I’d kissed him like he belonged to me, not to God. And when he told me he was a virgin, something dark and hungry had snapped inside me.

He gave himself to me.

And I’d taken it with both hands.

I leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. My chest rose and fell too fast.

No excuses. I should end it now. Send him away. Shut it down before it gets worse.

But worse was already here.

He was in my blood.

He was the first thought in my head when I woke. The last before sleep. The reason my body still ached with need even now.

I clenched my fists on my thighs, gritting my teeth.

If anyone ever touched him—Nico, those college boys, anyone—

My stomach twisted with violence I couldn’t name. I’d choke them with my bare hands.

Possessive. Brutal. The way a man thinks about a lover, not a priest about a parishioner.

And yet, as sick as it made me, I wanted him more.

I wanted his mouth again, his soft thighs, his laugh, his nervous stammer when he tried to act proper but his eyes said everything else.

Ezra Monroe. My sweet sin.

I pressed a hand over my heart and whispered, “God forgive me.”

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.

I was asking for time.

Because I wasn’t ready to let him go.

Not now. Not ever.