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Agnes pov

The chapel was always cold after Compline, when the last candles were put out and the world fell into a deep, waiting silence.

 I loved the way the moonlight sliced through the high, arched windows, painting the stone floors in silver and blue. It made me feel clean, or rather it used to.

Now, it just made me feel empty.

I sat in the front pew, my hands clenched so tight in my lap that my knuckles went white. The rough wool of my habit scratched my skin, a constant, irritating reminder of the life I was supposed to be living, the promises I was supposed to be keeping.

But these days, my mind had become a traitor–a filthy, traitorous thing, It kept replaying images that had no place in a house of God: Images of a man’s hands, rough and calloused, pulling at the fabric of my habit–of a body pressing against mine, hard and demanding.

 I pressed my thighs together as a shameful heat pulled between them. Good heavens, I was going to burn for this, I was sure of it.

I stood up, my joints stiff. I had to do something–say the words out loud to another person, maybe that would purge the poison from my system.

My wimple felt like a cage around my face as I walked toward the confessional. By the time I stood at the  heavy wooden door it felt like a dark mouth waiting to swallow my sins.

 My heart hammered against my ribs as I slipped inside the small, dark space, the scent of old wood and lingering incense filling my lungs instantly.  The screen between us was a thin piece of carved wood, but it felt like a gully, and all I could make out was his shape on the other side.

Father Michael.

Even the thought of his name sent a jolt through me. It was always him in my filthy thoughts. 

His deep, steady voice, the way his cassock draped over his broad shoulders. The intensity in his dark eyes when he listened to my problems. A look that felt like it saw right through the habit and straight into the sinner underneath.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "It has been two weeks since my last confession."

The silence stretched, thick and so heavy that I could hear my own ragged breathing. Then, his voice came, a low baritone that vibrated through the floorboards and into my bones. "I am listening, my child."

I took a shaky breath, my fingers twisting the rosary beads in my pocket. "I have had… thoughts. Impure thoughts." My voice cracked on the last word, my face burning with shame. "Vile, wicked thoughts. About a man. About… flesh."

"What kind of thoughts, Sister?" he pressed, his voice so calm that it felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

"Thoughts of being touched," I breathed out, the words barely audible. "Thoughts of being… taken against a wall. In a field. Anywhere. Everywhere." 

The words spilled out now, a flood I couldn’t stop.

 "I imagine his hands on me, pulling my clothes, his mouth on my skin. I imagine him inside me, Father. Forcing himself on me. And I… I want it, I want it so much it hurts. I am so full of sin, I am drowning in it."

I finished, my body shuddering. I waited for the judgment, the harsh words, the penance of a hundred Hail Marys on my knees until they bled. Instead, all I heard was silence, a long, drawn-out silence that was somehow worse than any sermon. 

I could hear a faint sound from his side–a sharp intake of breath and the rustle of fabric. Then the small sliding door that separated us slid shut with a soft thud. 

My heart skipped. What was happening?

Before I could think, I heard the heavy creak of the confessional door on his side opening, then closing, followed by footsteps. Then my own door was being swung open, revealing the dimly lit, empty chapel.

Father Michael stood there in the doorway, blocking out the moonlight from the aisle. He was bigger than I remembered, taller, broader even. 

The place was so dark, but I could see his face.  It wasn't calm or even steady, it was raw and hungry. His eyes, which are usually gentle, were burning with an intensity that scared me and thrilled me all at once.

He didn't say a word. He just reached in, wrapped his hand around my upper arm, and pulled me out. I stumbled, my sandal catching on the stone floor as I let him drag me away, my brows furrowing in confusion. 

He didn't lead me toward the altar. No, He pulled me, half-dragging me down the side aisle, toward the heavy oak door of the rectory.

“Father what's going on?” I asked him, my voice small, “Where are you taking me?”

He ignored me again, and instead, focused on fumbling with a large iron key, The lock clicked open and he shoved the door, pulling me inside after him before slamming it shut. 

The bolt slid shut with a deafening sound.

We were in his study. It was a masculine space–a large, dark-wood desk and walls lined with books and the only light in there came from a single, shaded lamp, casting a warm glow over everything. 

The air was thick with the scent of old paper, leather, and something else… something musky and dark that was purely him.

He finally let go of my arm, and I stumbled back a step, rubbing the skin where he'd held me, praying it wouldn't form a bruise. 

I watched him curiously, my breath catching in my throat. He ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stand on end as his chest rose and fell rapidly under his black cassock.

"Sister…" he started, his voice ragged, nothing like the smooth baritone I was used to. "Sister, what you said…"

"I know," I whispered as I stared down in guilt, my body trembling. "I am wicked. I am a sinner, Father, and I’m willing to do any penance."