Ashes of control

The morning light shone so bright, seeped through the stained crystals glass casting fractured beautiful colors like that of a rainbow across the crumpled sheets where our sins had been written in salty sweat and whispered pleas. I woke tangled in Arthur’s arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. It should’ve been peace, maybe even regret. But all I felt was hunger and thirst for the forbidden fruit.

I slipped from the bed quietly, wrapping the robe around my aching body, every inch of me still humming with the echoes of last night’s beautiful chaos. My legs were weak, but not from fatigue. From burning fire. From the truth that no amount of rosaries or ritual could quench what had ignited between us.

The chapel was silent and empty, save for the gentle creak of floorboards beneath my bare feet. I stood before the altar—where I once knelt to pray. Now, I wondered what exactly I worshipped anymore.

God?

Arthur?

Or the carnal madness we birthed here, under the very eyes of saints?

Behind me, I heard his steps but I didn’t turn.

“You disappeared,” his voice was hoarse, laced with that dangerous mix of guilt and desire that had become our common language.

“I needed to breathe,” I replied, still staring at the crucifix above. “Before I forget who I am.”

He stepped beside me. I felt his presence more than I saw him.

“I forgot who I was the second I touched you,” Arthur whispered, brushing his fingers over mine. “And I don’t think I want to remember.”

We stood in silence, hearts pounding in rhythm. Then his lips touched my shoulder, soft, reverent, almost holy. And the fire reignited.

He lifted me, my robe falling open, his mouth claiming every inch of exposed skin as he laid me on the altar—the same place he once blessed bread and wine. Now it bore the weight of our sins.

His hands were frantic, desperate, but his eyes stayed locked on mine as if asking permission, forgiveness, and damnation all at once.

“Yes,” I breathed. “All of it.”

We moved like one, a fusion of sacred and sinful. Every thrust was a confession. Every moan, a prayer.

Afterward, we didn’t speak or we couldn't rather. There was no need. Our bodies told stories that our mouths never could tell.

But peace was fleeting.

Later that day, the parish gates slammed shut with a sound that felt like judgment.

Father Michaels had returned.

And he had questions.

—-------

Arthur’s eyes darkened as the heavy knock echoed through the rectory.

“You should hide,” he said, the panic beneath his voice unmistakable. “Go to my study, the one behind the old confessional. No one uses it anymore.”

I hesitated. “And what will you tell him?”

“That you’re a wayward soul. That I’m guiding you.” He brushed my cheek, then whispered, “Go.”

I disappeared through the hidden passage, heart thundering. Behind the oak panel, I watched as Father Michaels entered. He was shorter than I remembered, but his presence loomed larger, colder, as though the years had turned him into marble.

“I heard rumors, Arthur,” Michaels said without preamble. “Unholy ones. A woman. Here. In this sanctuary.”

Arthur’s hands were folded calmly, but his voice was tight. “I take in the broken. You know that.”

Michaels’ eyes narrowed. “You were never one to bend the cloth to your temptations. Have you fallen?”

The silence that followed cracked my soul.

Arthur answered, “Not fallen. Just… realigned sir.”

“You speak as if sin were a compass,” Michaels snapped. “There are laws, vows, and God’s will.”

Arthur’s response was steady. “And there is love. Desire. The human condition. Perhaps the real sin is denying them.”

Michaels crossed himself. “I’ll be watching you.”

When he left, I emerged slowly, expecting Arthur to be relieved.

Instead, he was shaking. Not from fear—but from something deeper.

“I think he knows,” he said.

I touched his arm. “Then what do we do?”

His eyes met mine. “We don’t run. Not anymore.”

Before I could speak, he crushed his mouth to mine, lifting me onto the edge of his desk, sliding between my legs, urgency and recklessness burning through him.

“We make them remember why fire burns,” he growled against my throat.

And the storm began again.

—----

Hours later, I lay beside him, tracing the tattoo hidden just above his ribs—a symbol I hadn’t noticed before now. A flame wrapped in barbed wire.

“What’s this?” I whispered.

Arthur looked down, then sighed. “My reminder that passion always comes with a price.”

My fingers lingered. “Are we the price?”

“I think we might be the fire,” he replied.

A knock echoed again.

But it wasn’t the door.

It came from the chapel.

Arthur stiffened. “No one should be in the chapel this late.”

We rushed into the sanctuary, the doors groaning open under Arthur’s hand. The scent of incense still clung to the air. Candles flickered, and shadows moved.

There, at the altar, knelt Father Michaels.

Praying.

Until he turned around—and looked directly at us.

“I thought I might find you both here,” he said quietly, but there was no holiness in his voice. Only judgment.

I gripped Arthur’s hand. My heart pounded.

“I had hoped it wasn’t true,” Michaels continued, stepping down. “But now… now I see the devil doesn’t always come wearing horns.”

He pulled a small black-bound book from his pocket. A journal.

Arthur’s.

“You left it in the confessional.”

My stomach twisted.

“You wrote about her,” he added. “About the dreams. The temptation. You documented your fall.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “I wrote to purge. Not to confess.”

“But you did confess,” Michaels said darkly. “And now it’s out of your hands.”

With that, he turned and walked toward the chapel doors.

Arthur lunged forward, grabbing his arm. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Michaels said coldly. “And I will. The bishop will hear of this. You’re finished.”

Then he was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening. A huge silence fell.

Arthur turned to me, face pale. “It’s over.”

I took his face in my hands with tears rolling down my cheek from my eyes.“No. It’s just beginning.”

He looked at me like I was a miracle and a curse all in one. “They’ll excommunicate me. Burn everything I’ve built.”

I nodded slowly still sober.Deep down, I knew we were standing at the edge of something dangerous. This wasn’t just passion—it was temptation with teeth, a fire lit on the altar of everything sacred.

And we had just burned our first offering.

"let it burn, yes all you've built, we'd build something even more better" I answered.

-------

The silence in the room stretched, thick and humming with unspoken truths. Arthur rose from the seat and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer out into the darkness. The soft glow of the streetlight spilled across his sculpted silhouette, highlighting every muscle and shadow. I watched him from where I sat .

“What are you thinking?” I asked quietly, my fingers playing with the hem of my robe covering my bare body.

He didn’t turn around. “I’m thinking this changes everything.”

My heart sank, and the warmth from before dissipated like mist. “You regret it.”

His head snapped around, eyes wide and fierce. “No,” he said sharply, coming toward me in two long strides. “Never that.” He sank onto the seat beside me, taking my hand. “But Isabella, what we did… it wasn’t just heat. It was fire. And fire destroys if we don’t control it.”

I looked down at our entwined fingers. “Maybe I don’t want to control it.”

He cupped my face, lifting my chin until our eyes met. “You’re playing with something sacred. So am I. We can’t afford to pretend this is simple.”

His lips found mine again—gentler this time, like a vow and a warning combined. The kiss deepened, slower, more intense, until I was drowning in it. He pulled me onto his lap, the robe slipping away. Every touch burned, every sigh curled around the other, like smoke rising from something too wild to name.

“I can’t stay away from you,” he murmured against my skin. “But I have to try.”

“No, Arthur. Don’t try. Just be here. With me.”

His grip tightened. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, Isabella. The sins I carry.”

I ran my hand through his hair. “Then let me be your absolution.”

The air between us trembled. Outside, thunder rumbled like a warning. But we didn’t heed it.

Because inside this room, on this night, we chose to burn.

"Let's leave and go to a new place and start afresh" Arthur said.

" Are you sure about this" I asked.

Yes!

And just like that we're planning our escape.