Beneath the stained glass

Isabella's Pov

The first time I saw Father Arthur Harper, he wasn't behind the altar,he was outside the chapel, shirt clinging to his body from sweat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing as he shoveled soil like he was digging a grave for every temptation he'd ever tried to bury.

He was supposed to be a priest. But he looked like a sin I couldn’t wait to commit. The sun bathed him in gold, casting shadows that danced across his sculpted frame, raven black hair tousled just enough to look unholy. That jaw sharp as judgment. Lips pressed into a firm, unreadable line. His entire presence warned me away, but every cell in my body pulled me closer. I should have walked past, Said a prayer, Crossed myself or something else, Instead, I stared. Let desire bloom in my belly like a curse.

He noticed me. Of course he did. Those eyes—ice and ash, cool fire lifted slowly to mine. There was nothing priestly in them. No trace of mercy or modesty. Just the raw, dangerous awareness of a man who had tried so hard to forget he was still made of flesh.

"You lost?" Father Arthur asked with voice gravel and grace.

"No." I tilted my chin, fighting the urge to flush. "Just... wondering how much you charge to dig up sins."

Father Arthur lifted his brow slightly, but he didn’t smile. He stabbed the shovel into the dirt and leaned on it, sweat beading along his throat. Then he said,"Depends on the weight of them."

"Mine are heavy", I Stated, "Might take more than a shovel."

Silence pulsed between us. A breeze lifted the hem of my sundress just enough for his gaze to drop. He caught himself and snapped back to his role. I smiled and thought to myself "I saw it",That flicker,That hunger.

I stepped forward, slowly and said "I’m Isabella Luca. My aunt said you were the new priest." He nodded. "Arthur Harper."

I held out my hand, knowing full well he wouldn’t take it. And of course,He didn’t.

Instead, he said, "You should go inside. You’ll be late."

"I was hoping for a private prayer." I Stated. His jaw tightened. "That’s not what you want." I stepped closer, too close. Close enough that I could feel the heat off his skin.

"You don’t know what I want, Father." His eyes darkened. That calm mask cracked. Just a little.

"Go inside, Isabella." He said, but I responded "Make me."

For one heartbeat, the world stilled. Even the wind held its breath. He stepped back like he’d been burned by me, by himself, by the thought of what it would feel like to grab my waist and press me against the chapel wall. He didn’t act on it. Not yet. But the look in his eyes promised, One day, he would.

I smiled, turned on my heel, and walked into the chapel, hips swaying like a sermon.

From that moment, I knew: this church wasn’t ready for the kind of prayers I had in mind.

And Arthur Harper? He was already kneeling at my altar, We just hadn’t burned it down yet.

-----

The chapel smelled like old incense, wood polish, and wax. Candles flickered on either side of the altar, their flames trembling like secrets held too long. I took a seat in the second pew and ran my fingers along the polished wood.

I didn’t come here to pray. I came to unravel a man who’d wrapped himself in divinity like a cloak. I wanted to peel him back. Find the heat beneath the robes.

Minutes passed.Then the door creaked.I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Footsteps slow, Heavy,Deliberate.He walked down the aisle like it was judgment day, like the walls were watching. And maybe they were. Maybe they knew that this was no ordinary priest.He stopped at the front. Cleared his throat. Spoke, "Let us begin.”

His voice struck the air like lightning, sharp, full of quiet fire. I didn’t bow my head. I watched him. Every word from his lips was a temptation dressed as scripture. Every gesture, holy and forbidden. I imagined those hands—not folded in prayer, but twisted in my sheets.

And when his gaze swept the pews and found mine, he faltered. Just a fraction of a second, But I saw it.

After the service, I waited. He tried to escape. Slipped behind the back doors. I followed.

“Father,” I said, stepping into the vestry, closing the door behind me.

He turned, startled. “Isabella. You shouldn’t be here.”“That makes two of us.”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward, like he meant to usher me out—but he didn’t touch me. He couldn’t Or wouldn’t Yet.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he whispered.I stepped close. So close our chests almost brushed.“Tell me to stop.”He didn’t.

My fingers ghosted up the collar of his cassock. Heat radiated off him in waves. His breath hitched.I leaned in, lips at his ear. “You think you’ve chosen God. But I wonder…” I brushed my lips just beside his jaw. “…if God’s ever tested you like I will.” His hands balled into fists. Every muscle in his body strained with restraint. Then he stepped back. Ripped himself away like the air between us burned. “Leave,” he said, voice cracking.

I turned, walked out, heart pounding, lips tingling with unspoken promises.

But I didn’t smile this time.Because I knew i had shaken something loose in him.

And next time, he wouldn’t walk away.

------

Later that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the memory of his voice crawling beneath my skin. It wasn’t just his looks that haunted me, it was the contradiction of him. The purity he wore like armor, and the darkness I saw behind his eyes.

My phone buzzed. A message from my best friend, Celine: "So? Is he as holy as they say? "I smirked, typing back: "He's divine. But not in the way they think."

There was a knock at my window.I sat up, startled. Pulled back the curtain.

But there was no one there.Still, the air felt charged. Like he’d been near. Like some part of him had followed me home.

I wrapped myself in a robe and stood barefoot on the cool tiles. My skin still prickled from earlier. Every word, every glance, every denied touch, it lit something in me.

And I wasn’t going to let it go. Arthur Harper might have taken a vow.

But I had never been good at keeping promises. And this time, I was going to make him break every single one of his.