5: "I don't accept gifts from the devil."

Lilith POV

The white dress clung to every curve as I walked down Bellmare's cobblestone streets toward Saint Raphael's, my red heels clicking against stone loud enough to echo off the ancient buildings. Aunt Isabella walked three steps ahead refusing to look at me, her spine rigid with disapproval that radiated off her in waves.

People stopped to stare as we passed, old women clutching their purses tighter while men's eyes followed the swing of my hips before they remembered where they were going and crossed themselves quickly. Their judgment should have bothered me but instead it slid off my skin like water, each scandalized look fueling something reckless inside my chest.

Saint Raphael's rose before us with its bell tower piercing the morning sky, the heavy wooden doors already open to welcome parishioners. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows painting rainbows across the marble floor while the scent of incense hung thick in the air, mixing with something else I couldn't quite name but that felt like centuries of whispered prayers and confessed sins.

I stepped inside and Mrs. Henderson's gasp cut through the quiet like a knife, her rosary beads clicking faster as though she could pray away whatever evil I'd brought with me. Behind her Mr. Castellano's gaze lingered on my body before guilt flooded his features and he crossed himself twice, his lips moving in silent apology.

The chapel stretched before me with its ornate altar and flickering candles, rows of wooden pews filled with people who all turned to watch me walk down the aisle. Their whispers rose like steam, filling the space between hymns and prayers, but I kept my chin up and my steps measured because I hadn't come here for their approval.

I'd come for him.

Father Damien Cross, the mysterious priest everyone talked about but nobody really knew, the man with the dark past and strong hands who'd supposedly done unspeakable things before finding God. I wanted to see if the rumors were true, wanted to know what kind of man could make married women blush just by saying mass.

The confessional booth stood in the corner looking ancient and imposing with its dark wood and heavy curtains, beckoning me forward even as my rational mind screamed at me to turn around and leave. I slid inside before I could change my mind, the velvet cushion worn smooth by generations of sinners seeking absolution, the screen separating me from the other side so thin I could probably push my finger through it if I tried.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I settled onto the cushion, my dress riding up slightly though he couldn't see me through the screen. Not yet anyway.

The door on his side opened and closed, followed by silence so complete I could hear my own breathing mixing with his, could feel the weight of his presence even through the barrier between us.

Then his voice came, low and deep and rough like velvet dragged over gravel, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. When was your last confession?"

The Latin rolled off his tongue smooth as honey and I had to swallow twice before I could respond. "This is my first."

Silence stretched between us, long enough that I started counting heartbeats. One, two, three.

"A new believer?" he asked, something curious threading through his words.

I almost laughed at the question. "Hardly, but I thought it was time to visit Daddy."

His breath caught audibly and I knew I'd rattled him, knew I'd cracked whatever composure he'd been holding. "You mean the Father," he corrected, tension pulling his words taut like wire. "Our Father in heaven."

"Right," I whispered back, leaning closer to the screen. "Father."

The silence that followed felt different somehow, charged with something I couldn't name but that made my skin feel too tight for my body. "What would you like to confess, child?"

Child. The word should have insulted me, should have made me stand up and walk out, but the way he said it sounded like it physically hurt him to put that distance between us, like he was trying to remind himself of boundaries that were already starting to blur.

"I've lied," I began, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "I've taken things that weren't mine and I've made men fall in love with me just to watch them shatter when I walked away." I paused, listening to the change in his breathing. "I've worn white to make people wonder if I deserved it."

He didn't speak and somehow his silence felt like permission to continue.

"And right now," I said, pressing closer until my lips were almost touching the screen, "I'm kneeling here thinking about what you look like under all that black you wear, wondering what your mouth would taste like after saying a thousand prayers."

His breath caught properly this time, actually caught, like I'd reached through the screen and wrapped my hand around his throat. The sound of it sent heat flooding through my veins.

"You're playing with fire," he said, his voice dropping to something dark and dangerous, a warning wrapped in velvet.

I leaned even closer until I was practically breathing against the partition. "Maybe I want to burn."

The silence that followed was so heavy I could hear him gripping the edges of his seat, could practically see his knuckles going white as he fought whatever was clawing at his chest. The air between us felt electric, charged with something that made my pulse race and my skin flush hot.

"Come back tomorrow," he said suddenly, his voice rough like glass dragging across stone. "Same time."

Then I heard him stand, heard his footsteps as he walked away from the booth without another word, but his breathing had changed and I knew his careful control had cracked wide open.

I sat there in the darkness listening to his retreat, a smile spreading across my face because the devil had just taken her first step into church and the priest was already looking back over his shoulder, already wondering what would happen if he let himself fall.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

I smoothed my dress down and stood, my heels clicking against stone as I made my way back down the aisle. Mrs. Henderson was still clutching her rosary like a lifeline, her lips moving in frantic prayer that I knew was meant for my soul.

I was halfway to the doors when I heard them.

Footsteps.

My pulse jumped but I didn't turn around, didn't dare give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his presence affected me.

"Miss Black."

I stopped walking but kept my back to him, taking a breath before responding. "Father."

"You forgot something."

Now I did turn, slowly, letting anticipation build as I faced him. Father Damien Cross stood in the aisle behind me and the sight of him nearly knocked the air from my lungs because the rumors hadn't done him justice. He was tall with dark hair that caught the light filtering through stained glass, darker eyes that burned with something that definitely wasn't holy, a jawline sharp enough to cut and a mouth that looked like it was made for sin despite the collar he wore.

In his hand he held a small piece of white fabric.

My breath caught as I recognized it. Lace from my dress that must have caught on the confessional screen and torn free.

"You can keep it," I said, my voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "Consider it a gift."

He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixing with incense, something dark and expensive that made my head spin. "I don't accept gifts from the devil."

"Then maybe," I breathed, holding his gaze, "you should stop acting like you want to."

Something wild and dangerous flashed across his features, his fingers tightening around the lace until his knuckles went white. For a moment I thought he might close the distance between us entirely, might forget we were standing in his church surrounded by people who were definitely watching this exchange.

Instead he smiled at me, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promised things I probably shouldn't want but desperately did.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that made my knees weak. "After evening mass. My office."

Then he turned and walked away still holding my lace in his hand, his footsteps echoing through the chapel as he disappeared through a side door.

I stood there for a long moment feeling my heart racing, my skin flushed, every nerve ending alive with electricity. Then I turned and walked out into the sunlight where Aunt Isabella was waiting with murder in her eyes, but I didn't care what she thought or what anyone thought because I'd just met Father Damien Cross and tomorrow I was going to make him forget every vow he'd ever taken.