A Mystery Wrapped ..

Thorne’s POV.

The Next Day

The morning sunlight creeping through the stained glass windows didn’t feel holy—it burned. Like judgment. Like God Himself was watching and keeping count.

But I knew better.

God stopped watching me a long time ago.

I sat in the wooden chair behind my desk, shirt still half-buttoned, collar open. My hands rested on the arms of the chair like a king overseeing his own ruin.

The church was quiet now. Clean. Holy.

Just how they liked it.

They had no idea what this altar had seen. What these pews had heard. What my office had swallowed whole.

San Malerio. A quiet town on the edge of the Italian countryside. Small. Closed off. Old souls and young married bodies with nowhere else to pour their boredom but into the arms of God—or into the hands of the man they thought spoke for Him.

Me.

They called me Father Thorne Maddox. Reverend. Shepherd. Servant of the Word.

But I was far from holy.

I’d been transferred here a few months ago—on paper, it was a promotion. A gift. But we all knew the Church doesn’t give gifts. They move problems.

They didn’t say it, but they knew what I was.

And this place?

This place welcomed me with open legs.

The church was full every Sunday. The old came for routine. The young came for curiosity. The rich showed up when their conscience got heavy. The poor came to beg for miracles.

And the women?

The women came for more than prayers.

I’d conducted weddings here. I’d held newborns in my arms during baptism, even as I fucked their mothers behind closed doors weeks later. Some of them came willingly. Most did. Seduced by the collar, the charm, the quiet strength I never needed to fake. The rest? Just too eager to repent.

Confession became our foreplay.

Penance turned into passion.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” they’d whisper.

And I’d forgive them—with my cock in their mouth or their thighs spread over the edge of the pew, legs shaking, breathless for mercy.

One begged for a second round while clutching her rosary. Said her husband never made her cum. I told her I wasn’t her husband.

She called it salvation.

And I let her.

They believed whatever I told them. Because I wore black. Because I stood at the pulpit. Because I held a Bible and wore a collar and spoke of Heaven while I dragged them into Hell.

None of them were innocent.

They moaned louder than they prayed.

They called my name more than they called God’s.

And I let it all happen.

Because I could.

Because somewhere along the line, I stopped giving a fuck about redemption. My sins weren’t accidents. They were choices.

Intentional.

Sharp.

Pleasurable.

I wasn’t a man of God anymore.

I was a man of power.

But that morning… something felt different. I couldn’t explain it. Like something was coming. A shift. A warning I couldn’t see yet.

I leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on the old wooden cross nailed above the doorway. It was crooked—always had been.

So was I.

Just then, the door opened.

“Father Maddox,” came Sister Annalisa’s voice, calm and proper. She stood in the doorway with a small smile and a paper in her hand. “We have a new volunteer joining us today.”

“Another saint-to-be?” I asked, lazily.

She smiled politely. “A young woman. Mia, Just moved here with her Grandmother Said she wanted to help around the church.”

Mia.

I hadn't met her yet.

But I felt it in my gut.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t here for the same reasons the others came, or not.

And I’d find out soon enough.

“Okay... you can ask her to go ahead,” I said with a slow smile. “I’ll come shortly... to check her out.”

Sister Annalisa gave a nod and a polite smile. “Yes, Father.” She slipped out quietly, closing the door behind her.

Check her out. Or rather, check if she’s someone I could use. Someone to wash the altar clean... to make it holy again with her knees bruised and lips shaking.

Mia.

The name alone dripped temptation. Sacred and sinful all at once. I didn’t need to see her to know she would be the kind of girl men begged to corrupt.

I rose from the chair, adjusted my collar, and walked out of my office into the church hall. My shoes tapped softly against the ancient stone floors, echoing like whispers from the confessional.

My black cassock, a long flowing robe, a symbol of purity and discipline billowed quietly with every step. If only they knew what it truly concealed.

The church was still alive with movement. Old parishioners, familiar faces, moved about dusting the statues, replacing candles, straightening hymn books. Devoted. Loyal. Blind.

But I wasn’t looking at them.

My eyes locked on her the moment I stepped further in.

I didn’t need an introduction.

She was bent forward, her slender back arched ever so slightly as she wiped down the wooden pews. That movement—innocent to anyone else—felt like an invitation to me.

If only those delicate hands could wipe the remains of my lust off my cock the same way she scrubbed dust off that seat.

Her hair was golden. Not the dirty kind. Real blonde...long, thick, and falling softly over her shoulders. Her gown was modest. Too modest. Covered from neck to ankle, not a sliver of skin showing.

Which meant she was either truly devout—or pretending.

And I’d seen too many pretending saints turn into eager sinners under my touch.

I was walking toward her, already playing out a dozen scenarios in my head, when a voice stopped me.

“Father!”

I turned, forcing my expression into one of warm surprise. “Oh my… Mrs. Voss,” I greeted, smiling big and sweet, like a damn saint.

She came hobbling toward me with that familiar pride in her step. One of the oldest members here. She believed in me, trusted me. She thought I was her saving grace.

We hugged like good church folk do. Brief. Pure on the outside.

“What a pleasure to see you here,” she beamed. “I thought I might have to come to your office.”

“Something wrong?” I asked, furrowing my brows in a show of concern.

“Oh no, no. Nothing like that,” she said, waving her hand. “I brought my granddaughter today… to volunteer. Didn’t the sister tell you?”

I blinked, pretending surprise. “She did? Wait… The girl Mia, is your granddaughter?”

“Yes, yes!” she smiled wide, her voice catching like she might cry. “She just returned from the city. She’ll be staying with me now. I’m too old to be alone in that big house, especially since my husband passed…”

I rested my hand on her shoulder with practiced care. “Of course, Mrs. Voss. After your husband’s death, it’s only right. You need support... and comfort.”

She smiled, eyes misty. “Thank you, Father. You’ve been such a comfort already… your presence here has been a blessing to us. I’m sure God will reward your service.”

If only she knew what kind of service I was really offering.

“Let me introduce you to her properly,” she said, motioning toward the seats in the church. “Come.”

But when we turned, she froze.

The spot where Mia had been cleaning moments ago—was empty.

“She was just here…” Mrs. Voss frowned, pointing shakily at the vacant walkway. “She was right there, I swear...”

I said nothing, lips parting slightly.

My eyes scanned the pews. The altar. The side doors. Not a single trace of that blonde head. No sound. No movement. She’d vanished.

Where the hell did she go?

My curiosity flared—hot and hungry.

And suddenly, Mia wasn’t just another girl to tempt.

She was a mystery.

And I always unwrapped my mysteries.