NO SAINTS HERE (Lustful chapters)
Sister Agnes had retired hours ago, her light already out.
It was my turn to watch over the orphanage.
I stepped outside with my book tucked under my arm, the cool night air brushing my skin through the thin fabric of my habit. The garden lanterns cast pale halos on the gravel path, and I settled onto the stone bench beneath the old fig tree, letting myself breathe.
That was when I heard it.
A sharp scrape. A grunt—painful, restrained.
My head snapped up.
The fence at the far end of the compound trembled, then stilled. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. I told myself it was a cat. Or the wind. Or my imagination playing tricks on me in the dark.