The Vows We Break
Serena Akeroyd
G. A. Mazurke
Copyright © 2020 by Serena Akeroyd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Dedication
To my Diva Crew.
You helped get me through lockdown. You put a smile on my face when I was down.
Thank you. <3
And to the unredeemable… even you have soul mates.
#staysafestaysane #washyourwillies #getyourtitsout #getstabby #DareCrew #NookiePatrol #FilthyFeckersFannies #PsychopathicDivasDoItBetter #DiabeticDivasDoItBest #MeineMuschiRiechtKomisch
Contents
Dedication
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Soundtrack
Warning
Foreword
Part I
1. Andrea
2. Andrea
3. Andrea
Part II
4. Andrea
5. Andrea
6. Andrea
7. Andrea
8. Andrea
9. Andrea
Part III
10. Andrea
Acknowledgments
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Also by Serena Akeroyd
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Secrets & Lies is now free!
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/22rhpk2ng2
Meg’s love life was missing a spark until she discovered her need to be dominated. When her fiancé shared the same kink, she thought all her birthdays had come at once, and then she came to learn their relationship was one big fat lie.
Gabe has loved Meg for years, watching her from afar, and always wishing he’d been the one to date her first and not his brother. When he has the chance to have Meg in his bed—even better, tied to it—it’s an opportunity he can’t refuse.
With disastrous consequences.
Can Gabe make Meg realize she’s the one woman he’s always wanted? But once secrets and lies have wormed their way into a relationship, is it impossible to establish the firm base of trust needed between lovers, and more importantly, between sub and Sir…?
This story features orgasm control in a BDSM setting.
Secrets & Lies is now free!
Soundtrack
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah
Warning
Dear Reader,
Now, I want to preface this by saying I wasn’t going to drop a trigger warning on this novel… then someone read it, asked if I was as crazy as Andrea :D and, well, the rest is history.
This book contains elements that will upset sensitive readers, so please be aware of that and approach with caution if that’s you.
This book is not for everyone. I’m well aware it might offend some of you, so please, head into this novel knowing two things:
ONE: Savio is a priest.
TWO: He will break his vows.
If that doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, then this isn’t the read for you.
Much love to you all,
Serena
xoxo
Foreword
I took some artistic liberty with the timeline in this novel.
The Algerian Civil War took place between 26 December 1991 and 8 February 2002. The beginning of this novel takes place a lot later than that.
The ISF existed, and the tale about the monks of the Tibhirine is true—the story was captured in an award-winning movie Of Gods and Men—however the Algerian Christian Revolutionaries are a fictitious group… Thank God.
My condolences to those who lost their lives during this terrible time.
<3
Part One
“Speak ill of me, or speak well of me, but speak of me...”
One
Andrea
“There’s always someone worse off than yourself,” the old lady at my side mutters.
I cut her a look, wonder what she’s talking about, and then see she’s watching TV. It’s been playing ever since I arrived, but I barely noticed it, more interested in my phone than the news that’s on repeat.
“Savio Martin, a Catholic priest serving as a missionary in Algeria, has been abducted by the so-called Algerian Christian Revolutionaries. Unlike the Trappist monks of the Tibhirine, who were beheaded by the Islamic Salvation Front to oppose the presence of foreign ministries in the country, the group’s intent behind the abduction is unclear.
“In a nation being torn apart by civil unrest—”
I flinch at the sight of the country that flickers on the screen, showing images that belong in a nightmare. Rubble from destroyed buildings is strewn like Lego blocks on the roads, women and children are crying, huddled in one another’s arms in search of succor and escape, and men are bruised, bloodied, and dazed from fighting.
Then, the priest himself, Father Savio Martin, comes into the shot. It’s a small photo of him, and for some weird reason, it’s black and white, but man, he’s cute.
I mean, he’s so cute that it’s a tragedy he’s a priest.
I blink at the TV screen, speculating if it’s wrong to drool over a holy man, and then I kick myself because of course, it is.
It shouldn’t take fourteen years of Sunday school to teach me that.
At my side, the older lady who smells faintly of minty Altoids, tuts and mumbles, “Such a shame.”
Her remark has me asking, “They won’t hurt him, will they?”
She glances at me. “Who knows? Heathens. The lot of them.”
I frown at her. “That isn’t very Christian.” Especially when she’s condemning people as ‘heathens’ who call themselves the ‘Algerian Christian Revolutionaries.’
She just sniffs, and that right there is why I refuse to practice anymore.
I used to be Catholic. I mean, technically I still am. My parents make us go to church every Sunday, and I still run chores for Father Gonzalez because Mom insists I do them, but the second I’m away at college?
Nope. Not going to happen. I doubt I’ll ever set foot in a church ever again.
Why?
Because it’s a load of bullshit.
Here I sit, in a Catholic hospital, beside a woman who wears a crucifix she keeps fingering to give her strength as she chomps merrily away on boiled candies, and she just slandered an entire people over the actions of a few.
I find that a lot. Prejudice is more prevalent than dog crap—it’s everywhere. Even worse? Hypocrisy. That’s like gum on the streets, and once it’s stuck to you, it’s impossible to get off the bottom of your sneakers.
Me?
I don’t care if you’re black or brown, Catholic or Muslim, I’m never going to judge you.
That’s what free will is about, right?
See, I came to the conclusion a while back that I was a theist. I believe in God, but I just wasn’t supposed to be Catholic.
And the lady at my side has just rammed that home neatly.
Sniffing back at her, I focus on the screen where the cute priest is still taking up airtime. The newscaster is discussing what’s going down in the nation, why the civil war started—man, I feel bad for not knowing there was a civil war happening in Algeria—but all I can think about is the priest.
He has a kind smile.
His eyes are beautiful.
He’s beautiful. It’s like his soul is shining back at me.
“Do you think there’s
any hope of his release being negotiated by the French government?”
He’s French?
Ugh, so he’s all kinds of pretty and he has an accent.
God, such a crying shame he’s a priest. Even more of a shame that he’s been frickin’ kidnapped.
Double ugh.
The door to the waiting room opens, and I’m glad the nurse wanders over to the woman at my side. Sure, that means I’m stuck here for a little while longer, but if she takes the bigot away, I’ll be happy.
Heathens, my ass.
Where’s the tolerance? Aren’t we supposed to love everyone?
See?
All bullshit.
But me, someone who says she isn’t a Catholic, is sitting in this waiting room for a stranger.
A stranger I helped save.
At least, I hope the kid is ‘saved.’
I tug on my bottom lip as I stare at the priest on the TV, then shift over to look at the door. The woman at my side has scurried away with the nurse, taking her Altoids with her, but even though I’ve been here longer than her, no doctor has come to explain to me how the boy’s doing.
And that’s exactly what he is.
A boy.
I suck in my bottom lip as I think about this morning. All I had planned was just a regular day at school. Then, on my walk in, I’d seen a foot.
Nothing more, nothing less.
A foot.
But the way it had been tilted was weird enough to make me investigate.
Of course, I shouldn’t have. Even though we’re supposed to help the vulnerable—cue eye roll, because it seems like charity doesn’t matter anymore—I should have walked away. Even the receptionist here gave me an ‘are you for real?’ look, but if I can help someone, I will. I’m not going to turn a blind eye.
So, anyhoo, I was walking along, minding my own business, then I saw the foot. When I saw the kid the foot was attached to, I knew something was wrong.
He wasn’t dead. Not yet. His skin was this weird blue color, which made me think he wasn’t getting enough oxygen to his system, and from his barely moving chest, I figured that confirmed my supposition.
I’d have moved him, put him onto his side as I waited on the ambulance to get to him, but he had a needle stuck in his arm, quivering there obscenely.
My lips turn down at just the memory, because it looked uncomfortable. Yet the boy hadn’t cared. I know whenever I get my shots, I’m always grateful when the damn needle is out of my skin, but he’d been too out of it to even notice if it was causing him any pain.
Drugs... they always talk about them in school. The egg in the frying pan? ‘This is your brain on drugs,’ yadda, yadda, yadda? They always speak about gateway drugs and peer pressure and how we need to say no. But as I stared at the kid, waiting on an ambulance I wasn’t sure would come because I highly doubted the boy had insurance, I wondered what on Earth would lead anyone to crave this.
Was it worth it?
I don’t think I’ll ever get an answer unless I take drugs myself, but seeing the kid rammed something home for me this morning—the next time Judith Foster tries to get me to smoke weed at one of her dumb parties? I’m going to tell her to go fuck herself.
And after four hours of being stuck in this waiting room, that belief has only grown more powerful.
I’d been tempted last week. So tempted. All my friends had been doing it, and they’d all started being mean to me when I said no. But I just knew I’d like it, that I’d like the escape, and that made me distrust it.
And what I distrusted, I avoided.
Which is one of the reasons I never speak to Kieran Laugherty. Sure, he might be beautiful, sure, he might be the quarterback of the varsity team, but his eyes?
Shifty for sure.
The priest’s eyes? Definitely not shifty. He looked like he’d turn the other cheek, he looked like he’d approve of my huffing at the woman who’d been sitting beside me. I’d just bet he wouldn’t have teased me for saying no to the pot Judith had waggled under my nose last week.
Feeling a little self-righteous, I fold my arms under my boobs, and grumble to myself about weed and Judith and quarterbacks who have grabby hands. But then images flash of the war-torn country once more, and my heart starts to ache.
It takes me a few moments to realize a doctor has entered the waiting room, and though his scrubs are clean, they’re wrinkled, and his eyes are tired and his face is a little worn. He has a blue cap on his head, made out of the scrub material, and it’s wonky, like he rubbed his hand over it, and it had resettled at the wrong angle. He’s at my side, where the old witch had been sitting, and his elbows are on his knees as he stares at the screen.
It’s such an informal move that my heart starts to pound with unease.
Because he doesn’t say anything, my nerves have me trying to think of something to utter to break the ice. “Tragic, isn’t it?” I whisper, staring at the TV screen.
“Yes. It is.”
For a second, I just let the images flicker through my mind, then, I build up the courage to ask something his position alone told me, “He didn’t make it, did he?”
“No.” He releases a heavy sigh. “He didn’t. His body was too weak, and the strain on his heart was just too much.”
Tears prick my eyes and I gulp. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He cuts me a look. “Do you know the boy?”
I shake my head. “No. I promise. If I knew, I’d say. The receptionist didn’t believe me—”
He raises a hand. “It’s okay.”
My brow puckers. “No, it isn’t. I’m not a liar. I just found him on the street.”
“The police will want to talk to you about him.”
I shrug. “They can. I don’t know anything. I’m sorry he’s gone though,” I whisper a little mournfully. What was the point in my finding him if there was nothing that could be done to save him?
I want to believe we are set on the right path for a reason. I want, so badly, to hold that as the key tenet in my life, but I can’t in this instance.
Why had I found the kid if I wasn’t supposed to save him?
My throat clutches at the thought, then this talk of the cops? Nervously, I whisper, “A-Are they going to arrest me?”
The doctor tenses. “No, of course not. They just want to understand where you found the boy. He was very young. Too young to—” He blows out a breath. “Too young to die like that.”
I bite my lip and dip my head between hunched shoulders. “I thought he was my age.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
The doctor’s chin tips up. “The police can’t speak to you without a guardian present anyway. If you leave your address with the receptionist, they’ll be in touch.”
I blink at him. “Am I in trouble?” I didn’t believe him before.
“No,” he says impatiently. “You’re not.”
Nerves make my stomach churn. “I-I just wanted to help—”
“You did your best. In fact, you did more than most would have.”
“I know you did your best too.”
His smile’s tired. “I hope I did him justice, but sometimes, it’s never enough.” He heaves a sigh as he gets to his feet, and his hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. He squeezes tightly, then mutters, “You’re a good kid. Not many would stick around, not many would have called an ambulance... you’ve got a good heart on you.”
Before I can say anything else, he wanders off, and I’m left staring at nothing.
Then the Father’s face flashes on the TV screen once more, and I suddenly know what I want.
Leaping to my feet, I skirt around the uncomfortable chairs I’ve been sitting on all day, and head for the receptionist. I write down the details she asks for, give her my home number, and tell her my address.
Once that’s done, I leave the ER and find the main entrance of the hospital. I just know there’ll be a chapel in here somewhere, so I seek it
out, suddenly needing to be in there. To feel the peace and tranquility after four hours of being forced to sit in an ER department that’s teaming with humanity.
When I finally find it, I sigh with relief when I realize it’s empty. Only, when I make my way to the back pew so I can stare out of the stained glass window, which shows Jesus on the cross, I hear a giggle.
My brow puckers at the sound, and I twist around, trying to find it.
You’re not supposed to giggle in church.
I mean, I guess it isn’t a law or anything, but it’s definitely not allowed, right?
Just like not perving on a priest is a rule too.
The giggle is followed by a moan, and now I wonder if someone’s in pain or something.
Sheesh.
But when I look around the dimly lit chapel, I see nothing. No one.
A squeaking sound comes next, and a low grunt.
I’ve heard my parents doing it a few times, so it’s easy to figure out what’s going on. And the last time Judith had a party, Lizzie Boudreaux and Kingsley Lincoln had sex in her bathroom. I know what sex sounds like.
But to have sex in a church?
In a confessional booth?
In a Catholic hospital?
I’m not sure which is worse.
In fact, to my mind, it’s all very wrong.
The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale Page 1