The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale

by Serena Akeroyd

  How do I even—

  Before I can wonder too long over the situation, he shifts his hold on me and grabs my thighs and helps, giving me leverage.

  It’s awkward, and not at all sexy—at least, not to me, but to him?

  His face is relaxed, the hard lines about his mouth, around his eyes, and between his brows are gone, soft.

  His lips are parted as he takes deep breaths, and I can feel just how in the zone he is.

  This is pleasurable for him.

  The sharp bite of pain with the ecstasy of being in a pussy again...

  Of being in my pussy.

  How can I deny him this?

  So I work hard, even though it does what I’m not supposed to do—exerts me. I get tired quickly, so I’m relieved like hell when he grabs my ass, parts my cheeks, then begins to rear up into me.

  When he comes, I can feel his seed exploding inside me. The slick warmth is like a sweet firebomb that detonates my own release.

  As my head falls back, eyes rolling until the lids close on them, I experience the same sweet oblivion as he does, and even better?

  His cum seeps out of me.

  United in blood, tears, and cum.

  Heaven.

  Savio

  I left her sleeping in my bed to get up to go about my daily chores. It feels distinctly odd to be doing them when I’ve just broken one of the key vows of the priesthood. I should feel ashamed, I should feel like I need to punish myself, but I don’t.

  If anything, there’s a harmony inside me that’s better than a choral performance of “Morning Has Broken.”

  I feel like that.

  Like the sun is shining on me at long last, like an eternal night has broken, and day is here for me once more.

  Nothing can get me down.

  Not even the fact she slept through me scrubbing down the wall beside the dresser—it’s a nightmare waiting to happen when blood dries—can get me down.

  I’ll admit to being worried.

  I was selfish.

  She worked hard to get me off, and it definitely knocked me for six. I felt like my brain was going to implode on itself, and I’ve never, ever come like that before.

  Just thinking about it makes me uncomfortably hard, especially as I’m in the middle of preparing for service.

  I’ve already blackened my vows, but to get a hard-on in church?

  Unthinkable.

  But not thinking about her in my bed is also impossible.

  She’s so strange.

  So weird.

  So... perfect.

  I can’t even describe it.

  I know she’s insane, and I know she’s ill, yet I can’t help but believe her when she says I’m hers and she’s mine.

  It’s proof I’m insane also, but for the first time in too long, I can embrace that. I can think it without shying away from it and wondering if I’ll ever get locked up in an asylum.

  If she’s a little kooky, then why can’t I be?

  We can be weird together, and maybe we’ll balance each other out.

  The thought makes me smile as I flip through the Bible and make a few mental annotations for my service today.

  A cough sounds in the church, and I peer at the aisle, my brows rising when I see someone standing at the top. I squint a little, since I’m bathed in the morning light and he’s standing in the dark.

  When I register who he is, though, my mood plummets.

  The day had started so well.

  Marco Corelli.

  If ever there was sin personified, it’s him.

  That he has the audacity to even walk in here tells me a lot about my predecessor. I already knew he was a charlatan, what with the way he allowed the food bank and the soup kitchen to flounder the way they were when I arrived here, but knowing that Corelli was welcomed?

  My anger surges inside me.

  I know why he’s here too.

  He only comes after a purge, and the last one was just on the brink of the old Father leaving and my taking his seat in this parish.

  There’s more blood on his hands than anyone I’ve met since Algeria. If anyone needs eradicating, it’s him.

  The part of my soul that craves vengeance and penance snarls at the sight of him.

  Paulo Lorenzo is a nothing, a nobody by comparison. This bastard?

  He affects the city in ways few will ever understand.

  But I do.

  I know from the homeless I deal with how he uses them as mules. I know Corelli is how men like Gianni stay afloat.

  He’s scum.

  True Godfather material.

  There’s a reason he’s come here today.

  A reason that has nothing to do with the sins he’s committed.

  This is a sign.

  A shaky breath escapes me even as I go through the motions of stepping down from the lectern. My heels tap against the stone flagons as I walk toward him.

  Yesterday, I might have refused to take his confession.

  Yesterday, I might have listened to said confession and refused to absolve him.

  Today?

  I’ll listen.

  I’ll take his confession.

  I’ll absolve him.

  Because Andrea is right.

  It’s bullshit.

  God will not let this scum into heaven, and if that means I’m going to hell, too, because there is no salvation in confession, I’m more than okay with that.

  Especially if this fucker burns right alongside me.

  I don’t greet him, do nothing other than make eye contact with him.

  When I jerk my chin upright, telling him silently to follow me, his eyes narrow, and I know that’s because he’s used to having his ass licked. These bastards get the royal treatment by far too many, but not me.

  I glance down at him, irritated to note he’s armed. His reputation tells me that it’s a dagger. Talk of Corelli and his knife skills go hand in hand in the city, but that he’s brought a weapon to church?

  I’m even more disgusted.

  And things aren’t exactly improved when, after settling in the box, for some reason, I’m taken right back to goddamn Oran.

  For a second, the tiny walls, the cramped space, and the pressure of my injured back against the chair, is like being thrown in time to another day, another age.

  I can scent blood in the air, mine, and I can feel the same cold sweat that would cover my brow whenever I’d been beaten. It didn’t matter how hot it was, I always felt cold. The stench, the screams, the click of guns being assembled—nightmare. A true bad dream.

  Two things get me through it, stop me from having a panic attack.

  One, the faint lemon and beeswax scent of the polish the cleaners use.

  Two, the scraping of the door after me. The way Corelli’s feet shuffle into the confessional, and the chair creaking under his weight.

  The overwhelming smell of pine-scented aftershave comes next, and each action is a prompt, a reminder that I’m not in Oran.

  This isn’t Algeria.

  I’m no longer helpless.

  I could act.

  Fuck that, I can act.

  Shivers run down my spine, not helped by the fact I’m bleeding again. I’m always weaker after I’ve taken the lash, but after last night? I guess it makes sense that I’m feeling it more than usual.

  Normally, I just sleep. Last night, I didn’t do enough of that.

  Not that I’m about to complain, but still, it explains why I’m shaky. Purging my sins to her, and dealing with the emotional volcano that erupted probably didn’t help much either.

  I run my finger over my upper lip, hating that there’s sweat beading there.

  The hatred for this booth, this act, this man, and this life overwhelms me. It’s such a stark contrast to how free I felt earlier this morning when I was flying in Andrea’s arms...

  God, is she heaven sent?

  Maybe she’s the only slice of paradise I’ll ever feel in my miserable life, and the desir
e to act, to make a change, bombards me.

  This will be the last confession I ever take.

  I knew that was coming. I’m no hypocrite. I’ve broken my vows, and I have to resign my post, but I was intending on sticking around, letting the new priest come, take over the parish, show him the ropes.

  There’ll be none of that now.

  I want out.

  I need out.

  And I want Andrea.

  At my side.

  Glued to me.

  The crazy, out-there, life-changing decision made after barely twenty-four hours of knowing her?

  Insane.

  But maybe she infected me with her kind of nuts, because I can deal with that.

  Can deal with it so long as she’s there.

  What I can’t deal with?

  This man.

  This life.

  This world.

  “Father,” Corelli greets, when I say shit to him. “The roof looks like it might need patching up.”

  “It doesn’t,” I tell him abruptly, well aware of his game. “The food bank needs filling though.”

  Silence falls, and I know he’s still surprised about my lack of ass-kissing. There’ll be none of that from me.

  “I’ll make sure the shelves are filled then. Nice and tight.”

  I hum. “That donation will be appreciated. You may begin your confession.”

  He clears his throat. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fifty weeks since my last confession.”

  A regular priest might chide him for that. But, as I’d ascertained last night, I’m not a regular priest.

  Andrea couldn’t have rammed that truth home to me more.

  I don’t say a word, just let him carry on digging his own grave as he reveals just under a year’s worth of sins in a handful of minutes.

  “Things got a little out of hand last night,” he rumbles, and I can tell he’s getting to the real sin. He mentioned fucking around on his wife, and what sounds like some kind of art theft, but the way his voice deepens?

  I know this is why he’s here.

  He killed someone.

  That’s the only reason these types come to church—when they’ve got blood on their hands, and it’s tainting their soul.

  “They tried to break into my place.” He clears his throat again. “You know Remo’s, don’t you, Father? Over by Piazza del Popolo?”

  What did he want? A review on TripAdvisor?

  I grunt. “Yeah, I know it.”

  “Come in tonight. I’ll make sure you eat well.”

  I narrow my eyes, and not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, because that invitation might come in handy, I murmur, “Thank you, my child.”

  Because I took the ‘bribe,’ I can hear him soften up, like his world has righted itself once more.

  He didn’t know how to handle someone who wasn’t waiting on his every word, but now that I’ve taken that particular offer, I know he figures I’ll be open to more.

  Some priests do this.

  I never did.

  It’s one of the reasons why I’m not popular with my flock. You’d be surprised how many people think they can still buy their way into heaven, and even more surprised by how many priests allow that perception to reign true.

  Rubbing my bottom lip between my fingers, I murmur, “Continue.”

  “Well, last night, there was a situation. I ended up pulling my weapon and a few people got killed. They shouldn’t have come into my territory though.” His attempt at justification has me rolling my eyes, even though he can’t see me do that. “I had to protect my territory.”

  “How many died?”

  “Six.” He clears his throat.

  “All their blood is on your hands?”

  My nostrils flare at just the thought.

  “Si,” he mutters grimly. “It was a bad night.”

  “Your soldiers aren’t here. Was it all you?”

  Silence.

  I take that as a yes.

  Which, not unsurprisingly, means he gave me the cliff notes of a confession.

  Anger fills me. It throbs inside me to the point it pulses in my ears.

  Because I can’t stand to be near this bastard anymore, I mutter, “Four Hail Marys and two Our Fathers along with the Act of Contrition are all I ask of you today.”

  “Really?”

  That he sounds cheerful tells me I’ve gone too easy on him. My jaw aches from grinding down on it so hard, and I don’t breathe easily until he gets out of the booth and heads for the pews.

  Something about his confession gets to me.

  I’m not sure what.

  But the need to escape from the booth hits me more.

  I clamber out, taking a deep breath the second I can, and when I see her, it’s like the light peering through the clouds.

  I take a deep breath, one that helps calm me, and her eyes soften at the sight.

  She’s beautiful.

  So fucking beautiful that I don’t even know what she’s doing here.

  Unless...

  My throat closes.

  Maybe she is an angel.

  I already figured that she’s heaven sent, but maybe that’s more than just a play on words.

  Maybe she really, truly is.

  She wanders over to me, wearing what she did yesterday, but not looking like a bag of dirty laundry as she does so. Her loose-limbed gait does what I tried to avoid—makes my dick hard—and there’s an air about her that’s no longer innocent.

  I want to grimace at that, because I ruptured that. She’s no longer a virgin, and more blood stains my soul as a result, but I take comfort in knowing the truth...

  The second I’m free from this life, she’ll be mine.

  I’ll make reparations.

  In the low light, her hair shouldn’t glint the way it does, but there are little twinkles that glitter in her hair. It reminds me of the halo of light around her from the hall last evening, and I shiver, suddenly feeling a divine kind of presence.

  Like she is in my path for a reason.

  Like she is my destination.

  The reason I’ve been taking every step I have. Just to meet her.

  I’m French. From a little town called Sospel, forty minutes away from Monaco, and just a short ride across the border to Italy. My father still owns a bakery there, and he expected me to take his place once he retired. But I was sent to Carmes Seminary in Paris. From there, I bounced around, heading to medical school but that never turned out for me, then traveling around the globe, a mission to spread the word my only calling.

  And she tracked me.

  She found me from the journey I took.

  How would she have done that if I stayed in Sospel?

  Destiny isn’t something I ever thought I believed in. But here? Now? I do.

  I have no choice, because she is my fate. My free will is no more. She owns it.

  Owns me.

  In her short jacket, skinny jeans, and short boots, she looks like a tourist. Something about her isn’t polished like most Italian women tend to be, and I find I like that.

  She is without artifice.

  There isn’t a scrap of makeup on her face, and her hair is a little mussed from having just left my bed.

  I almost wish I’d been there to see her wipe my blood off her face.

  She’d rolled around in it last night like it was the surf on the shore.

  My little freak.

  My lips twitch at the thought, and the confession, the flashback, all of it seems to disappear.

  My short breaths turn into longer, calmer ones when we’re barely three feet apart.

  “Father? May I speak with you?”

  Her eyes sparkle, twinkling with amusement, telling me she’s aware we’re not alone.

  Corelli’s atonement is quiet, making me wonder if he’s even saying his prayers, but I don’t care.

  I truly don’t.

  The notion is quite freeing.

  There’s
none of the bitterness inside me that I’m used to.

  The desire to make him pay hasn’t gone, but she’s tempered it.

  “Of course, my child,” I rumble. “Come with me.”

  We wander down the church toward the North Transept, which gives us access to a clerical part of the building. When we’re in there, tucked away in the corridor, her hand slips into mine, and I allow it.

  No one can see, and I’ve chosen my path.

  Her.

  Not this one. Not this life that makes me miserable. That keeps me alone.

  Isolated.

  I release a shaky breath, content in a way I never anticipated.

  “I felt you.”

  I blink at that. Then my head whips around to look at her as, even accepting she’s unusual, that bewilders me. “What?”

  “I could feel you were upset.” She shrugs, lets out a soft hum, and her grin appears. “Go on, tell me I’m crazy.”

  Without even pausing to take a breath, I reply, “You’re crazy, but in this instance, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I was sound asleep,” she explains softly, her hand trailing over the one stand in the hall. It has a cross on it, a decorative piece that’s hundreds of years old. “Then I woke up, and I just knew you weren’t doing okay.” She shrugs again. “I figured you’d be here. Thought I’d come and check on you.”

  Stunned, I just gape at her a little. I mean, the stuff she comes out with is unreal, but equally, uncanny.

  Just like with her appearance, her nature is free from all artifice. There is no gain to her coming here. No reason to lie.

  “You didn’t think I had regrets?” I question carefully.

  She snorts. “Nope.” Her confidence is another thing that takes me aback. She squeezes my fingers. “This is meant to be. I already told you—”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re the Eve to my Adam, I know, yes, yes, yes.”

  She lets out a short laugh. “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “Someone sang to me, made me see the light of day,” I tell her softly as I pull her into my office.

  It’s a simple room. Nothing more than a desk, a wall of books, a small altar, simpler than most of the ornamental pieces in the church, and an old-fashioned heater that’s forged of cast iron and painted a muddy brown. The walls contain images of Christ on the cross, and there are several crucifixes.

  As I come in here, I realize that the vibe the church gives me, and this office, are two separate things.