Hel
There's something truly exquisite about being the most dangerous person in a room full of unwitting little sheep. I settle into my chair in the church basement, crossing my legs slowly enough to draw Father Roth's attention. His gaze flickers to me for a second.
Gotcha.
The circle is smaller tonight. Just me, Mrs. Phelps with her gambling problem, Thomas and his porn, and a new face—a mousy woman named Rebecca who can't stop shoplifting makeup she never wears.
What a collection of sinners we are.
"Let's begin with a moment of silence," Father Roth says, his voice perfectly measured and calm.
I close my eyes like the others but can't resist a little peek. He's watching me, pretending not to. Ever since our little rendezvous at the cliffs, something's shifted between us. The air crackles when we're in the same room.
How foolish he is to think I don't notice how his hands clench when I'm near, how his breathing changes.
Poor, tortured Father Roth, fighting whatever darkness lives inside.
And me, poking at it with a stick, curious to see what he lets out.
"Who'd like to share first?" he asks, breaking the silence.
Mrs. Phelps volunteers some tedious story about resisting the slot machines at the convenience store. Tuning her out, I shift my focus on the way Father Roth's collar seems especially tight tonight, a thin sheen of sweat at his temples despite the basement chill.
"Hel?" His voice snaps me back to attention. "Would you like to share your progress this week?"
Leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on interlaced fingers, I say "Oh, I've made tons of progress this week, Father."
His eyes narrow slightly. Someone knows what's coming.
"I've been thinking about what you said about facing our demons head-on." I smile sweetly. "So I've been exploring my... obsession... in more depth."
Thomas shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Rebecca's eyes widen.
"I had this dream last night," I continue. "About being in a confession booth with a priest. Not just any priest, of course."
Father Roth's jaw tightens. "Hel, perhaps we should—"
"In the dream, he places his hands on me, caressing me while whispering prayers against my skin." I run a finger along my collarbone. "And I'm thinking, isn't it interesting how close religious ecstasy is to the other kind? That fine line between 'Oh God' and... well, oh God."
Rebecca gasps. Thomas stares at the floor, his face flushed. A smirk washes over his face as though I'd just given him something tasty to think about later. Mrs. Phelps clutches her purse like it might save her from my words.
"That's quite enough," Father Roth says sharply.
"What?" I widen my eyes in mock innocence. "I thought we were supposed to be honest here. Expose our darkest urges to the light so they lose their power. Isn't that what you've been preaching?"
"There are appropriate ways to discuss such matters."
"Oh right, like when you pressed me against the wall after confession last week? Was that the appropriate way?"
The room falls silent. Mrs. Phelps' mouth drops open.
"I never—" Father Roth starts, then catches himself. Smart man. He knows denial only makes him look guilty.
"That's not true," Thomas blurts out, surprising everyone. "Father Roth would never—"
"Oh honey," I laugh. "You have no idea what men of the cloth are capable of when no one's watching."
Father Roth stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I think that's enough for tonight."
"Running away so soon?" I can't help myself. There's something about him that makes me want to push harder, to see what'll happen when he breaks.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment—just a flash—I see familiar staring back at me. Something that isn't entirely human.
"Hel," he says, his voice dangerously soft, "I need you to refrain from making these kinds of comments, or I'll have to ask you not to return to these sessions."
Rising from my chair, I close the distance between us. The others watch, frozen in their seats.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? To have me disappear? Make your little problem go away?" I'm close enough now that only he can hear my next words. "I dare you to try and keep me from coming back."
"This is inappropriate," Mrs. Phelps announces, gathering her things. "I've been coming to these sessions for years, and I've never heard such filth."
"Years and still no rehabilitation? Perhaps the problem lies where you seek solutions then my sweet."
"That's enough!" Father Roth orders, now visibly rattled.
One by one, they all stand—Thomas avoiding eye contact, Rebecca looking like she might cry. Within minutes, it's just Father Roth and me in the circle of empty chairs.
"Happy now?" he asks, his voice tight with restrained anger.
"Getting there." I smirk. "You're so much more interesting when you're angry, Father. All that control slipping away bit by bit. I must admit: I'm drawn to it."
He turns away and begins stacking chairs with aggressive precision. The tension in his shoulders clear as day.
"What are you really doing here?" he asks without looking at me. "What do you want from me?"
A good question.
One I'm not entirely sure I have the answer to. I came to this town by chance, spotted him during Sunday service, recognized something in him that called to me. A darkness. A hunger. Something that mirrored my own emptiness.
"Maybe I just want to see what happens when someone like you finally snaps," I say, running my finger along the back of a chair. "What's hiding under all that piety and restraint."
He turns to me then, and the look in his eyes makes me step back. For the first time, I feel a flutter of something akin to fear.
"You have no idea what you're toying with my dear."
Moving toward me with fluid grace that I find myself backed against the wall before I realize I've moved. His hand slams against the plaster beside my head, not touching me but caging me in.
Looking down, he scoffs lightly.
"You think you're the predator here?" His face is inches from mine. "You're a child playing with matches, Hel. And you have no concept of the fire you're trying to ignite."
My heart hammers against my chest. This is what I wanted, isn't it? To break through his façade? His eyes seem to change, darkening until they're almost black, and for a moment I see something shift beneath his skin.
"Michael?" A woman's voice cuts through the tension. "Are you down here?"
He blinks, and whatever I saw—or thought I saw—vanishes. He steps back from me just as his wife appears at the bottom of the stairs.
Elaine Roth is exactly what you'd expect in a priest's wife—modest, composed, with a kind smile that envelops her entire face.
"Oh," she says, taking in the empty room, the tension still crackling between us. "Did the session end early?"
"Just wrapping up," Father Roth says smoothly. "Hel was helping me put away the chairs."
Elaine's gaze slides to me, assessing. "How thoughtful. You must be the new addition to the group Michael mentioned."
I force a smile. "That's me. The resident bad influence."
To my surprise, she laughs, "Well, every group needs one of those to keep things interesting." She glances at her husband. "You did say Hel was new to town, didn't you? Perhaps she'd like to join us for dinner tonight?"
The look on his face is priceless. Pure panic, quickly masked however.
"I wouldn't want to impose," I say, though the idea of sitting across a dinner table from him, watching him squirm, is too delicious to pass up.
"Nonsense," Elaine insists. "Michael makes too much food anyway. And I'd love to get to know the woman who's had my husband working such late hours."
There's a subtle emphasis on "working" that makes me wonder just how much she suspects.
"I'm afraid I have parish business to attend to tonight, my love," He cuts in. "But you two should certainly get acquainted."
"Are you sure, darling?" Elaine asks, her tone light but her eyes sharp.
"Quite sure." He's already gathering his things, movements slightly too fast to be casual. "In fact, I should be going now. Hel, I trust you'll behave yourself with my wife?"
The double meaning isn't lost on me. I smile sweetly. "Always, Father. I save my bad behavior for special occasions, you know that."
His jaw clenches, but he says nothing more before heading up the stairs. I hear the church door slam a moment later.
"He's in quite a hurry," I say.
"Michael takes his duties very seriously," Elaine responds, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "Shall we go?"
"Actually, I just remembered something I need to do first. Rain check?"
She doesn't seem surprised. "Of course. Another time."
I wait until she's gone before slipping out the side door. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I scan the street. There—a dark figure moving quickly toward the woods at the edge of town.
Following at a distance, I keep to the shadows. Father Roth moves with unexpected speed and grace, like someone accustomed to not being seen. The forest swallows him, but I press on.
The trees close around me, branches catching at my hair, roots threatening to trip me in the darkness. I lose sight of him but keep going, guided by some instinct I don't understand.
Then, from somewhere ahead, a sound—a low, guttural growl that raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's not quite animal but not quite human either. I freeze, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am out here.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to follow strangers into the dark?"
Whirl around, I'm face-to-face with Father Roth.
I swear he was ahead of me just moments ago.
His face is partially hidden in shadow, but his eyes catch what little moonlight filters through the trees, reflecting it back like an animal's.
"How did you—"
"Go home, Hel." His voice is different—deeper, rougher. "While you still can."
Lifting my chin, I refuse to show fear. "What are you doing out here, Father? Not very priestly to be skulking in the woods at night."
"You have no idea what I am." He steps closer, and I can't help but back away. "What I'm capable of."
God, that's what I've been waiting to hear. My nipples tighten as the thought of being manhandled by this gentle servant evokes my desire.
"Then show me."
He moves so quickly I don't see it happen. One moment he's several feet away, the next he's right in front of me, his hand at my throat. Not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of how easily he could.
"You want to know what I am?" he whispers, his lips close to my ear. "You want to see the monster beneath the man?"
I may be a little f###ed here. I can't speak, can barely breathe. His skin seems to ripple, shadows moving beneath the surface like oil under water.
Tilting his head as though preparing to devour me from the neck first, he grazes his teeth gentle across my skin. He's breathing demonstrates clear internal struggle with control. My arms hang like vestigial appendages as I let him slide his hand from my face to my neck, then from my back to waist, until finally, he stops between my legs. The lust burns inside me like a blazing fire as I lean back, ready for him to have his way with me.
First, he stimulates gently, but each movement seems to deliver him nearer to a much anticipated frenzy. He shakes his head and moves back slightly.
"This is your last warning," he says, releasing me. "Stop following me. Stop this game you're playing. Once you see what I really am, you won't be able to unsee it."
Stepping all the way back this time, his face looks almost normal again. Almost.
"You don't scare me," I manage, though my voice trembles.
"I'm not trying to scare you, Hel." His expression softens into something like pity. "I'm trying to save you."
He turns and walks deeper into the forest, and this time I don't follow. I stand there, heart pounding, until his silhouette disappears among the trees.
Whatever game I thought I was playing, the rules have changed. I came looking for a man with a dark secret, a priest with forbidden desires. What I found is something else entirely.
And God help me, I want more.