"Not for me."
Cold air bites at my exposed skin as I step out. Opening her door offers her no escape, not that she’d try to run. No, she wants to be here with me. It doesn’t matter wherehereis. She’s connected to me as I am her. I can feel it.
She takes my hand, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Her eyes flick to the heavy oak doors, then back at me.
"Are we here to repent?" she asks, a smirk playing on her lips. "Because I feel like we’re adding to the list, not subtracting."
"Repenting isn't my style," I tell her, pulling a heavy iron key from my pocket. "I just sin differently."
The side door unlocks with a groan.
We step inside.
Stale air greets us, smelling of beeswax, frankincense, and centuries of lies. Darkness fills the space, broken only by red votive candles flickering near the altar and moonlight spilling through high stained glass windows.
It’s tomb quiet.
Our footsteps echo on the stone floor as we move down the center aisle.
"I didn't peg you for a religious man," Blair whispers. The atmosphere demands hushed tones.
"I'm not," I say. "I was raised with nothing. No God, no church, no rules except survival. Religion is for people who want forgiveness for their bad behavior. That doesn’t apply to me."
"Then why are we here?"
We stop moving. We turn toward each other and my knuckles graze down her cheek. She leans into the touch, her eyes dark in the shadows.
"Whether you call it sin or not, guilt carries weight," I murmur. "And you’re carrying too much."
Her breath hitches. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Haven't you?"
My hand grips hers, pulling her toward the back of the nave.
Confessionals built into the wall loom ahead, ornate wooden boxes with heavy velvet curtains. Upright coffins for the guilty.
We stop in front of the center one.
"Get in," I say, nodding toward the penitent’s side.
Blair’s eyes widen. She looks at the booth, then at me.
"Gabriel," she says, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "This is... we can't. It’s sacrilege."
"And?" I say, opening the door to the priest’s side. "Get in the booth, Blair."
A command.
She shivers. Conflict wars in her eyes—the ingrained respect for the sacred fighting the dark, twisted need to obey.
The need wins.
She steps into the booth. The blood-red velvet curtain falls behind her.
The narrow wooden bench groans as I sit.
It’s cramped. Dark. Light filters through the intricate lattice screen separating us. Her silhouette is visible. Her breathing—quick, shallow gasps—fills the silence.
