𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

EIGHT

His plan was risky. Ridiculous, to some. For starters, seducing was a learned art—a talent that only a few could master. And secondly, seducing a priest who most likely had taken a vow of celibacy was laughable.

But this was Anton. A small part of Y/n believed that Anton had deluded himself to think what was doing was rational, when it was the very opposite. Clearly, he didn't have a firm line between good and evil, and Y/n was going to use that to his utmost advantage. Y/n could be called stupid—desperate for death, even. But he had seen the looks Anton had given him, and he wasn't a stranger to those.

Hunger. Longing. Bordering on lust. Y/n wasn't sure just what made Anton attracted to him—whether it was something pure derived from good intentions, or something more...twisted like being pleased by his misery. But Y/n was going to bet on the latter—and if Anton wanted a show, he would give a show. It didn't matter what he did. Kisses, a small, fleeting touch or two, being completely pillant and obedient to whatever he did...

As long as Lucas wasn't hurt in any way, the plan would go on.

Now the second obstacle: Helen. The sister that was standing before him right now.

"I heard you impressed Father Anton," She smiled, "that must have been hard work. He's not an easy person to impress, that man. Did you confess your sins, like I told you?"

It took all the willpower in Y/n's body to manage a tight lipped smile. Too happy, and Sister Helen would say it was mocking. Too little, and Sister Helen would remark that he didn't truly embrace the presence of God. With her, it was all about finding delicate balance in mundane, little things.

"Of course. Your advice was splendid."

Balance. His words didn't need to be too thick, lest it would look like he was carrying favor. Yet she soaked in praise. She seeked praise. And Y/n would give it to her.

"Mills didn't listen to him," Sister Helen shook her head, her face blended with illy disguised pleasure and tainted sorrow, "and his fate was dire."

Mills? Y/n hadn't heard from him in a very long time.

"....What happened to him?"

Did Y/n want to know? One part of him shut his eyes, closed his ears off. Another part of him itched—yearned to hear that terrible fate that was sure to have bestowed upon him. What was his sin? Opposing Y/n? Which begged a deeper, more sinister question: why was Anton so adamant of being so possessive over him? Did it stem from a savior complex, or was there a deeper meaning lying beneath it? The scroll he had obtained in level three...

"He died. Brutally slaughtered, but Father Anton ordered his remains to be delivered elsewhere. His blood."

The white roses were stained with someone's blood. Someone's blood..

.

.

"They starved me the last time," Mills shook his head, "you have to listen to them."

.

.

And now they killed him. By right, Mills didn't exactly do anything wrong. Yes, he was morally corrupt...but he was loyal to the church. And if even a loyal church member could be slaughtered so brutally and used so cruelly, then that confirmed Y/n's theory that Anton did see people as replaceable tools. So it wouldn't just require blind obedience to him that would open his twisted heart, but advances.

"I suppose he deserved it." Y/n did not mean those words, but he had to turn Sister Helen to his side.

"I supposed he did," Her words were almost in surprise. "You have learnt a lot, haven't you? Good job. I have some herbal tea that might help." She lifted the pot she was carrying, and a familiar scent wafted to Y/n's nostrils. It was pleasant, of course...but..