What if the saints of old walked among us today-would we honor their triumphs, or whisper about their secrets?
Zarinna knows the weight of hidden truths. Once devoted, now marked by choices she cannot undo, she carries shame like a shadow she cannot...
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IF WHAT THEY HAD WASN'T A SIN, Zarinna knew she would have cherished every part of it.
That was what horrified her most.
For nearly five years, she had allowed herself to be carried along by feelings she knew should never have been entertained. Feelings she should have crushed the moment they first began to bloom. Yet she had nurtured them instead—watered them in secret until they became something ugly and impossible to uproot without tearing herself apart in the process.
And now it had to end.
Even if it felt like killing a part of herself.
Turning away, Zarinna wrapped her arms tightly around her body as the wind swept through the hilltop grass around them. The evening air felt cold against her damp cheeks.
Behind her, Nathan exhaled shakily.
"Rinna... please." His voice cracked. "Please don't do this."
Her chest tightened painfully.
For a brief, terrible moment, she wanted to run back into his arms and forget every sermon, every conviction, every warning that had screamed at her conscience for years.
But she knew where that path led.
More lies. More hiding. More corruption.
More nights begging God to remove desires she kept feeding anyway.
Another sob threatened to escape her throat. She swallowed it down and turned toward him.
Nathan looked exhausted. His eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders heavy beneath the weight of everything they had done. Seeing him like this still hurt her far more than it should have.
That frightened her too.
"Nathan," she whispered, struggling to steady her breathing, "please don't make this harder than it already is."
He covered his forehead with the back of his hand and squeezed his eyes shut.
The sight twisted something inside her.
Once, she would have done anything to comfort him.
That had been part of the problem.
He had become someone she could not bear to wound, even when loving him was destroying them both.
"I love you," he said suddenly.
The words struck her like a blade. Not because they were beautiful. Because once, she had believed them enough to justify everything else.
Zarinna shook her head quickly, tears slipping down her cheeks again.
"No, Nathan." Her voice trembled. "Don't call this love."
His expression crumpled. "You're saying you never loved me?"
The question pierced straight through her. Because she did love him. Or at least, she had loved whatever version of him she had built inside her mind—the gentle pastor who listened to her thoughts for hours, who praised her spiritual maturity, who made her feel seen and chosen and special long before she was old enough to understand why his attention felt intoxicating. But that love had grown in darkness. And now everything about it felt stained.
