Bless Me, Father
- Reads 12,978
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- Parts 28
She moaned low and breathy, like something just beneath a prayer.
The sound didn't seem coy. It felt possessed.
Jacob stumbled back behind a tree, his pulse hammering in his throat. His lips ajar.
He didn't even remember breathing.
The crucifix beneath his shirt felt like ice against his chest. He gripped it anyway.
The metal biting into his palm.
He told himself he hadn't seen what he saw.
*************
In Little Harmonie, purity is worshiped, sin is hunted, and witches burn.
Father Jacob should condemn Delilah. Instead, he craves her. Her beauty tempts him, her power unsettles him, and her darkness feels too much like his own.
But the deeper he falls, the uglier the truth bleeds out: the town is rotten, the sermons are lies, and the real monsters don't just lurk in the woods... they wear holy robes.
In a place that calls itself pure, obsession is holy, and love is the most dangerous curse of all.
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She was supposed to remember the best day of her life. She just can't remember if it ever happened. Ava used to believe in ordinary magic. Messy mornings with Maya knocking over mugs and yelling about coffee filters. Studio nights where Aiden argued about fonts like the world depended on it. Quiet days filled with pencil smudges, gold light, and music she never let anyone else hear. She had rules, routines, a voice that filled the room when she wanted it to-and a life that, while chaotic, was hers. Then came the stillness. They say she's healing. That memory can be slippery after grief. But the pieces don't align. Why does she flinch when he touches her? Why do her old journals sound like they were written by a stranger? Why does Aiden-distant, bitter, and quiet-look at her like she betrayed him? And why does Maya, the one person who always told her the truth, suddenly fall silent when Ava starts asking questions? Her past is blurred. Her future feels chosen for her. And in the mirror, she sees a girl shaped by someone else's hands. But somewhere, buried under fog and half-truths, a part of her remembers what it felt like to belong to no one. Not loved. Not kept. Not rewritten. Just... hers.
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