I know that the fact that I’m almost certain I can smell his cologne, sitting here, means I’m a little crazy. A little obsessed. But if it brings me comfort, is it really so bad—even if it’s a fantasy?
“I didn’t expect to find you here, Sasha.”
33
MAX
As much as I love Boston, I’ve come to find a sense of relief whenever I return to New York. I suspect it’s as much because of the people here that I know than the place itself, although I appreciate the city, too. It’s a place where almost anyone could run, hide, or disappear, and for a man like me, that’s proven to be a good thing.
At first glance, most wouldn’t suspect me of my past, I expect. Though it’s been years now since I had my collar taken away, I still dress mostly like a priest, in the comfortable uniform of black trousers and a black button-down. However, these days I keep it open at the collar. There’s no reason not to, after all, and a man deserves a little comfort.
As usual, when I returned from my business with Niall and the Kings in Boston, I headed straight for St. Patrick’s. Though I was never here in any official capacity while I was a priest, something about the place feels grounding, a comfort to me. I breathe in the scent of incense as I walk in, the scent of candles, the old wood and stone, and feel my shoulders relax as I step to the basin just inside and make the sign of the cross, genuflecting respectfully as I do, the action as natural as breathing.
Once a priest, always a priest.
But not without temptation.
The moment I look up, as if summoned by my thoughts, I see her.
My own personal temptation.
I can only see the back of her head, her hair, strawberry blonde and pin straight, falling down her back in a sleek, shiny fall that begs for me to run my fingers through it. She could be anyone, I suppose, any petite woman with that color hair in New York, but I know it’s her.
Sasha Federova.
The only woman in the world who has ever made me wish that I hadn’t taken those vows.
I know plenty would say it doesn’t matter. That I broke one, so why not the others? I’m no longer a priest, in truth, no longer ordained. I’ve been stripped of all of it–or rather, I chose to walk away from it, in one night of blood and violence that I wouldn’t take back, not even if it meant my soul. Since then, I’ve doubled down on that and committed other acts of violence—one of those in service to her, and I wouldn’t take that one back, either.
The worst sin is that I enjoyed it. Both times. I enjoyed the screams, the blood, the revenge. I enjoyed theirfear. Every sinful, bloody desire a man can have for those who have wronged him and others, I indulged in. And I have never once regretted it. Nor will I, no matter whether I burn for it in the next life or not.
But in penance for that rainy, blood-soaked night, I’ve kept the rest of those vows all these years. I live as simply as I’m able. I do good and provide priestly help and advice where I’m able. And I stay chaste.
I’ve never so much as touched a woman before. For a long time, I barely even thought about it. Even after my vow was broken and my priesthood lost, I still didn’t seek out the pleasures of the flesh. I didn’t fantasize about what could be.
Until I met Sasha.
Those desires have tormented me every day and night since,especiallythe night–and Sasha, of all women, is the one I should never touch, should never evendreamabout touching.
I should have always walked away from her every time she came near. I should have kept our conversation to a minimum, formal and brief. But over time, since she came to live at Viktor and Caterina’s house, we’ve become friends. I’ve told myself over and over that there’s nothing wrong with talking to her. It’s not as if I could avoid her–we live on the same property and are often in the same house, and that would be worse than being friendly. I’ve tried, in the time that we’ve known each other, to be an ear for her, a shoulder to cry on, to give her what I can of myself without breaking my vows. To be hers in the ways that I can justify.
But it still feels a little wrong, every time, just because of how she makes me feel.
I know that I shouldn’t even be having these thoughts, that after so long, it borders on obsession–but I can’t ever get her out of my mind completely. It doesn’t matter that she deserves more than a man with a past filled with violence when she’s endured so much that I could never ask her to risk the dangers that follow me, even if it weren’t for my vows. It doesn’t matter that I know what she’s been through, that I know she deserves a sweet and gentle man, a simple, unhurried life. It doesn’t matter that being with her the way I want would break everything I’ve striven so hard to keep these past years.
I can’tnotthink about her. I can’tnotwish for it, dream of it, in the darkest hours of the night, when all my defenses start to fall and the whispers of what could be, enter my mind.
There has never been a temptation like Sasha, and there never could be again.
She doesn’t hear me at first, as I sit down behind her. She smells like coffee and warmth, her hair so lovely that I ache to reach out and touch it. I don’t, of course. If I touched her even once, I don’t know how I could stop. I would kiss her, here in this place, where it would be even more of a sin, in the shadow of the saints and the stained glass, until she begged me for more. If I touched her, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from giving her that.
From giving hereverything.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, Sasha.”
She blushes as she looks back at me, tucking her hair behind her ear as she turns in the pew. “I don’t know. I don’t find it comforting, exactly–but I was passing by and wanted to come in. I can’t really explain it.” She purses her lips lightly, looking around, and a flush of sinful heat fills me. Her lips are soft and full, rosy and bare, and I want to kiss them red and swollen. I’ve imagined it so many times, and just looking at her makes the desire to find out how it would feel in reality nearly painful.
“I never liked churches as a child,” she says softly. “All the orphans would have to come every week, and it was always cold, and the services felt so long. My foster families weren’t much better. A lot of the time, it felt like an excuse to punish us, if we weren’t quiet or didn’t behave just right. But since I’ve been here—” she shrugs lightly, glancing back at me. “I haven’t minded it so much. It feels warmer here. Different. Almost—very close to comforting. I don’t know why.”