The following Sunday, the air felt thick, charged with a static electricity that made the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. I stood before my bedroom mirror, smoothing the fabric of a new dress. It was a white body-con piece, scattered with vibrant red floral patterns that looked like drops of blood against snow. It hugged my curves in a way that felt almost rebellious for a morning at St. Jude's, the hem hitting just at my knees.
I told myself I wore it because the weather was stifling. I told myself it was just a dress. But as I swiped a layer of cherry-tinted balm over my lips, I knew I was dressing for a ghost. I was dressing for the man with the ice-gray eyes and the granite palms.
"Ciara, let's go! We're actually on time today," Mama called out.
I grabbed my lace veil and followed her. Today, there would be no hiding in the back row. Mama marched us straight to the sixth bench from the altar, right in the heart of the congregation.
From the moment I knelt to pray, I felt it.
It wasn't a sound or a movement, but a heavy, physical pressure against the back of my neck. It was a gaze so intense it felt like a touch. I didn't have to turn around to know Zade was there. I could feel the space he occupied in the room, like a black hole pulling all the light toward him.
As Father Miller began the liturgy, I tried to focus on the Latin phrases and the scent of frankincense, but my body refused to cooperate. I was trembling. It started in my knees and worked its way up to my hands, which were clasped so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Is there something wrong with me? I wondered frantically. Is my dress too tight? Is my hair messy? Do I look like a sinner trying to play a saint?
I felt small. I felt hunted. Every time I stood or sat, I felt his eyes tracing the line of my spine, lingering on the curve of my waist. It was a silent conversation I wasn't invited to join, yet I was the only subject. I tried to tell myself I was dreaming that a man so devoted to the cross couldn't possibly be looking at a girl with such predatory focus. But the heat radiating from behind me was too real to be a fantasy.
Then came the time for the Eucharist.
"Body of Christ," Father Miller's voice echoed.
The congregation rose in a slow, rhythmic wave to form the line for communion. Mama stepped out first, followed by Alphaine. I moved into the aisle, my legs feeling like lead.
The line was crowded, packed tighter than usual. As we moved toward the altar, the space between parishioners vanished. I felt the person behind me close the gap.
A wall of heat pressed into my back.
I didn't need to look. I knew the scent the sandalwood, rain, and something metallic, like a whetted blade. It was Zade. He was standing directly behind me, so close that the fabric of his dark suit brushed against the floral print of my dress.
My heart didn't just race; it thundered, a frantic rhythm that made my vision blur. I tried to shuffle forward, but the line stalled.
Then, I felt it.
It wasn't accidental. It was a slow, deliberate pressure. As the crowd surged slightly, Zade stepped forward, closing the final inch of space. His tall, muscular frame loomed over me like a shadow, and through the thin fabric of my body-con dress, I felt the unmistakable, rigid heat of him pressing firmly against me.
The breath left my lungs in a sharp, silent hiss.
The pressure of his groin against me was unapologetic a hard, pulsing reminder of the man hiding beneath the mask of the worshiper. It was a sin committed in the house of God, a dark claim staked in the middle of a holy ritual.
I should have moved. I should have been repulsed. But a terrifying, molten heat bloomed in the pit of my stomach, answering his touch. I stood there, trapped between the altar and the devil, feeling the rhythmic throb of his desire against my skin.
He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear, smelling of coffee and dark secrets. He didn't speak, but he let out a low, guttural exhale that vibrated through my entire frame.
I was trembling so hard I thought I might collapse. My hands shook as I reached the front of the line.
The Body of Christ," Father Miller said, holding out the wafer.
I couldn't look the priest in the eye. I felt stained. I felt marked. I took the bread with trembling fingers, the weight of Zade's presence still burning against my backside, a brand that told me I no longer belonged to the light.
I don't remember walking back to the pew. I don't remember the final blessing.
When the service ended, I practically sprinted out of the church, leaving Mama and Alphaine behind in the crowd. I needed air.
I needed to wash the feeling of him off my skin, even though I knew it was impossible.
"Ciara! Wait up!" Alphaine called out, catching up to me on the sidewalk.
She looked at me, her eyes widening. "Gosh, you're red. Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"It's just the heat, Alphaine," I snapped, my voice cracking. "The church was too crowded."
I climbed into the back of the car and pressed my face against the cool leather of the seat. I reached down and touched the hem of my dress, my fingers grazing the spot where he had pressed into me.
I was nineteen. I was supposed to be innocent. I was supposed to be looking for a boy who would hold my hand and walk me home under the streetlights.
But as I looked back at the stone facade of St. Jude's, I saw a tall, dark figure standing in the shadows of the arched doorway. He wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at the car. He was looking at me.
Zade Ed Clarason wasn't a man of God. He was the temptation the Bible warned about, and I was already falling.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, the image of his scarred hands and icy gaze burned into my mind. I was terrified of what came next, but as I touched my burning cheeks, I realized the most frightening thing of all: I was already counting the days until next Sunday.