GIVE ME MORE.

Upon our arrival at St. Mary's Abbey, Sister Rosalyn and I had a conversation about what had happened at Ronan's funeral. She was the most gentle, understanding, neither pressed on me with questions nor judged when I answered.

But I would not talk of Asmodeus, for if I did – 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. So instead of telling her what had really freaked me out, which were dozens of individuals possessed by the entity I had accidentally conjured, I bullshitted about seeing a rat.

"A rat? You saw a rat?"

"A huge one, too. Scared me witless."

She only regarded me a long moment before buying the lie and dismissing me.

And Valeria didn't talk to me for the rest of that day. I didn't care. As long as she moved her body, ate and somewhat socialized with others, albeit seldom, I was content. That is, until I went to bed.

That night I felt distressed, replaying the funeral nightmare over and over until it knocked me out and into more lucid nightmares in which dozens of possessed creeps pointed their fingers at me laughing, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬! 𝘈 𝘳𝘢𝘵! 𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳!

I hardly slept, I remember, tossed and turned like raging ocean waves. So through the entire following morning I remained groggy and crabby, barely able to complete a task without either bursting in tears or boiling with anger.

Later that day, right after we had finished midday work and were on a break, two men showed up at the monastery gates. I could not believe my eyes when I saw their faces. The priest and the gorgeous altar boy from Ronan's funeral.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

I watched them from nearby bushes as they conversed in an undertone with the abbess.

"…and this is Samson, my postulant."

"Your reverence," Samson nodded.

𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘯. I bit my lip.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Smiled Sister Evelyn.

"I would not think of this visit as a pleasant one, madam," replied the priest.

"Oh?"

"I am here on behalf of a parishioner who has filed a complaint against one of your nuns, sister Genevieve Griffith."

"Forgive me, father. I do not quite understand. A complaint?"

"Sister Genevieve had recently attended a funeral ceremony where she had insulted a woman by means of inappropriate language in front of the entire congregation."

"Surely this cannot be. This must be a mistake."

"Unfortunately, no. I was there and can 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 confirm the veracity of this accusation." The priest held out an envelope.

"What is it?"

"A request to remove sister Genevieve from the order for misconduct of catholic doctrine."

My scalp prickled. "No…"

The abbess only stared at the sealed paper.

"You do understand such behavior is unacceptable for a member of religious community?"

"𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 aware of this fact. However, I will not revoke her vows, not until I have reflected on this issue and thought it fit to do so."

"With all due respect, your reverence, I would advise you to take immediate action. You are, after all, the head of Sainte Marie's Abbaye. You must not taint its name by keeping a nun who cannot keep her vows."

"I am also perfectly aware of my position." A pause. "And of my authority."

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘬!

The two exchanged an appraising look.

"Thank you for coming all the way here and notifying me, father. I will take your advice into consideration," said the abbess and was done.

"Looking forward to your answer."

When rather annoyed priest and rather nonchalant Samson walked away, I still sat in the bushes like a thief, processing my situation. If I were to be banned from the monastery, then what would I do?

Go back home to being a disgraced puppet in my family's psychotic home? Or in Peter's? Peter's family wouldn't even want me after this. My head was splitting in my hands as I imagined granny's wrath and my parents' disappointment, and the pointing fingers of those who had once watched me take my vows. The thought gave me high blood pressure.

I walked inside on weak legs, wobbled my way through the cluster with eyes tracing the intricate pattern of the monastic floor. 𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘈𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘴, I fumed, thinking about it. 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘯—

My trail of thought was broken by the impact of being bumped into something, someone. I looked up and momentarily lost my breath. There he was — 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 — Samson, the finest priest I had ever seen.

Dark lustrous mane, lips full, eyes big, framed by lashes that reminded me of Missy's, chiseled jawline and flawless skin. At a height of no less than 6 feet next to mine, which barely scraped the mark of 5.5, he towered over me like a dark, sinister building, grinning wickedly. I recognized that grin, knew exactly 𝘸𝘩𝘰 I 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 looked at before he had even opened his mouth.

"Why, if it isn't my little rat," he sneered. Even his voice sounded like music, albeit ominous.

Perhaps it was because I wanted to escape from my dark temptations, or maybe it was out of fear for Samson's life, but I bolted towards my room so fast, the guy was out of my sight in moments. Yet when I slammed the door shut and, panting, turned around, he was right in front of me somehow.

And before I could open my mouth to scream, he was already kissing it hard. And I was already grabbing his hair. And his hands were already tearing my habit. And I was already letting him. And his lips were already sliding down my neck. And I was already moaning.

"Manners, slave," he hissed into my ear. My skin tingled with goosebumps. "You do not run away from your Lord. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘭."

Later I would learn — his voice could melt ice. And so did melt my cold legs, to the point of collapsing down. He wanted me to kneel, I kneeled. He watched me. His lascivious smile and glowing eyes scorched me with desire.

"Forgive me, father," I whispered, undoing his pants with shaky fingers that did not belong to me, "for I'm about to sin."

Samson's hand was laid on my unveiled head, grabbing a fist-full of my curls. "Blow in peace, child."

We did it four times in every position, at every speed, all over the room, with an interval of no more than 1 minute between each round of no less than 10 minutes. And each angry round felt like his first, and like my last.

I was completely knackered, had no energy to move or speak whereas his stamina only grew, stronger, faster, higher, better. But when he climbed on top of my spent body, about to do it for the fifth time, his glowing garnet eyes dwindled to blackness.

"Weakling!" He growled and fell on me like a deadweight.

I gasped, stunned by the impact, pushed his sweaty, sticky corpus off of mine.

"Asmodeus?" I shook him vigorously. "Samson?"

He did not respond. Only his back was rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I heaved with relief. At least he was breathing. It appeared he was completely knocked out, so I left him to sleep and wrapped myself in a bed sheet, which I pulled out from under him not without difficulty.

I sat on the cold floating bench, lately — a very useful thing indeed, and stared at my bed on which soundly slept the beautiful man. Fluffy lushes grazing his cheekbones, dark hair cascading down his forehead, squished rosy lips emphasizing his youth, and all that perfect body emphasizing his youthful masculinity.

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, I thought to myself, convinced I was too ugly to be touched by a god like him. A god.

𝘈 𝘨𝘰𝘥.

My short-lived reverie was crushed by the reminder that it was in fact a god that had touched me. A god of lust and destruction who only cared for flesh and not soul. Who only needed to use and abandon. Hit and Run. Ruin and forget. That godly touch was printed all over me in bruises.

Otherwise, such a man as Samson would never even glance my way. Rationally, this should have been enough to get my shit together, to start rethinking my vile actions and wrongdoings. This should have been 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 than enough to promise myself to never let anyone, god or human, garbage me like this. Come on, self respect and dignity. And what else did I oath on besides poverty and obedience? Ah, right. 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺.

But when I tell you I only smiled proudly for bedding Samson, I am not fucking lying. There was no rationale in that smile, only darkness, for what had smiled then was really not myself but my inner aroused demon that roared, 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦!

I kept ogling Samson in semi-daze until a knock on the door made me wince.

"Sister Genevieve?" 𝘋𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦. The nob twisted gently. "Are you in there?"

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵! I mouthed, tiptoed to the door. She kept knocking, softly but persistently. This was bad. I could not let her walk in, not when I had a naked man sprawled on my mattress. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘌𝘷𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬!

"Yes, I am—in prayer at the moment."

"Forgive me for interrupting, but I was just wondering if you by chance saw brother Samson? Father Anthony can't find him anywhere."

I threw a nervous glance at Samson's smooth butt cheeks. "No, I haven't."

"Too bad. I guess we'll keep searching. Oh, and reverend mother was looking for you earlier." 𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬!

"All right, thank you for letting me know."

Silence.

"Anything else I could help you with, sister?" I added.

"That would be all."

"In that case, I'll be at the mother's office shortly."

"I will let her know."

I heard Dominique's retreating footsteps and heaved a sigh of relief. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, I blew out. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘠 𝘍𝘜𝘊𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘊𝘓𝘖𝘚𝘌.

Thank goodness neither the abbess nor the priest had connected the dots between my absence and the lost altar boy. At least not yet. So while the luck was on my side I got dressed, clothed blacked-out Samson (a nearly impossible task to do), and tried to wake him up.

It took ten god damn minutes for his deep amber eyes to open. They were drowsy while scanning my room, and laser-sharp when they halted on me.

"Wha…what—" He perked upright abruptly. "Where am I?"

"Don't worry, Samson. You're Samson, right?"

He nodded his head yes, blinking rapidly. He was either shocked or scared. "What am I doing here?"

"You fell unconscious, so I brought you here to rest."

"Here meaning—" he swallowed nervously, chiseled jaw tightening to its absolute definition.

Pause.

"My cell, yes. Are you feeling better now?"

Samson blinked some more, rubbed his neck and his forehead, frowned. "Y….yes? I guess so?"

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺-𝘸𝘪𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, I thought, scrutinizing his bemused expression.

"Thank God."

"Where is father Anthony?"

"He is outside looking for you. May I escort you to him?"

"Please. That would be nice."

I smiled benevolently. "Follow me."

"Sister," he hesitated, his perfect jaws clenching.

"If…if father Anthony or others ask where I was, could we maybe say…some other place instead of—your cell?"

"There is a vacant room we use for occasional storage. Will that do?"

He sighed with great relief. "Yes, thank you."

No, thank 𝘺𝘰𝘶.