Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Roger Crowell, Rose Landry, Brandon Wiebe

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Priests, Forbidden Love, Light Angst, Yearning, Vampire Shane Hollander, Priest Ilya Rozanov, Blood Drinking, Gay Catholic Guilt, Eventual Smut, Biting, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Improper Use of Holy Water, Blood Kink, Inappropriate Use of a Rosary, Bottom Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Blow Jobs, Spit As Lube, Bratty Shane Hollander, BDSM, Power Exchange, Orgasm Control, Bondage, Priest Kink, Author Is Not Catholic, AU where priests can get married idk, Brat Tamer Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-15 Completed: 2026-03-12 Words: 44,704 Chapters: 10/10

Confessions in the Dark

Summary

“I should go,” Shane says. His voice is low. Controlled. Like it costs him something to say it.
Ilya doesn’t move out of his way.
—
OR: Ilya is training for the priesthood when vampire Shane Hollander walks into his church — and temptation follows.

Notes

Hi! A quick note before we get into it:
I am very much not an expert on the Catholic faith. So naturally, I decided to write a fic where Ilya is training to be a priest. I don’t know—seemed like a good idea at the time. I am doing my best to research and keep things as accurate as possible, but there will almost certainly be inaccuracies, and I appreciate your patience with that.

Lastly, I don’t usually write in first person or present tense, so if anything feels off with the perspective or tense, please feel free to let me know!

Chapter 1: Bless Me, Father

Ilya

It’s a dark and stormy night.

Don’t you love it when a story starts like that? I know I do. My mother used to start every story that way. It doesn’t matter if it’s a scary story or a fairytale; everything starts on a dark and stormy night. So I suppose it’s fitting that we begin there.

The rain comes down in sheets, splashing against the roof like rough seas against a cliffside. The pews are empty, the church is cold. Father Cromwell is back in his house for the night, surely watching sports on TV while his darling wife makes him dinner. I shouldn’t complain about his darling wife, actually. Hillary is really a wonderful woman, and she’s brought me dinner quite a few times.

But I’m especially bitter tonight in the church. Candles flicker on the altar, but the cold of late October seeps through the old stone walls and into my bones. I don’t like the quiet like this. I need interaction, companionship, and connection. And right now, there is nothing keeping me company but the drumming rain and howling wind outside.

So I sit in a pew and watch the hours tick by as I flip through the latest crime novel. I know, you’re expecting the Bible. Believe it or not, we deacons enjoy things besides the Bible. Shocking, I know.

The wood of the pew is hard against my back as I lean against it. Father Cromwell, Roger, prefers to keep this church as traditional as possible. He loves telling people the church dates back to 1856. It’s true, but only somewhat. The original building burned to the ground sometime in 1914 and was rebuilt into the Gothic-style stone building I sit in now.

Still over 100 years old, but not quite as ancient as he likes to make it seem. But sitting here, I can absolutely feel the 100-plus years these pews have endured. The wood is slightly worn, and only slightly is a huge testament to Father Cromwell’s dedication to the place. He and his various seminarians over the years have kept this place in beautiful working order. I should know. I probably spend more time dusting and polishing than I do reading the Bible and praying. And I spend a lot of time doing that.

At first, when the giant oak doors at the front of the church groan and open, I think it’s the wind. And then I see him.

The man who enters the church is completely soaked. Loose casual clothes cling to his body, made obscene by the water. I can’t help the way my eyes take in the hard lines his drenched clothes outline so perfectly.

He has dark hair, made midnight-black by the rain that has soaked into it. His skin is pale like the moon. Smooth and unmarred, except for a handful of freckles that bridge over his nose like a constellation—making the perfect sky, even better rather than taking away from it. To put it mildly, the man is extremely handsome, and also extremely wet. That’s what stirs me from my stupor. The small puddle that accumulates under his feet as he stands in front of the door, waiting, confirms it.

“Hello,” I say, and my Russian accent comes out stronger than I’m ready for. I’ve been in the States for six years now, and most of the time, my English is fairly decent, and my accent is minimal. But it’s been hours since I’ve talked to someone, and it comes out deep and strong.

The man looks at me like he’s surprised I’m here. Walking into a church and getting a priest. That’s kind of how it works. Or at least—a priest in training—but same difference here.

“Hi,” he tentatively responds, “um,” looking incredibly uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed protectively over his chest. My eyes briefly flick to the pecs his posture draws attention to, but only briefly, I promise. He’s not wearing a coat, which is odd. It’s late October in New England, and it’s cold outside. Not Russian cold, but cold enough to need a coat. Especially during a storm.

My eyes linger on the puddle on the floor just as he says, “I’m sorry about the... umm... mess, it’s really coming down out there,” and I spring into action. I hold up a finger, indicating he should wait, and dart to a small cleaning closet in the back of the church, grabbing a handful of rags and a roll of paper towels.

I return to him like a dog playing fetch, proud to show off the supplies I’ve retrieved. I hand him the roll of paper towels, and our hands touch. The jolt that travels through my body at his touch cannot be normal. It sets every part of me aware, tingling with electricity. A live wire.

His skin itself is damp and cool to the touch, but I just get a moment of feeling it beneath my hand before he takes the paper towels from me.

“Those are for you, I’ll wipe down the floor,” I say, getting on my knees and focusing on the floor, chasing the errant drops of water away from the cold stone. Getting on my knees is a mistake, though. When I finish wiping away the water with a rag, I glance up at him. He’s standing tall above me, wiping water from his skin with a paper towel. It shouldn’t be a sexy thing to watch—someone cleaning themselves off with a paper towel—but I think it may be one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen.

When his gaze catches mine, I’m still on my knees on the floor, clutching a damp rag for dear life as I take him in. He gives me a shy smile as I stand and a quiet “thank you” while I take the crumpled paper towels and walk the wet rags and towels back to the cleaning closet. It’ll be my job later to take them back to the rectory, wash the rags, and dispose of the paper towels, but for now, I just put them back in the closet. I take a moment to steady my breath, put on my most priestly face and attitude, and coach myself to be on my best behavior before I walk back to the man.

My footsteps echo through the quiet church as I approach him, stopping a few feet away—a respectable distance, I decide.

“Hi, welcome to St. Michael’s,” I say by way of greeting. I reach my hand out, closing a foot of space to reach him easier—or at least that’s what I tell myself. “Ilya Rosanov.”

He takes my hand and gives it a quick shake; the brief contact isn’t nearly enough. His touch is just as exhilarating as before.

“Shane Hollander,” he answers, and I smile. The name fits him well. Shane, I think to myself, mulling it over. I smile at the new information despite myself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

“Just Ilya is fine if you prefer,” I say, my mind still catching on the new title. I only earned my deaconship recently, and the title is still somewhat jarring.

“Sorry, born and raised Catholic—not sure I can call you by your first name,” the man—no, Shane—says with the slightest blush in his cheeks.

“Okay,” I agree. “How can I help you tonight?”

I wait for Shane to answer, his eyes taking in every detail he can. He wants to know everything about this stranger. Wants to know why he’s here after dark in the storm. Where he came from. What his lips taste like. No, wait. Not that one.

Wow, I’m really losing it tonight. One wet, handsome man in my vicinity, and I lose over six years’ worth of seminary training and focus. I still my mind, recite a few favorite Bible verses in my head, and wait for Shane to answer.

“I’m honestly not sure. I’m not from around here, and when I get caught in the storm, this is the first place that looked open. I hope that’s okay,” he says, unsure, nervous. It’s adorable.

“Of course, all are welcome here,” I say. It feels a little corny, but I work hard to make it true. Father Cromwell is a little more old-fashioned than I am, and for the most part, his flock reflects that. Not necessarily bad people, but at times a little judgmental, a little coarse with outsiders. But Father Cromwell is at home tonight, and I’m happy to let in anyone who seeks the church this evening. Especially when they’re as handsome as Shane Hollander.

“Okay,” he says softly, still looking fairly uncomfortable in the space, his weight shifting, hands fidgeting. He mentions he was raised Catholic, but he seems out of place in the church, and I briefly ruminate on it, wanting to know more. It’s a selfish desire—to want to know more about this man—but I can’t help it.

“I could take your confession,” I offer, gesturing at the empty booth. It’s half selfish desire to know more about him, and half a need to put a solid wall between us so I can regain some of my sanity.

“Okay,” he agrees again. His eyes catch mine for a second, and I’m pulled into the dark depths of them. Yes. A wall seems like a good idea.

We enter the booth calmly, and once again, I’m mulling over his history with the church. At times, he looks incredibly uncomfortable in the church, like it’s causing him physical pain. His brows pinched, his fists clenched, his lip worrying between his teeth. And other times, he seems to fall easily into the rhythm, like someone who has gone through these motions a thousand times before. He enters the confessional booth like this, with the ease of someone who has done it many times before.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—God,” a pause, “years since my last confession,” Shane utters softly. And I want so desperately to ask questions, to dig into why. But I hold back, wanting him to tell it all to me on his own terms.

“Go on,” I say, prompting him to begin.

I hear the wood creak and imagine him shifting his weight back and forth in his seat. I picture him biting that infuriating lip.

“I’ve lied,” he says finally. “Repeatedly.”

That’s usually how they start. Safe ground. I hear his breathing, and I am wrong. It’s not helpful to have him on the other side of the wall. I want to see his eyes, want to watch his brow furrow as he confesses his sins to me.

“Not small lies,” he adds. “Not the kind you tell to spare someone’s feelings. The kind that let you keep living the way you are.” Deep breaths, more creaking. “I never used to lie, but now it seems to be all I do. There was a time when I would have faced the truth, no matter the cost, but now it’s easier to maintain the facade. Easier to let people see the person they expect instead of who I really am.” His voice breaks slightly, and I can hear a new kind of uncertainty. “I never thought it would be like this.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the screen without my permission. I want to ask more, want to listen as he unwinds the truths from his lips, spills his secrets to me. It’s selfish.

“I let people believe things about me that aren’t true,” he continues. “I don’t correct them. Sometimes I encourage it.”

Encourage it. That’s an interesting word choice. I let him go on. My own hands clench at my sides as I hold back the urge to talk—to offer him support, or guidance, or something entirely different.

“I use people,” he says, quieter now. “I tell myself it’s harmless. That no one’s really hurt by it. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.” A breath. “I want things I believe I shouldn’t want.”

My breath catches in my throat. I can’t be sure what he’s talking about, but I can’t deny the way the air feels charged. The box feels too small. I want to ask him more. Want him to continue. I just…want.

“And I don’t trust my judgment,” he adds. “Not the way I used to.” His breathing sounds more shallow now, like he’s been waiting years to say these things, if only someone would ask. “I don’t know if repentance still applies to me,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m asking for forgiveness… or just permission to keep existing.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. They settle somewhere low in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. I lean forward slightly, though he can’t see it. “God doesn’t ration grace,” I say. “It isn’t earned by being uncomplicated. Or clean. Or certain.”

“You are not beyond forgiveness,” I continue. “And you are not required to understand everything about yourself before you ask for it.”

Silence grows thicker with each breath he takes.

“Thank you, Father,” he says, and I catch the tremor in his voice. We both wait—him for me to deliver my judgment, to ask for his penitence, and I to decide if it’s even needed.

“I’m not going to give you prayers,” I say. The words leave my mouth before I can overthink them. There’s a pause on the other side of the screen—sharp enough that I know I’ve surprised him. “Instead,” I continue, slower now, “I want you to think about why you’re doing these things. What you’re protecting. What you’re afraid would happen if you stopped.”

“All right,” he says.

I raise my hand. “God, the Father of mercies,” I begin, voice steady even though my pulse isn’t, “through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself—” The words are familiar. Anchoring. “I absolve you of your sins,” I finish, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” he replies.

The confession is over. It should end there. I push the door open and step out first, my mind already halfway elsewhere—and nearly collide with him as he pulls the curtain aside at the same moment.

We stop short, too close.

He’s tall. His height mirrors mine in a way that’s too satisfying to ignore. I’m close enough that I can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flick briefly to my mouth, linger just a moment on my neck, before snapping back up. There’s something restrained about him, like he’s holding himself still by force.

“I should go,” he says. His voice is low. Controlled. Like it costs him something to say it.

I don’t move out of his way.

“If you’re still around,” I hear myself say, “you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.” It’s a reckless request, one that I would make to any patron who seeks solace in the church, but dangerous because it’s him. And I’m not thinking rationally about him. I’m thinking of things that require my own confessions.

His expression shifts. “Tomorrow,” he repeats.

Then he steps past me, careful not to touch, and the space he leaves behind feels colder for it. I watch him walk down the aisle before I remember I’m not supposed to. And I already know—he will come back. The thought brings a smile to my face.

He leaves through the wooden doors, giving me one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the night. The rain has slowed, falling softly now, almost creating a mist with how fine the droplets are, the wind quiet.

When I close the door behind him, a shudder races through my body that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold evening.

I go about my evening tasks to close the church. It’s nearing ten o’clock, far past our normal closing hours. It’s fairly easy to close out; I’ve done most of my chores for the evening earlier in the quiet hours. I grab the stashed rags from the cleaning closet and grab my discarded book from the front pew, making my way to the rectory where I stay.

I feel every bit of the cold as I hurry across the breezeway, still contemplating Shane’s lack of a coat and him back out on the street in his damp clothing. I hope he is staying close by. I hope he is staying.

The rectory is warmer, the building a newer addition to the church, added in 1957, as Father Cromwell has drilled into me. It’s nothing fancy, but the small addition has a kitchen, bedroom, and small living room. It’s all I really need. I spend most of my time at the church, and living here has been a blessing in many ways.

Father Cromwell, despite his traditional views, is married and lives with his wife about twenty minutes from the church. I’ve visited his home a few times, invited by his wife after a service. It’s a beautiful house, historic in ways New England likes to boast on postcards, a white colonial with large maple trees in the front yard and all surrounded by a picket fence. Yes, a literal picket fence. The American Dream.

So I’m alone in the rectory. Sometimes I don’t mind. I’m so tired from working all day that I simply use it as a place to rest my head. But tonight it echoes a loneliness that feels so incredibly draining.

I start a quick load of laundry with the rags and a few of my long-sleeved black button-ups—I keep my closet full of them. And then it’s time for bed, or it should be, but I opt for a shower instead. My mind is still buzzing with thoughts of him—of Shane. I start the shower hot, going about the motions, trying to let the heat drive the chill of loneliness out of my bones. It does.

However, instead of satiating me, it also draws waves of desire over me in a way I haven’t felt in years. I’m not celibate. In fact, I was a bit—how to phrase this politely—promiscuous in my younger years. I’ve mulled over the idea of embracing celibacy when I enter the priesthood, but I haven’t quite nixed sex from my life. I just haven’t had it in a long time. I haven’t felt the draw to anyone since Svetlana, a gorgeous young postulant with whom I traveled to the US to enter school together.

Svetlana doesn’t end up becoming a nun; in fact, she never actually wants to. She just uses the visa to find a better job and immediately drops out of the program. We are casually sleeping together throughout our schooling, convenient for sating the lust we both feel without worrying about building an attachment that might have to end. It is different with Svetlana; we share an understanding, a comfort in each other’s presence that neither of us wants to lose but both know can’t last forever.

Now, the absence of that easy companionship lingers heavier than I anticipate. The nights feel longer and the solitude more pervasive, a stark contrast to those times when a simple touch or shared joke is all it takes to feel connected.

Then Svetlana moves to Boston to sell luxury cars. Yes, from nun to luxury car salesman. What a path. And I come here to begin my year of service as a deacon under Roger, and the arrangement ends; we still keep in touch, but it’s different. So how am I supposed to combat my baser instincts when a beautiful stranger wanders through my doors, asking me to help him? Fuck.

Something intense stirs within me at the thought of Shane, and my cock jumps to attention. I let the hot water cascade down my body, closing my eyes and picturing his dark eyes. But it’s wrong. It’s so wrong.

If I meet him on the street or in a coffee shop, it is different. But I don’t. He comes to me as a spiritual advisor. As a lost lamb, trying to find his path, I can’t take advantage of that—even in the privacy of my own shower. I turn the dial, and the water turns frigid, the shock of it wrenching away the thoughts of my dripping parishioner.

I go to sleep tossing and turning, mentally and spiritually frustrated, and—despite my frigid shower—physically too. I fall asleep thinking of Shane, not sure if I’m scared he’ll appear in my dreams or if I’m hoping desperately he will.

Chapter 2: Night Shift

Chapter Notes

Ilya

I dream of Shane.  I dream of long, graceful limbs, agile fingers, and a mouth stained red.  I dream of running my fingers through his midnight hair and dragging my tongue along the column of his throat.  I dream of long eyelashes framing dark eyes, of a pulse fluttering beneath my fingers, a gasp, a moan, a whimper.

I wake up hard and wanting.

I’m not ashamed of the way I wake from these dreams.  It's natural to feel temptation, to be drawn to beauty, to the unknown.  I have no control over the dreams that plagued my thoughts last night, nor do I have control over how my body reacted to them.  No, I’m not ashamed of that.

I am, however, ashamed of the distraction that plagues me the rest of the day.  The way I glance at my watch during my morning meeting with Father Crowell.  The fidgeting of my fingers through my afternoon admin work.  And the glances at the door, of course.  I must have glanced at the door a thousand times today. Every time the oak creaked open at the front of the church, my eyes scanned for a flash of freckles and mystery.

And yet, nothing.  The day drones on, patrons come and go, I chat with parishioners, dust the sanctuary, confer with Father Crowell, but he doesn’t come.  Our door isn’t graced with the presence of Shane Hollander, no matter how much I wish it were.  

It’s nearing sundown, and the church is near empty.  Father Crowell is in his office, going over his notes for his Sunday sermon.  He still writes everything out in a notebook and then takes a red pen to it like he’s an English teacher.  It would be endearing if he didn't take it so seriously. I'm in the church, seemingly sweeping, but really I’m just pacing with a broom and praying to see him.  

When the door creaks open just minutes before the sun disappears from the sky, I breathe a sigh of relief.

He’s back.

Shane walks through the door slowly, with the same grimace he wore last night, closing the carved oak behind him with a click and standing before it.  He looks uncomfortable, once again shifting his weight, eyes scanning the room even though I’m alone in it.  I, on the other hand, feel tension leave my shoulders, feel my breath come a little easier.  I knew I was waiting for him to walk through the door today, but I didn’t realize how much I needed it to happen.  The relief I feel over seeing him is physical and immediate.

I walk over to him, deliberate in my steps, unfaltered.

“Shane,” I say by way of greeting, having waited too long today to bother with pleasantries.  But my smile betrays my joy of seeing him again Im sure.  

“Father Rozanov,” he says with a small smile.  His voice was somehow deeper and more pleasing than I remembered.  

“It’s good to see you again,” I say softly, letting intimacy creep into my innocuous words. “I’m very glad you came back.” We’re just standing in front of the doors now, the final dregs of light spilling in through stained glass windows along the far wall, casting slivers of color across the pews.

“Me too,” he confesses, and fuck if I don't love hearing his confessions.  “I wasn’t sure if I should; I don’t usually stick around in towns for too long, but I wanted to see you again.” I’m struck with a mix of curiosity and sick satisfaction.  I shouldn’t be pleased that he wanted to see me again.  Not come to the church, not confession, me. But I am.  I’m incredibly pleased.

“I wanted to see you too,” I share.  I pause for a moment, wondering what to do.  Do I lead him to confession again?  Sit in a pew and just talk? Take him back to the rectory and..

No.  Bad Ilya.  Not that one.

I gesture to one of the pews. “Would you like to sit?”  I say, giving him the option and hoping desperately that he takes it  Hoping it will stop him from running away again, at least for a few moments.

“Sure,” he says simply and walks easily into the last pew, sliding down on the wood.  He stares at the space next to him and then slowly rakes his gaze up to mine.  His eyes are mesmerizing. So dark they border on black, like lakewater at dusk. And who could blame me for doing whatever he asks of me when he looks at me like that.

I sit next to him, too close for comfort. Our knees brushing, our hips touching. And then there’s silence, uncertainty on where we stand, what we should be doing, what I am doing. I settle on easy conversation, to dig into some of the questions that still lie unanswered.

“You said you don’t stick around in towns for too long,” I start, “why is that”?  I’m hoping that it’s a simple enough question- one that can be answered and drive us into conversation.  I’m also secretly hoping he tells me he’s decided to move here permanently and has already bought a house.  A man can dream, can’t he?

“That's,” he takes a deep breath, “a complicated thing to explain.”

“I have all night,” I prompt, and curse myself for saying all night.  And then I curse myself for being embarrassed for being embarrassed over saying all night- a perfectly normal thing.  God, this man is making a mess of me.

He takes a full breath.  Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment.  I think about his confession from last night about lying, and wonder if he’s contemplating lying to me now.  I really don't want him to lie to me.

“I like to travel,” he says slowly, like it’s just the start. “I didn’t, for years.  I just stayed in my hometown, milling about.  Went to school there, got a job there, and stayed there. And then something changed.”  His eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment before his gaze focuses back to the front of the church. “After that, I decided to pack it up and move around.  Partially because I want to see more, experience more,” another flicker of his gaze on me, “but I also try to avoid connection, try not to put down any roots, grow too comfortable somewhere”. His head turns, and his eyes meet mine and stay this time: “Sorry, I know that’s delightfully vague, but it’s honest- and I hope that counts for something.”

I mull over his admission and his plea of honesty.  “It counts for everything. I appreciate your honesty,” I say, hoping the small praise will breed more of it.  And then - because I have a penchant for trouble- I add, “It sounds lonely.”

Our eyes still hold contact, my hands rest in my lap, his on the pew in front of us- almost bracing himself, and I have the strongest urge to hold his palms in mine, to comfort him.  Again, it’s a selfish urge, the desire to comfort him second to the overwhelming need to touch his bare skin, to feel his hand under mine.

“It is,” he admits, “but sometimes it’s necessary to feel a little pain to remind you you’re still alive,” he says, and I watch as his hand tightens around the pew he holds.

I couldn’t agree more, but I think my definition of necessary pain might be a little different than what he’s describing.  

I let his words linger in the air for a moment, the silence of the church pressing in on us.  There is a quiet solitude to the space tonight, nothing like the freezing loneliness that swept through it last night.  Strange to think how a handful of hours can change the entire feeling of a room.

“So, why stick around here? Why come back?” Again, a selfish question.  Again, I don’t care, can't stop it.

“Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment,” he says, his eyes flashing for a moment, darting around like he’s not sure what to look at, my lips, my hands, my neck. Like landmarks on a map. He is testing the borders of propriety, teasing me with a challenge as much as a confession. For a moment, the power between us shifts and I feel the invitation as much as the warning. “I know Gluttony is a sin, Father, but what does the bible say about seeking out pain. Better yet, what does it say about enjoying it?” The words hang between us, a gauntlet thrown—he wants to see how far I'll let him go, how close I'll let him get before I push back. I can feel myself rising to the challenge, ready to match him move for move.

I watch his tongue trace briefly over his teeth, just a flicker of movement, unconscious- a habit.  And his gaze flicks through the landmarks again, finally landing on my mouth.  My pulse is racing, my mind spinning, and we’re not going to discuss the sudden tightness in my pants as he surveils me. I let his words simmer into my bloodstream.  Briefly allow images of him in pain to flash across my vision. How pretty he would look with bruises across the back of his thighs, how much I’d love to leave a necklace of red around his throat that perfectly aligns with my fingers.

I banish the thoughts, cram them into a deep corner of my mind, close the door, and throw away the key.  I realize I’m already planning to ask forgiveness for sins I haven’t even committed. Yet.

“Now it’s my turn to say that question is complicated,” I say, begging my pulse to slow. Shane’s gaze keeps flicking to my neck, and it’s like he can see how fast my heart is beating. “Yes, gluttony is a sin.  Too much of a good thing and all that.  But pain is more debated.  Some would say that embracing pain is a form of penance that mirrors the sufferings of Christ.  That it is a holy expression to feel what He felt. Others would debate that deriving pleasure, any kind of pleasure, from it taints the action.”  I pause, allowing myself some rumination on his question that doesn't involve picturing him bound and gagged.  

“And what do you think, Father?” He says, and I feel like inches of space between us have disappeared, I’m not sure they have, or if his presence seems larger, the room smaller.

“I think,” I begin- slowly- choosing my words carefully, “That part of loving God, part of enjoying His creation, is enjoying the pleasures of life.  Not to excess, but if there is no victim to the action, then it should be debated if it’s truly a sin.”

I’m not imagining it, we have absolutely drifted closer together, our legs flush with one another, faces turned to each other, inches separating us. I’m thinking about it.  Closing the distance that is.  Thinking about sealing his mouth with mine. And from the searing look on his face.  The burning intensity between us - I’d bet he was thinking about it too.

“Ilya, who is this?” Father Crowell’s voice is so jarring to the moment that I nearly jump off the pew. It echoes through the church from his position at the front of the room.  I’d forgotten he was still here, so focused on Shane that I didn’t think through his proximity.  Roger’s footsteps reverberate down the aisle as I pull myself out of the bubble I’ve created with Shanr, getting to my feet and exiting the pew.

“Father Crowell, this is Shane Hollander. He’s new to town and wanted to check out St.Michaels” I explain, gesturing at Shane, who is still sitting in the pew, his expression dark.

“How nice,” Father Crowell says, but there's judgment behind his words.  The same tone he strikes with anyone who is new or different.  He still uses it with me from time to time.  Whether it’s me being new to the church or Russian, I’m not sure, Father Crowell doesn’t like things that don’t fit in perfectly.

“Hello,” Shane says simply, absolutely devoid of emotion.  He still sits, not giving Roger the kindness of standing up and shaking his hand, or addressing him with his title.  I know he’s seething about that.

“Well, Shane,” Roger says, pointedly looking at his watch, “I hate to hustle you out the door, but” he leaves his sentence unfinished.  What a fucking asshole.  It’s one thing to kick someone out of the church when we close, but it’s another to leave the sentence unfinished- waiting for the person to excuse themselves rather than being direct.  I’m disgusted by it.

“Father Crowell, you’re free to head out.  I’m happy to close up here, and I’ll escort Mr.Hollander out,” I say, trying to ease the tension between the two of them, and unwind the knot in my gut that comes from the thought of Shane leaving.

Roger hesitates, and I don’t know if I’ve ever hated someone so fiercely as I do in this moment. “I’m happy to do it. You can get home to Hillary,” I say, hoping the mention of his wife will get him out of here.

“Okay, Ilya, I think I will head out.  Make sure you blow out all the candles before you call it a night,” He says.  I know why he does this- uses my first name in front of parishioners. Why he reminds me to do tasks I’ve never forgotten.  It’s a form of control, a way to belittle me that makes me grind my teeth together.  But today is not the day to start this fight. leave. leave. leave. I chant in my head instead.

“Goodnight,” he says to me, then glances at Shane, “Goodbye.”  I don't miss the difference in our farewells, the dismissal of Shane.  But I’m grateful that he’s leaving.  As Roger walks back down the aisle and disappears out the back door, I stay stock still in the aisle, Shane still sitting on the pew next to me.  And then we are truly alone in the church again, and I realize I have no idea what to do with this opportunity.  

Shane breaks the silence, letting out a long exhale mixed with a slight laugh. “Wow, he is really something,” he remarks, throwing an arm over the back of the pew and turning his body to face me.  The most relaxed I’ve seen him.

“Yes, he’s very” I think for a second of the correct word “traditional.  I apologize if he offended you.  He’s not always open to change, even when it’s newcomers.” I hate having to apologize on Roger’s behalf.  When I’m in charge of my own church, I’m going to make sure no one has to feel judgment like that.

“I’m used to it,” Shane says, shaking his head.  I survey him, hating to think of anyone not accepting him.  Of anyone being unkind to him. “If you do need to close up, I can head out,” he says, moving to stand. “I was only being reluctant when he was asking to be difficult.  A rebellious streak, if you will.”

“No, stay,” I command, and it’s impossible to ignore the way he responds, stopping his movement, smiling up at me, and relaxing back into the pew.

“Okay”

I don’t rejoin him on the pew.  It’s too tempting, too close to his lithe body.  I’m not quite strong enough to ignore the temptation of him when he’s at my fingertips. Instead, I stand above him at the end of the pew, propping my hip against the pew in front of his, desperately hoping I look casual and relaxed.  I know I’ve asked him to stay, but I’m hesitant to reenter his space.

“Do you think you’ll stay a few more days?  I’d like to see you again.” I state it plainly, hoping it reads as more of a dedicated deacon than someone desperate for his time.

He smiles, and it’s the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen. “I think I may stick around here for a bit,” he says, and I could soar. “I’d like to see you again,” he adds, and I do, in fact, soar.

“Would you want to come by around noon tomorrow? We could have lunch in the courtyard if it’s nice outside.” I offer, and it sounds a lot like a date.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” he says, and I curse myself.  I pushed too far.  I must have the expression of a kicked dog because he quickly adds, “I have a weird work schedule.  I’m fully remote, but I work the night shift, so I’m usually asleep at noon, sorry” he blushes at this and the sight makes me want to take up painting just so I could capture the rosy haze across his cheeks on paper.

“Oh, okay, no problem. Maybe in the evening then?” I want to ask if he wants to have dinner with me, but I’m still a little offsteady after my earlier inviation sounded like I was asking him out.

“Sure, would it be okay if I came by after closing?  I don’t want to push, but I’m not eager to run into Father Crowell.” He stands and enters my space.  I don’t step back even though I should.  He’s still a good foot or two away, but every inch he closes between us is another chance at losing my careful control

“Sure, I typically lock up around seven, so maybe 7:30,” I offer. My heart is pounding again, and I swear his eyes flicker to my pulse point again like he really can tell.  But there’s no way that’s what he’s doing.  I’m absolutely reading into something inadvertent or maybe not even happening.

“It’s a date,” he says with a smile, and my pulse goes wild. For a moment, the words just hang there between us, electric and uncertain. My mind spins trying to read every inflection, every pathway they could lead us down. Did he mean it as a joke? Did he mean it as a promise? Did he mean it the way I so desperately want him to mean it, or am I just hearing what I’ve been longing for? Longing, I realize, is the only thing I can trust right now—the aching, hopeful agony that pulses in my veins as I try not to let my imagination run too far ahead of reality. I’m not sure what he means. Not sure how I want him to mean it. All I know is that every hour until 7:30 tomorrow night will stretch and twist with anticipation, every minute a question, every heartbeat its own brand of torment as I wait to learn what, exactly, I’ve agreed to—and what I might dare to hope.

I reach into my pocket and wind my fingers around the metal and glass object in my pocket.  I placed it there earlier with the hope that Shane would show up, but now, faced with the reality, I’m intimidated to give him the token.  I fiddle with it for a moment. “I have something for you,” I say, meeting his eyes.

His expression turns inquisitive, like he’s expecting some kind of prank. “It’s just something small, and you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to,” I add nervously.

“Okay he answers tentatively.

“Hold out your hand,” I ask, and he does.  I don’t ask him to close his eyes, but he does, and the small gesture of trust in me rushes through me.

I place the rosary in his hand, letting my fingers brush over his palm in a way that is completely superfluous for placing an object in someone’s hand. His eyes snap open with the action as his hand closes around the rosary, a small wince crossing his face that is gone so fast I think I imagined it.

“Are you okay?” I ask

“Yeah, just a static shock.  It’s nothing.” He opens his palm and extracts the necklace, placing the delicate cross between his fingers to examine it. “It’s lovely, thank you.”

“You don’t have to pray with it if you don't want to.  But I thought you might find comfort in it, as I do,” I say, feeling more nervous about this than I should. It’s one of my personal rosaries, but I want him to have it.  Want to share this small token of myself with him.

“Thank you, Father,”  he reiterates, and this time it’s my turn to blush.  

He holds the rosary in his hand as I walk him slowly to the doors. He opens the door and glances at me once more. “Tomorrow,” he says, like it’s a promise.

“Tomorrow,” I echo.  I say it like an oath.

Chapter End Notes

Slow and steady burn in this one, folks. They touched hands. We are making progress.
It is marked explicit and I PROMISE I will get there. For now, please enjoy the tension.

If you liked this chapter, please leave a kudos or a comment. A single kudos can feed an AO3 author for a whole day, and comments sustain me for at least a week.

I am planning to update again later this week with a Shane POV, so stay tuned.

Chapter 3: Temptation

Chapter Notes

Shane

I’m pacing like a caged zoo animal.

The hotel room I’m staying in is nice- at least as far as hotel rooms go.  The carpet is unmarred, the walls are free of smudges or scrapes, and the bed has clean, stain-free linens.  But it is too small, and I’m feeling rather confined.

I pace up and down the room again, creating a war on the carpet of my path.  I’ve been pacing like this for almost an hour, just waiting out the sun as it makes its journey to set for the evening.  I don’t need it all the way gone, but I’m waiting until it’s hidden in the trees and the streets are just getting the final streaks of gold.  I can handle that.

But it’s not there yet, still hanging high enough in the sky to be a threat to me.  I peer at it through the curtains in the room, angry at the ball of gas 93 million miles away, like it’s done this to me personally.  

I know I’m acting irrationally.  This isn’t any different from my normal schedule.  I’m used to waiting out the sun, playing games against it, and usually, I’d make use of this time.  Reading, working, exercising, even doing the odd game of sudoku.  But tonight I can’t focus, and it’s all his fault.

When I was wandering through town the other night, I was really just looking to get out of the rain.  I wasn’t lost, but I was just planning on spending the night there, so I had no bearings of the small town.  I was simply seeking shelter in a place that I could easily enter -it’s harder than it sounds- and the church served that purpose. It wasn’t until I was faced with eyes the color of ocean-honed seaglass that I truly lost my sense of direction.  

The priest, Father Rozanov, no - Ilya.  Had stopped me in my tracks.  I’d expected the church to be deserted, the door left open by chance- not luck- never luck with me.  But be it chance or divine intervention, I got to meet Ilya that night and haven’t been able to tear him from my mind since.  His large hands that grip the pews of his church.  The crinkle he gets in the corners of his eyes when he smiles.  And his pulse. Always pounding around me. Racing.

It’s distracting, really. The pulse racing, but no more so than his tantalizing lips, and the built body that strains beneath the black dress shirts and slacks he dons. Being in the church is uncomfortable, being around him is distracting- too tempting, and yet I am here, pacing in my hotel room- waiting to see him again tonight.

My phone rings, and I’m torn from my thoughts of Father Rozanov’s hands and lips. Most of the time, I’d ignore a call.  Anything I have to do for work is communicated via email or messaging, and there are only three people in the world I’m willing to talk to on the phone.  I pick up because she is one of them.

“Hi Rose,” I say simply, thrilled for the distraction and to catch up with my favorite person- well, not person necessarily. “Pretty early for you, what is it there- 3pm?”

There’s noise on her end, probably on a set of some sort, or getting her makeup done.  Rose is always surrounded by a posse. “No rest for the wicked, Shane,” she says with a laugh. “We’re working in a massive sound stage, so it’s not that big of a deal.”  I hear her say something to someone in the background, and then the sound of a door closing, and the rest of the sound falls away. “How are you, my dear? I miss you,” she says, and my heart lightens for a moment.

Rose is what I’d call my closest friend, but no word has been invented that truly captures our relationship.  She is a friend, a mentor, and my biggest supporter.  Ever since the moment I met her, she has been encouraging me to be authentic to who I am- to what I am. So maybe that’s why I tell her the truth instead of feeding her some lies like I’d tell anyone else.

“I’ve found myself in a bit of a situation,” I start. Because how else would I start?  

“A situation,” she asks - skepticism dotting her words.

“Yeah,” I say, running my tongue over my teeth- a nervous habit that has only grown worse in the past few years. “I have developed a bit of a crush”.  

I can’t see her, but I know Rose sat bolt upright at the statement because her voice changes completely on the line.  Switching from cautious skepticism to gossipy excitement in a split second. “Tell me everything!” she practically shouts through the line.

I take a deep breath.  I want to tell her -obviously, it’s why I started the conversation- but saying some of it out loud will be admitting it to myself, and that’s never easy. “So the other night I got caught in the rain and decided to wait it out in a church.”

“A church?” Rose asks, “Have you found God, Shane? Are you crushing on Jesus?” she asks, and I can hear the laugh behind it.

“Shut up, Rose, or I’m not telling you anything more,” I scold, but I say it lovingly- she won't be able to resist hearing the rest.

“Okay, okay,” she agrees,” go on, I’ll be good, I promise.” I know she will not be good; she never is. ” But, before I take my silence vow, where are you- I want to picture it properly.”

“I’m in Connecticut,” I answer

“Connecticut...why?” She asks, confused.

I blush; it’s a little embarrassing, and Rose is sure to give me shit for it, but I answer truthfully.  “I was watching TV the other week in a hotel and that show you love came on, and it’s set here, it just looked nice.”

“Wait, what show?”

“The one where the moms are really bad moms, and they drink a lot of coffee.”

“Wait, are you besmirtching Gilmore Girls Shane?”

Yes, can I continue with my story?” I ask, annoyed with the change in subject

“Right, yes, go on about your religious experience.”

“So I’m in this church, soaking wet, and I meet this priest.” Again, I can’t see her, but I can picture her eyes going wide and mouth dropping open in shock, “and he’s so handsome, and kind, and tall.  So I let him take my confession. And obviously I didn’t tell him everything, but I did get to open up a little, and Rose- he listened.  I know that’s his job, but it was different; he really listened.” I breathe in, and I can almost feel the charged moments of tension I experienced in the confession booth.

“Okay,” she says slowly on the end of the line, urging me to continue.

“And there was this moment when we finished where I really thought he was going to kiss me, which he didn’t. But then he asked me to come back the next day. And I did.”

“And when you came back the next day, did you...” She leaves the rest unspoken, not finishing the sentence that I know she wants to ask.

“No, we just talked, sat side by side in a pew, and just..talked.  It was really nice, Rose,” I say softly.  She knows everything about me, about my life, so I know she realizes how much it meant to just be able to sit with someone and talk. How much it means to me.

“Okay, okay, so what’s the problem?” she says, cutting right to the chase.

“The problem is,” I take a bracing breath, “that he asked me to come back tonight, after they close. To be alone with me. And I’m not sure I can hold myself back anymore.”

I hear her let out a soft hmmm at this.  Clearly, she is thinking about the situation before she answers.  It’s something I always appreciate about Rose: she’s loud and energetic, but she really is strategic when there are problems to solve.

“Do you want to hold yourself back?”

And damn her for asking it so bluntly, because that really is the question, isn’t it?  If I wanted to hold myself back, I would have left two days ago.  I certainly wouldn’t have gone back yesterday, and I absolutely would not be planning to go tonight. But there’s a shame inside me at the thought of losing my control.  Sometimes it feels like the only part of me that I like- my self-control.

“No,” I answer honestly, “but I should.  On top of everything, he’s a priest, Rose. That’s the complete opposite of the kind of person I should lose control with.” I sit on the edge of the bed and peer through the curtains, the light starting to fade from the day, turning everything golden.  I hold the phone to my ear with one hand and use the other to wipe off my face in frustration.

“Maybe, you need to let him make his own decisions instead of making them for him,” She says sagely. “I say you go tonight and give him the choice.  Don’t deprive yourself of something just because you think it’s wrong, Shane”.

“Okay,” I agree.  And it’s mostly because I already know I’m going to the church.  I couldn’t stay away from it- from him- if I tried. But she makes some good points too, things she spent the last three years trying to instill in me, but I’m still working to fully grasp them.  

“Enough about me,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Tell me about you, how is filming going?”

“Filming is fine, some of the days are crazy long, but I love it.  Not thrilled to be in sunny L.A. for six months, but I’ve been making it work.  I’m rocking a lot of head scarves.”

“Head scarves,” I say with a laugh.

“Yes, according to the internet, I’m a “trendsetter for autumn headwear”, it’s absolutely ridiculous, but whatever works.” There’s the crack of a door opening on her side and a muffled discussion, “Shane honey, I’ve got to go, but do me a favor and go to Church tonight-I really think you need some help seeing God,” she says in a suggestive tone that lets me know she’s putting on a performance for someone in the room.

“You got it, Rose, I’ll be sure to do that,” I say. “Love you,” she says, it's back, and the call ends with a beep. I glance at the screen and read off the time- 6:27.  One hour to go.  It’s finally dark enough for me to venture outside, so I slip my phone back in my pocket and grab my coat on the way out the door.

There isn’t a lot to the small town I’ve found myself in. I was lucky they had a small generic hotel, but there are a few shops and restaurants.  I start at the deli and get myself a sandwich, ginger ale, and a bag of chips.  It’s not the healthiest meal, but it really doesn’t matter; it won't affect me. My second stop is at the small package store in town to pick up a bottle of wine.  I select a nice red, or so the shopkeeper assures me- I rarely drink wine.  Do priests drink wine?  Is it the blood of Christ, right? I really have no idea, but I don't want to show up empty-handed tonight.

Wine in hand, I mill about the streets, still having half an hour to burn.  I’m staying far away from the church until I’m sure the darling Father Crowell has left for the night.  I don't really fancy another run-in with him.  There’s no way he could tell anything about me just from looking at me, but the stares he gave me last night felt a little too observant, and I don’t need that right now.

I should get a drink before I go over to the church.  It would ease some of the tension I’m feeling, but I don’t.  I’m sure I’ll regret that later, but I just can’t convince myself to do it.

The walk over to the church only takes a few minutes, and I stand at the door knocking at 7:29, punctual if nothing else.  When the oak doors swing open to reveal Ilya, the breath leaves my lungs.  He’s standing tall in the doorway, with a smile on his face, his large fingers wrapped around the door as he gestures me inside and closes the doors- locking them as well, I note. But most astonishing is that he is not in his collar and slacks. He’s in jeans and a white t-shirt, and he looks mouthwatering good, literally, my mouth is watering.

“Hi,” I say, half hoping he’ll skip the pleasantries and slam me against the doors, taking my mouth.  He does not, unfortunately.

“Hi Shane,” he says, his face still bright, and his accent making my name sound like a curse.

I’m staring dumbstruck at his jeans, like it’s illegal for a priest to wear denim, and I rake my gaze back up to his eyes. He’s still smiling, happy at catching me staring at his outfit. And I’m hit again by how alone we are.  We’ve been alone together before, but something feels like it has shifted; this feels far more purposeful, charged.

He nods to the wine in my hand. “Do you want to share a glass?” he asks, and the tension is broken.  I nod, and he gestures down the church aisle.  I follow him, taking a second to admire the way his jeans and shirt hug his frame.  The way his shoulders move and stretch under the fabric. The extra inch of neck he has revealed when he’s not wearing his collar. As I said, he’s very distracting.

We reach the back of the church, and he opens a door that leads outside.  The moment I step through it, into a breezeway connecting a small annex, my breath comes easier, my head clears.  The night air is bracing, but really, stepping out of the church eases the tension.  Ilya appears almost nervous for a second when he reaches the door of the connected structure.

“I don’t have any wine glasses in the church- unless you count the communion chalice, which I don’t- so we’ll have to go into the rectory. I hope that’s okay,” he says, explaining as he opens the door and invites me inside.

“No problem,” I say, trying not to imagine him drinking from the communion chalice, a red drip stuck on his lips that I would lick away with my tongue.

The room he leads me into is small, but homey. It’s a fairly simple living room, with a single couch, an armchair, a TV, and a kitchenette along the back wall.  There are two doors on the side, one open and one closed.  Through the open one, I spy a small bedroom, bed unmade.  The whole space feels different.  It doesn't constrict my lungs or make my head hurt, as the church does. Instead, I feel warm and welcomed.

Ilya is in the kitchen fetching two wineglasses; they're stemless, not something typical for red wine, but beggars can’t be choosers. He sees my gaze on them and blushes slightly. “This was furnished when I arrived. I didn't get to pick anything out,” he says as he opens the wine and pours a rather generous amount into each glass. He hands me mine, and I hate how disappointed I am when our fingers don’t make contact.

I hold my glass and weigh my options on where to sit.  Sit in the armchair and keep my distance, or sit on the couch and open the possibility of him sitting next to me.  I choose the couch, and he decides on the armchair. It’s a small room, so we’re only a few feet apart, but I’m already mourning the loss of having him pressed next to me on the couch.

He crosses his legs, holding the wineglass loosely in his hand, resting it on the arm of his chair, the picture of ease.  I sit clutching my glass on the couch like it’s a cup of hot soup on a cold winter’s night, the picture of anxiety I’m sure.

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he says, catching my eyes through his lashes, looking downright angelic- oh, the irony of that.  

“I wanted to see you,” I say, and we both are surprised by my honesty if his eyebrow raise is anything to go on.  But it’s true, and he said my honesty meant everything to him.  So I’m going to try to be honest, at least, when I can.

“I wanted to see you too,” Ilya confirms, and my heart soars. “But, I wasn’t sure you’d show, after everything you said in your confession, I didn’t want to hope.” his expression is guarded, like this honesty is unfamiliar to him as well, like he’s forcing himself to match mine.

“Yeah, I don’t typically stick around, but I can’t seem to stay away from you,” I say, and it’s a big step.  Crossing the line of what could be considered professional, friendly.  I’m just hoping that Rose was correct in her advice of letting him be the one to make the choice.

He lets out a large breath.  Takes a sip of his wine, swishing it around in his mouth for a moment in a gesture I can’t ignore. Then licks his lips, chasing the wine that remains on them.  “Sorry,” he says, taking another second, “I’m not used to this,” he admits.

“Used to what?” I question, even though I understand the implication.  I want to be sure.

“All of this,” he says, gesturing between us, “having somewhere here,” he says, waving broadly at the room. “It’s really not appropriate,” he says, his eyes darkening for a moment as he takes me in, opposite him. “But I can’t seem to stay away from you either.”

“I don’t want to put you- your position- in danger. I don’t want to jeopardize anything for you. I don’t know much about the rules of being a priest, but I can’t imagine you’re allowed to...” I leave the sentence open, still afraid of being presumptuous, of naming whatever is happening between us.  

“Under Father Crowell, no, not allowed. As I said, he’s very traditional. Some are a little more flexible, but if I want to enter the priesthood, then I need to complete my mentorship under him.”  Another sip of his wine, for courage possibly.  I sip mine in sync with him, “and if I choose to go the formal route of priesthood, then I would take a vow of chasity.”

“Oh” is all I can muster.

There’s still so much unspoken between us.  I’m not really sure why I’m here on his couch, but I know I don’t want to leave just yet. I take another bracing sip of my wine, my glass nearly empty already, but I’m still incredibly thirsty.  He glances at the dregs of wine in my glass and his own, taking a final sip. “More wine?”

“Sure,” I answer, handing him my glass as he slips back to the kitchenette.  Perhaps it’s the newfound distance between us that gives him the bravery to ask, “The other night, in confession, there was a lot you didn’t say.  Is there anything you’d like to add?” I hear the wine being poured, and he returns into my periphery a moment later, handing me the cool glass- our fingers brushing this time, before returning to his chair.

“Is this a formal confession, Father?” I ask, taking a very small sip of the wine and deliberately licking it off my lips, letting his gaze track the movement.

“Would you like it to be?” he asks, his stare holding mine.

“No, I think I like it better when I can see you.” It comes out a little deeper, a little raspier than I’m prepared for.  I know it’s not the wine.  I have a very strong tolerance for alcohol, so it must be his fault.

“Well, a formal confession doesn’t have to be taken in the booth,” he corrects. “In fact, I can take confession anywhere.  I could do it here,” he says, gesturing at his chair, and then a smile, a decision made.  He places his wine on a small side table and gets up, sitting next to me on the couch, his large frame brushing against the entire side of me. “I could do it here, too,” he says, and I can feel everything.  I can smell the hint of wine on his breath, feel the heat of his skin through his clothes.  I can even hear the way his heart thunders.

“So Shane,” he says, placing his arm over the back of the couch and turning his body toward mine, our legs pressed against each other, his arm just a breath away from my shoulders. “Do you have any sins to confess?”

“Where to start, Father? It often feels like everything I do is a sin,” I say, my words coming out hushed.

“Start wherever you want, I want to know it all,” he says this, but I know he wouldn’t absolve me if he did.

“I’ve lied, of course, to everyone, but I feel most bad about lying to the people I love.  I don't want to share anything with my parents anymore, just in case they press too hard and learn things they shouldn’t.”

“I’ve hurt people too, nothing I couldn’t justify at the time, but it still makes me sick to my stomach to do it.” I press on before he can question that one too much. “Sometimes I crave pain myself, like it’s going to erase the hurt I’ve caused others.  Sometimes I seek it out because it feels good.” He swallows at that. I watch the movement of his throat longer than I should.

“I feel temptation for things, people, I shouldn’t want, but do anyway.  Sometimes I even touch myself when I think about it.” I can’t meet his gaze now, so I take a sip of my wine.

“And,” he prompts, his voice deeper.

“And I want to lead another to that same temptation. I know what he is. What he’s meant to be. And I still—” I stop, forcing the words out carefully. “I still want him anyway. I know it’s wrong. I know what I’m asking of him. And I’m not going to stop. You said something to me. About accepting what we’re given. About not rejecting the things that are part of God’s creation.”

He nods, his eyes blazing, his lips pressed together in a hard line.

“I want this. With him.”

“Shane,” his voice comes out low, raspy, irresistible.

I turn my face toward his, inches disappearing between us, “Ilya.”

I want it so bad, I'm pushing him hard for it, and yet it still takes me by surprise to feel his lips on mine.  It’s soft, a light press of his soft lips against mine, and for just a second, like he’s tasting the wine there, not like a kiss.  And then he pulls back an inch, but just an inch.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers against my lips. “You know why that is?” he asks, taunting me.

“Because you’re a priest,” I say

“No, Shane,” he says, and drags his lips up my jaw, leaving the slightest trail of moisture behind before making it to the shell of my ear, “because I knew the moment I kissed you I’d never want to stop.” A shiver races through me at his confession.

I pull back a few additional inches so I can see his eyes. “Then don't stop,” I urge.

It’s a breaking point for him.  Like a wave’s inevitable crash upon the shore, Ilya is all over me.  His lips meet mine in a heated press that is a vicious collision of lips, tongues, and teeth.  He’s pressing me back against the armrest of the couch, his body pressing down on me, aligning our bodies together like a mirror image. There is no hesitation from either of us now, lips moving freely, hands roaming openly.  He is coaxing moans from me, just with his tongue on mine, and I already know I’m putty in his hands.

My breath is coming out in short bursts, practically panting for him.  The sensations are overwhelming.  The feel of his body, the scratch of his nails on my biceps, the taste of wine on his tongue, the sounds of his heart.  The sight of his pulse.  I can see it. His neck is pounding as kissing me makes his blood rush beneath his skin.

I breathe, tuning out the sensation and focusing back on his mouth.  Kissing him, touching him, but every time I open my eyes, I can’t help but stare at his neck. It’s pure nature that drives me to begin kissing him there.  Small kisses over his pulse point, sucking along his collarbone that I know will result in marks he’ll have to cover with his collar tomorrow.  And then a small nip at his neck, just a small one, nothing that breaks the skin.

I don't want to blame anyone but myself when it happens, but the groan that Ilya gives when I nip his neck may have been a contributing factor, because what was a small nip turns into an actual bite.

I feel it as it happens.  I’m lost to sensations, overwhelmed by everything happening that I don’t notice the ways that my teeth grow sharper, the way that my fangs scrape against his neck, drawing blood.  It’s shallow, just enough of a cut to get a drop or two of blood. And when the taste of him rolls across my tongue, I freeze in shock at what I’ve just done.

He notices the sudden rigidity of my body, pulling back and running his finger along his neck, a single drop of blood collecting on his finger.  The cut on his neck was already coagulating.

“I..” I’m frozen, staring at the crimson droplet on his finger.  The incriminating evidence of my loss of control.

“Did you bite me?” he asks, his tone amused, playful.  Because he thinks this is just a weird sexual slip-up. Not a complete lapse in control.  One I swore to myself I wouldn’t let happen.

I push his body back and clamber out from under him, desperately scanning the room.  Trying to regain control, begging my body to calm.  For my fangs to rescind. For my cock to stop aching for him.

“Shane,” he asks, concerned now, “It’s not a big deal, I don’t care,” he says, gesturing at his neck.  There’s barely a scrape there, but the sight of it makes me sick.  The fact that I did that to him.

“I have to go,” I stammer, grabbing my coat from the back of the couch and scanning the room, making sure I haven’t left anything else behind.  I’m not leaving him a glass slipper tonight and hoping he finds me.  

“Wait, Shane..” he says, getting up, but I’m already closing the door behind me and fleeing the scene of the crime. I don’t go back through the church, instead exiting the breezeway and making for the woods.  I can barely breathe, but I can’t bear the thought of Ilya catching up to me when I can still taste his blood on my lips.

It takes me longer than it should to get back to my hotel, my breath coming out in pants that I can’t decide if are from running here or from an impending-or maybe ongoing- panic attack. I open my room and sink back against the door, turning every lock- as if the local priest is going to come knocking down my door.

“Fuck” I say, sliding down the door. The darkness in my room welcomes me as I sit on the floor and realize I may have lost the first thing I’ve cared about in years.

Chapter End Notes

Okay- there we go, my longest chapter to date. I'm really liking how this story is coming along. I'm planning about 15 chapters, so we still have a way to go- but I'm actively updating, and everything is mapped out. Trust there will be some nasty smut in the middle. Hope you enjoyed, and please stay tuned for more.
Don't forget to tip your waiters (aka leaving me kudos and comments- they feed my soul)

Chapter 4: Absence

Chapter Notes

I looked.

Not because I needed one—of course not—but because it seemed like the sort of thing that should exist. A formal acknowledgment of the strange, hollow space left behind when someone who should be present simply… isn’t.

It’s been four days since I’ve seen Shane. Since I felt his lips on mine, his hands on my skin. Four days of going through the motions. Four days of running through every detail from that night in my head. My own lapse in control when I kissed him, his panic at the sight of my blood. I should banish him from my thoughts. I’ve already spent longer without him than I did with him, but I can’t do it. In just three days, he has stained every inch of my life with his presence.

When I take confession, I think of him in the booth. On the couch.

When I hold communion, I think of him drinking wine, the way the red would linger on his lips.

When I stare out at the pews, I think of his hands clutching the wood.

When I walk to the rectory at night. Shane.

When I go through my chores. Shane.

When I read the Bible. Shane.

That’s the hardest for me to face. I find him in every passage, in every line. I think about him when I run my hands over the beads of my favorite rosary and in the silence by the altar. He is a constant that I can’t seem to shake off. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to.

I didn’t come into the service of the church the way most do, you know. I didn’t grow up dreaming of being a priest; I was never an altar boy. No, I joined the church for my mother. Not to impress her—she was dead when I did it, after all—but to hopefully change things for someone like her in the future. To be a guiding light for someone who came to me with their troubles.

And now, the first person that I truly connected with in my position. That came to me in a state of distress, a lost lamb. And I completely fucked it up. Or—no. That’s not fair. I made a choice. I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway. Which is worse, I think. I let my attraction to him rule my feelings instead of my faith, and now he’s gone.

I scrub my hands over my face in the rectory. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed after a long day of trying to pretend I’m not thinking about Shane. I’m sitting in my bedroom because it’s one of the only spaces left that hasn’t been filled with Shane’s presence. Unless you count my dreams—or worse, my fantasies—in which case it absolutely has.

Although my fantasies aren’t confined to my bedroom. No. In my fantasies, I have Shane everywhere. On the couch—where things went awry. In my bed, where I never had the chance. On his knees in the confession booth. Spread out against the altar—my own personal sacrifice. Hey, I said I was a deacon—not a saint. I can’t help these fantasies, and they don’t matter anyway. Because he’s gone.

I head to the bathroom to shower and get ready for sleep. There’s no point lingering awake if I’m just going to ruminate on Shane again. I tug off my shirt and let it drop on the ground, haphazardly, as I stare into the mirror. There are bags beneath my eyes that spell out my lack of sleep, but that isn’t what draws my attention. No, what draws my attention, what has drawn my attention for the past four nights, is the collection of marks along my collarbone and neck. Souvenirs from my night with Shane.

There’s a collection across my collarbone of purplish-blue hickeys that fade each passing day, but still line the area. But more interesting are the two barely-there scratch marks on my neck, equidistant from each other. Like they were made by two fingers scratching down the side of my jugular instead of teeth. But it was his teeth—that’s for sure. I’ve replayed the moment in my head enough to be sure of that.

Mostly, I think about the horror on his face when I showed him the dot of blood on my finger. And I’d think he just had an aversion to blood, maybe even a phobia, if not for something that happened a second before I showed him the blood. It’s such a small detail I wouldn’t have thought twice about it if I hadn’t thought about that night a thousand times since. But it’s like when you rewatch a film over and over again—you start to notice new things. And I’m almost positive that a second before I held up my finger with blood on it, Shane licked a drop of my blood off his lips with satisfaction, not disgust.

But that’s the thing about memory. I’m almost positive. Not entirely. So I shake it away. No use reflecting back on something that won’t happen again.

I step under the warm spray of the shower, letting the water rain over me, trying to wash away the tension coiled tight in my chest. I run my hands over my shoulders, through my hair, over the scrapes on my neck. My fingers are rougher than his were. And I let them mindlessly wander down the planes of my body, drifting southward like a ship on the water.

I close my eyes and picture his lips on mine. The taste of wine, the expanse of his neck, the tremor in his hands as we pressed together on the couch. It’s ridiculous how much I replay it. I know the details aren’t healthy, yet I can’t stop. It’s shameful, yet I can’t stop. And when I think of him, my body betrays me, responding as if he were there, as if the world were aligned against my control.

It’s pure instinct that drives me to wrap a hand around my stiff cock, thoughts of Shane making my head dizzy with lust. I know the Catholic Church’s view on masturbation—believe me, I get to hear plenty of teenage boy confessions about it every week. But somehow touching myself to the thought of Shane seems to pale in comparison to what I would have done had he stayed on that couch. The lesser of two evils, I suppose.

So I don’t stop. I don’t know if I could if I tried. But I don’t try.

I stroke myself to thoughts of Shane Hollander. I let my head fall back against the tiled walls as I think of his smooth skin. I groan when I think of his blood-red lips, and what I’d do with them if I were given the chance. My pace quickens when I think about the planes of his chest against mine. I didn’t even get the chance to feel how good his naked skin would feel against mine. Another groan—this time out of frustration.

I think about his dark eyes and how they met mine in the seconds before we kissed. And most of all, I think of how he said my name. My first name. The way Ilya had sounded on his tongue. Like the greatest prayer I’d ever heard. Like he was worshipping me.

It’s that thought that makes me come. The sound of my name on his lips undoes me. I’m bracing my hand against the shower wall, breath coming in deep exhales as I recover from my release. As I tell myself this will be the last time I think about Shane tonight—it won’t be.

I step out of the shower, the room drenched in steam. I wrap a towel tightly around my waist and look in the foggy mirror again, my face distorted in the glass. I can’t deny that I look tired, some might even say exhausted. Sleep is not coming easily to me these days. It seems crazy that a week ago I was living my life without Shane Hollander hanging over my head, my every move. Just focused on my service, our patrons, and God. Oh, how the tables have turned.

When I return to my room, I throw on a pair of sweatpants but stay shirtless. My mother’s gold cross hanging loosely around my neck, warm against my skin. The room still feels too hot. I glance out my window at the woods that back up to my property. Looking for what, I’m not even sure. When Shane ran off the other night, that’s the direction he took; he must have, since the only other option was to return through the church, and the doors were still locked when I checked. It almost makes me feel worse, the thought that he would rather tromp through the woods in the dark than go back through the church in his run from me.

But the woods are empty tonight; there’s no reason for him to be there anyway. I’m sure he’s gone. He told me that. That he doesn’t stay in one place too long, doesn’t like to form connections, to put down roots. He’s probably somewhere warm and sunny now. Although I’m not sure if warm and sunny matters to him much, since he said he works the night shift. But he must have the weekends off, right? I never got to see him on the weekend, my brain added pathetically. I try to imagine him sprawled out on a lounge chair, soaking in the sun by the beach, and the image is all wrong. Like, he and the sun shouldn’t exist in the same orbit. It’s an odd feeling.

I kneel for evening prayers, clasping my rosary. My beads feel heavy in my hands, weighted with memory. Every Hail Mary, every Our Father, every silent plea carries him inside of it. Shane is here, in the quiet, in the flicker of candlelight, in the spaces I am supposed to reserve for God alone. I tell myself it is sinful. That is wrong. That I am failing. And yet, I can’t stop. I run my hands over the familiar beads and think of the rosary I gifted him, how he acted as if it burned him when I handed him the token. I wonder if he brought it with him when he left, or if it sits in the bottom of some hotel trash can. The thought makes my heart ache.

I’m still praying when I hear it—a faint knock at the rectory door. My heart leaps into my throat. My pulse drums painfully in my neck, in my wrists, everywhere Shane could notice it. I freeze, breath caught. Could it be him? After all this time, all this obsessive waiting, all this anxious reflection… could it actually be him?

It’s probably Roger, I reassure myself. But no, that doesn’t make sense. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s past nine. And Roger left the church hours ago; he’s not one to circle back unannounced. If he had to come back, he would have called, and he didn’t. It’s far too late for anyone else to come knocking at my door; the only other person who has ever been here is… Shane.

I take a deep, racing breath and open the door.

Shane stands at my door in a beam of moonlight. Or maybe I’m imagining the moonlight; he is under the breezeway after all, but he seems to glow. He’s silent, standing there, waiting for me to speak, his lips ever so slightly parted, like he wants to say something but hasn’t decided what.

So I start.

“Shane.”

There, I started the conversation. Someone give me a medal.

“Hi,” he says on an exhale. As if he didn’t run away from me—literally—he was running—four nights ago. Like I don’t know the way his body feels against mine, the way his mouth tastes. Just hi.

I decide not to play this game. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice calmer than I feel. It feels a little harsh. I don’t ever want anyone to feel rejected by the church, turned away, or unheard like my mother was, but Shane isn’t just anyone. And my door isn't technically the church.

“I…” he says, stopping and then starting again, “Can I come in?” he asks, looking at the slice of my living room that sits illuminated behind my form, filling the rest of the door. Then his eyes take a brief detour to take in my chest, and I remember I’m shirtless. I have the briefest inkling to flex, but no, that’s not the right impulse. Then I have the idea to cross my arms over my chest to cover up my nakedness, but it feels far too insecure. I settle on not doing anything.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I respond, keeping my eyes on him. He’s doing the same nervous shuffle he did in the church a few times. Clearly uneasy. “If you have business with the church, you’ll have to return to it during normal hours, 10–7.” It feels harsh saying it, drawing this line in the sand, especially when I’ve spent every minute of the last few days hoping to see him, but I have to do it. I can’t get pulled into him just to get turned away again; it’s already breaking me apart.

“It’s not about church business,” he retorts, “It’s about you and me. I…” he hesitates, and then seems to find his bravery, “I want to explain some things, about the other night. I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I apologize for crossing a line when you were just seeking guidance; that was wrong of me,” I tell him stoically. And it kills me to do so.

“You didn’t,” he says, a little frustrated, “Fine, then I don’t owe you an explanation, but I want to give you one.” His voice is a little rushed at this. Like he had lines rehearsed, but the conversation isn't going how he thought it would.

And I can’t say no to him, I really can’t. Because I truly don’t believe he owes me anything, but I will not turn down what he wants to give me. I can’t.

I step aside and gesture for him to come in, but he stays there still.

“Can I come in?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious that I’m letting him.

“Yes, come in,” I say. I don’t wait for him. Instead, I walk inside and sit in the armchair. No way I’m sitting on the couch after last time.

The door clicks as he closes it behind him, and he sits on the couch. He takes a deep breath, and he takes me in across from him. This time, his eyes do a slower perusal of my bare skin. I swear his lips tilt up when he sees the marks on my collarbone, and then dip back down when he makes it to my neck. Hot and cold—this guy.

“I want to tell you some things about myself, but it’s hard. It’s not something I’ve ever told someone before,” he starts quietly.

Oh my God, is he about to come out to me right now? Is that what is happening? I try to wrap my mind around the possibility. That maybe he ran away not because of the bite, but because he’s never been with a guy before. I want to laugh at the impossibility, but somehow it’s not even something I considered. I open my mouth to cut him off, but decide last second to let him continue.

“I told you that I have to lie to people a lot, and that’s true. There are things about myself that I can’t let people know. They wouldn’t understand,” he says, and his eyes betray the sorrow he feels over it. Definitely glad I didn't cut him off earlier. “But I don’t want to lie to you, Ilya, I don’t think I can anymore.”

“So don’t,” I tell him, and it sounds like a plea, my name on his lips undoing any earlier composure.

“Okay,” he says, his eyes trailing over me again, one last glance at the marks on my neck, and he begins..

Chapter End Notes

Oh, we are picking up speed now! In the next chapter, we will get into ALL the secrets, and I can not wait. I hope you are enjoying and are ready for things to continue to heat up, because they will.

Chapter 5: Show Me

Chapter Notes

Shane

I exhale, the intensity in the room overwhelming. Ilya is sitting across from me, but I can’t find it in myself to sit down. So instead, I stand, staring down at him as I prepare to lay myself bare. Figuratively. Possibly literally. No, that’s not what I’m thinking about.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure where to start,” I confess to Ilya as he watches me expectantly for the truth I promised him. But I’ve never done this before, never confessed sins this deep. Even when Rose found out about me, she asked all the questions, and I just had to nod.

Ilya watches me passively, and I struggle to focus. Should I ask him to put on a shirt? This is so much harder when the smooth lines of his chest keep catching my focus. The slight purple marks on his collarbone, nestled next to a gold crucifix necklace.

“Start with something small,” he advises, “that’s how I always recommend people begin their confessions. It’s easier to build from there.”

“Okay,” I say, again confirming. And this time I sit, sinking into the couch but still withholding my eyes from him, instead focusing on the threadbare rug beneath my shoes. “When I was 17, I took a really bad hit while playing hockey,” and he’s right. It’s easier to start like this, at the beginning, before everything became unravelled and tangled.

I barrel on. “I was good, really good. I was being scouted for the NHL, and they were looking at me for the draft, but one hit later, I had a horrible concussion and a shattered collarbone, and it all just slipped away.” I absentmindedly run my hand along my collarbone, now long healed, but the pain of the incident is still tangible. “After that, I fell apart a little.” It’s an understatement. After the hit, I fell apart a lot. I lost the meaning that had driven me for every moment of my life. I was directionless.

“I hung around my hometown for a while, healing, living with my parents, working part-time coaching junior hockey leagues.” I shake my head, clearing the mental image. Remembering those years of listlessness, barely hanging on. “And then things changed in one night.” Again, an understatement. Everything changed in one night.

Ilya has been holding himself with restraint until now because he can’t help but ask, “What happened?”

“I was in a bar. I wasn’t even drinking,” I say with another shake of my head. “I’m not sure what I was looking for, just company, I guess. Those days were pretty isolating.” I chuckle at this now. How ironic that I thought I was lonely then.

“I met a man there.” I don’t look at Ilya when I say it. I don’t think I can, not yet. Not when I can already feel the weight of what this is going to become. Not when I can already feel him listening in that quiet, attentive way of his—like everything I say matters.

“He was the bartender,” I add after a moment. “Or—he owned the place, I think. I never really figured that out.” I’ve replayed this night so many times in my head, and I still can’t remember the man’s name. Memory is funny that way—the most crucial bits of info deserting you, but I can remember that his shoes were purple. I huff out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. It doesn’t quite make it. “He noticed I wasn’t drinking. Kept looking over at me like I was… I don’t know. Suspicious, maybe. Or just sad.” That part is easier to admit now. It wasn’t then.

“He came over eventually. Asked if everything was okay. Normal stuff.” I shrug, one shoulder lifting. “I told him, yeah. He didn’t believe me.” I risk a glance up at Ilya then, just for a second, before dropping my gaze back down to my hands. “He stayed anyway.” There’s something tight in my chest at that. Something I haven’t quite learned how to name.

“We talked. Nothing important. Hockey, mostly. Where I was from. What I was doing now.” My mouth twists. “Or not doing.” I drag my thumb along the seam of my jeans, grounding myself in the feeling. “I don’t even remember most of what we said. I just remember how it felt.” I pause, searching for the right word, and come up short. “Clear. Like everything had been… muted before, and suddenly it wasn’t.”

I shake my head, frustrated with myself.

“That sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” Ilya says quietly.

I swallow hard and keep going. “I stayed until close. I don’t even know why. I wasn’t drinking, I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I just—” I exhale. “I didn’t want to leave.” I can feel it again if I let myself: the low hum of the place as it emptied. The way the lights seemed too bright and too dim at the same time. The way every second stretched.

“He didn’t rush me out,” I say. “Even after everyone else was gone. Just… kept cleaning, talking, like it was normal for me to still be there.” My jaw tightens slightly. “When he finally locked the doors, he walked me out. Said it wasn’t safe to be around there that late.” Another quiet, humorless breath. “Which, in hindsight—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “It was cold out. I remember that. I wasn’t wearing a jacket.” My lips press together. “He noticed. He stood close. Closer than he needed to.” My voice drops a fraction, without meaning to. “And I didn’t move away.”

I can feel Ilya’s attention sharpen at that, even without looking at him.

“I don’t think I’d ever… done that before,” I admit. “Not with a man. Not like that. But it didn’t feel wrong.” My brow furrows. “It didn’t even feel new, really. Just—” I hesitate, then force the word out. “Right.” The word hangs there between us.

I drag in a breath, steadying myself. “He kissed me,” I say, quieter now. “And I let him.” More than that. I leaned into it. I remember that now. “It wasn’t…” I search for the right description, something that won’t sound ridiculous. “It wasn’t careful. Or slow.” My fingers curl slightly against my knee. “It was—intense. Like he already knew me. Like he knew exactly what I’d want before I did.”

“And I remember thinking—” I stop, shake my head once. “No. I didn’t think about anything. That’s the point. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking at all.” Just feeling. “He pulled back after a minute. Looked at me like he was waiting for something.” My gaze drifts, unfocused. “Like he was giving me a chance to stop it.” I let out a slow breath.

“I didn’t. I wanted more.” My voice is steady, but there’s something under it now—something raw. “I didn’t even understand what that meant yet, but I knew I wanted it.”

I finally look at Ilya again, holding his gaze. “He asked me a question, asked me if I was happy,” I say. “With my life. With who I was. I didn’t answer right away. I think he could tell.” “He said…” I trail off, jaw tightening slightly. When I continue, my voice is quieter, more deliberate. “He said I didn’t have to keep living a life I wasn’t proud of. That I could be more. That I could be—” I exhale. “The best version of myself.” The words feel strange in my mouth now. Hollow, in a way, they didn’t then. “I should’ve asked what he meant,” I say. “I should’ve walked away.” I hold Ilya’s gaze. “I didn’t. I said yes.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I look back down at my hands. “He kissed me again,” I say, softer now, “and then my neck, but it was different. Sharper. I remember thinking his teeth felt—” I frown slightly. “Wrong. Too sharp.” My fingers flex unconsciously. “But I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to stop him.” My voice dips, something almost like disbelief threading through it. “It felt too good. And then he bit me.” The words land flat. Simple. Final.

“I thought—” I shake my head, breath hitching slightly. “I thought I was dying. Or maybe I thought that’s just what it was supposed to feel like. It hurt,” I admit. “But it wasn’t just that. It was…” I trail off, struggling again. “Everything got louder. Brighter. Like my body was—waking up.” My grip tightens on my knees. “I could hear everything. The street, the wind, people blocks away. I could taste—” I cut myself off, jaw clenching. “Everything.”

“And then it was over,” I say. “He pulled back, told me goodnight, and walked away.” This is the most unbelievable to me now. How can someone change your life and then walk away with no explanation? If I could go back now, I’d… I’m not even sure. Demand answers, ask more questions. But as it stood, I walked home in a daze and fell asleep, not realizing the pain that dawn would bring.

Ilya is silent, his brow slightly furrowed like he’s making sense of my confession. I haven’t said it out loud, the big part of it, but then again, I’ve never said it out loud. I’m hoping he asks—like Rose did when she found me a few years ago, lost and confused.

“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice steady, “What are you trying to say exactly?” He says it with patience, no judgment, just an openness to listen that I’m sure he has honed over his years of hearing confessions.

I take a breath, bracing myself. "It’s going to sound ridiculous," I warn him.

"I’m sure it won’t," he assures.

My mouth is dry. I can feel my pulse battering at my wrists, every muscle in my back strung tight as if I'm stepping out over a precipice blindfolded. The room feels heavy, almost humming, the quiet stretching so long it seems to press in on my ribcage. Ilya's eyes are steady on mine—open, patient, impossibly gentle. He is waiting for the truth. Everything in me wants to look away, wants to back down or retreat into some easier lie. But I force myself to hold his gaze, to feel the couch under my hands, my own breath catching quick and shallow. I realize my shoulders are trembling and I try to steady them. All the years of hiding, the endless weight of it, crowd at the back of my throat. I hear every sound: the faint hum of the fridge, my own choking breath, the tick of the clock above the door. It is a thunderstorm inside me—a pressure building in my skull.

Okay. This is it. Just say the sentence. Another deep breath, and I say the words that have been hiding inside me for the past five years.

"I'm a vampire."

I’ve planned this moment many times over the past five years. The moment I say the words to someone, admit my truth. I’ve pictured a myriad of reactions. Outrage, horror, shock, anger. I’ve imagined my mother crying over the news, a stranger coming after me with pitchforks and fire. But I never accounted properly for Father Rosanov's reaction.

Which is maybe amusement? That’s the best word I can use to describe the facial expression he gives me.

“A vampire,” he says to me like a parent playing along with a child’s imaginary friends. Not necessarily condescending, but absolutely not believing it.

“Yes,” I say, my tone serious, possibly a little annoyed. I can’t believe he isn’t taking this seriously.

“Okay,” he says, and I swear I catch him trying to contain a smile.

“It’s not funny,” I say, but I’m barely holding back a smile myself, the tension in the room dissipating.

“No, of course not,” Ilya says, his voice mock-serious, but his smile bright.

“I’m serious,” I say with a smile, picking up a throw pillow from the couch and whipping it at him.

He’s quick, but not quick enough to fully dodge the hit. It catches him on the shoulder, and he grabs the pillow as it lands in his lap, rubbing at the hit with his other arm. “Ow,” he says, joking, but then suspicion. “That was a hard throw for a pillow,” he states bluntly, like he’s starting to question me.

He analyzes me with a fresh light, like he’s actually considering the truth for a second. “Okay, let’s say you actually are a vampire.”

“I am,” I interject, not having anticipated having to petition for myself in this way.

“Sure, so show me your fangs,” he says, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair.

The shock at his words is visceral. It makes me jerk my body back, and if I had pearls on, I’d be clutching them.

“You can’t just ask to see a vampire’s fangs,” I say, blushing. I don’t know the actual bylaws on this, but it feels like a lewd request. “That’s very… private,” I mumble.

He stands and closes the two steps between the chair and the couch, hovering over me. “Open your mouth, Shane.”

There is a war inside of me at his words. Half of me wants to follow his directions, open my mouth, and present him with my tongue. The other half is shocked at his presumptuous entitlement and vows to keep my mouth shut. Besides, my fangs aren’t on display full-time anyway. If I open my mouth, he won’t see anything special. The bratty side of me wins, and I keep my mouth closed, meeting his gaze with fierce determination.

Ilya smiles, almost like my choice to defy his request is exactly what he wanted. He reaches down, running his fingers along my jaw, bringing his face closer to mine. A whisper this time: “Open your mouth, Shane,” he says, and my mission to keep my mouth shut becomes a little hazy, but still I remain strong. Mouth closed, eyes meeting his.

He uses his grip on my jaw to tilt my head back slightly, his body caging me against the couch. His thumb runs across my lips, his eyes blazing with desire. I can’t help it. Really, I can’t. I think he might have some kind of psychic priest power because I allow his thumb to part my lips, allow it to push inside, and then let it pull down on my bottom lip.

“I don’t see any fangs, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes flicking to my lips, calm but curious.

That’s all it takes. All it takes for me to snap. My body leans forward before my mind even catches up, pressing my mouth to his. His lips are soft, warm, the faintest brush of a smile in the corners as he meets me halfway. My hands land on his shoulders, on his chest, feeling the steady heat of him through his shirt, the reassuring weight of him.

His hands come up too, against my sides, and then bracing against my back as the kiss deepens. I feel his breath hitch slightly, and it makes my pulse pound in my ears. I want more, need more. I push us back onto the couch, careful with his frame, careful with mine, but careless with the rest of the world.

I twist, letting myself straddle him. My knees press against the cushions on either side of him, my hands sliding along his arms as I lean down, taking the kiss deeper. Ilya doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull away. He’s warm under me, steady.

And that’s when it happens. I can feel it—the subtle, familiar ache at the back of my gums, the stretch of my canines. I open my mouth slightly, letting the fangs slide out without thinking. My pulse hammers in my temples, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers pressed against him.

His eyes flick down to my mouth for the briefest second, and I swear I see the tiniest flash of surprise. Not fear. Not horror. Surprise. And something else. Something more heated.

I smile against his lips and keep kissing him. His hands move to my waist, resting there like he’s grounding me, and it makes my chest swell with some strange, reckless joy. I let the fangs fully extend, not breaking the kiss, letting him feel them against his lips, against his teeth as we press together.

I can feel him shiver, a tiny gasp against my mouth, and it spurs me on. I tilt my head slightly, deepening the angle, brushing the sharp points against the tender skin of his lower lip. Ilya doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t hesitate. He just leans closer, kisses me back with a force that leaves me dizzy.

And then—he laughs. Quiet, almost breathless against my lips. I feel the vibration through my chest, and it makes me laugh too, despite the tension, despite the danger, despite the rawness of what I am showing him.

I shift slightly, grinding down against him without breaking the kiss, my hands tracing the lines of his jaw, down his neck, along his shoulders. The fangs linger, brushing his teeth ever so slightly, and I watch his eyes, expecting shock. But there’s none. Just curiosity. Amazement. Desire.

I break the kiss for a fraction of a second, just to whisper against his mouth, “See?” My voice is low, husky, teasing. “This is me.”

His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me back down, and I obey instinctively, pressing my mouth to his again. His lips part beneath mine as I let the fangs slide over his bottom lip, and I feel a shiver travel down my spine at the thrill of showing him this part of myself, this secret that has been mine alone for too long.

He kisses me back harder, teeth brushing mine carefully, and my grin widens against him. I straddle him fully now, knees pinning gently, hands gripping lightly, controlling the rhythm but letting him set the pace too. It’s a dance, a test, an exchange, and I’ve never felt so alive.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, we officially have our vampire confession. Things are going to build from here pretty quickly, so stay tuned. I’m going to be updating the tags as I write more chapters, so watch out for those—just in case you’re not down for some weird shit. But this is AO3, so… you’ve been warned.

As always, kudos and comments give me eternal life.

Chapter 6: You May

Chapter Notes

Ilya

His fangs are real.

That’s the thought that is echoing in my head over and over again as Shane straddles my legs on the couch. They rest against my lower lip as we kiss — not piercing, not yet — just the faintest, deliberate pressure. Sharp enough that I feel the promise of what they could do. My hands are still braced at his waist. He’s warm. Solid. Straddling me with an urgency that feels intoxicating.

I should be asking questions, clarifying the main unknowns between us, but I can’t right now. I’m too wrapped up in the feel of him against me. I’m already addicted to the feel of him against me — hard and aching. The way his hands slide into my hair, like he’s trying to anchor himself to me.

I’m enjoying the feel of him reveling in it when his body stills. He has gone rigid, and not in the way I like. His hands, which had been roaming with confidence, now grip my shirt like he’s holding himself in place. His breath comes shallow. Measured. Controlled in a way that suggests effort. It’s bringing me back to a few nights ago on this same couch, where he froze and I ended up alone a minute later.

I pull back from his mouth and peer up at his face. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the dark irises whole. The fangs remain extended, but there is no arrogance in his expression. No delight at shocking me. Only tension.

“Shane,” I say quietly.

He swallows. I watch the motion of his throat, the way the muscle works like he’s forcing something down.

“Talk to me, Shane,” I say calmly, hoping my own resolve will ground him, make him less likely to flee. I really don't want him to flee.

“It’s... difficult,” he admits, his eyes refusing to meet mine. “Balancing hunger and desire isn’t something I’m used to; it makes me less focused than I normally am.”

I preen a little at his admission of desire — not that I can’t see it straining against his pants — but it still makes me smile to hear him admit he wants me. The hunger side, on the other hand, I have no experience with. No idea where to even begin.

“Will you tell me about it?” I ask. “The hunger — explain it to me,” I ask, hoping I can understand, hoping more details will make it easier, and not the opposite. But if this will help, if this will make him stay, then I’m willing to hear anything.

His expression shifts — wariness replacing tension. “You really want to know?”

“If I’m going to stay,” I say evenly, “I need to understand what I’m choosing.”

His hands loosen slightly at that word. Choosing. He swallows again, this time slower.

“I need blood,” he begins carefully. “Not constantly. Not every day. But regularly. It’s… dull, most of the time. Functional. Like eating food you don’t particularly enjoy but know you need.”

“And mine?” I ask, curious.

His gaze sharpens instantly. Something flares there — hunger and something softer tangled together. “Yours wasn’t dull. I’ve never tasted anything like yours before.”

I’m not sure if that’s something to feel proud of, but I do. I have the best-tasting blood in town — take that, Roger. “Is that why you ran the other night?” I inquire.

“I didn’t run,” he defends, but I raise an eyebrow, and he relents. “Okay, I ran,” he says, and a smile creeps back onto his face, and I’m so pleased to see it. I reach up without even meaning to and trace his lower lip, my finger just brushing over the points of his fangs, and his eyes flutter closed.

I’m forgetting what we’re discussing as I run my fingertip over his lips, letting them part around the tip, his eyes finally opening and meeting mine as he sucks the tip of my finger into his mouth. Is this a vampire mind control thing? Because I can’t seem to focus when I’m around him.

There are many things I want to do right now. I want to add another finger to his mouth, let his tongue work them over, and revel in how pretty his red lips look wrapped around any part of me. I want to run my teeth over his neck, blunt as they are, and let him feel the graze. I want to… wait, we’re supposed to be talking about the whole blood-sucking thing.

Reluctantly, I remove my finger from Shane’s mouth, running my thumb over his jaw on the way down and settling my hands on his hips. His eyes look hazy and lust-filled, and I’m trying to combat the feeling. Because this is important. Because there are things that we need to discuss before anything else occurs.

“Shane,” I say.

“Mmmm,” he says, still looking rather distracted by me.

“You were telling me why you ran the other night,” I remind him, fingers working in slow strokes over his hips, just grazing the area between his jeans and shirt — a slice of bare skin ripe for the taking.

“Right,” he says, taking a steadying breath, and it’s addictive to know I’m affecting him as much as he’s affecting me. “The other night I lost control a little. Things got all tangled up with the kissing and touching,” the slightest flush creeping across his cheeks, “and then my fangs were out, and they nicked your neck, and the moment I got a taste of your blood,” he shudders, “I had to get out of there. I wasn’t in control.”

“And are you in control now?” I ask, and I don’t miss the way his eyes dart to my neck for just a second before meeting my gaze.

“More than the other night. That was the first time I’d ever mixed attraction — want — with bloodlust; I hadn’t prepared myself. I didn’t realize it would be like that,” he admits, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s imagining my taste on it still. And once again, it’s hard to focus. “But when I came here tonight, I knew it was a possibility. I’m more in control than I was that night.”

“More in control,” I murmur. “But not completely?” I ask, the question unspoken. Are you going to bite me?

“We won’t find out,” he says, carefully extracting himself from my lap. I’m ready to protest, ready to stand between him and the door if he tries to leave, but instead he settles on the couch next to me. And as much as I hate to admit it, it is easier to focus when I can’t feel his body rubbing against mine. I imagine he’s feeling the same from the slow breath he lets out.

“When was the last time you fed from someone?” I ask, somehow jealous of the idea of him with his lips against someone else’s neck — as if I have the right to be jealous of that.

Shane looks uncomfortable, his body shifting slightly on the couch. “I tried the day after…” he doesn’t need to elaborate; I know the night he’s referring to.

“Tried?” I question.

“Yeah. I had driven half the night and landed in some nowhere town, two states away. I was at a motel and found someone outside, tried to bite them, but the moment I tasted their blood, I stopped.” He looks guilty and embarrassed about this. Interesting.

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t you,” he says, softer. “I couldn’t get your taste out of my mouth, and it was like going from a bottle of fancy champagne to sparkling cider. Hell, not even sparkling cider — just grape juice,” he says, shaking his head. “So I walked away, went back to my room, stewed in self-pity for a few days, and then drove back to you.”

I let it sink in — the admission that he prefers my blood to others, the details of the days he spent apart from me.

“How does that work, biting someone? They don’t go around screaming about vampires. Do you do some kind of mind control?” It sounds so stupid coming out of my mouth. Mind control. But I am curious, and this is my first time talking to a vampire, so forgive me if I come across as unknowledgeable.

His smile is bright, amusement showing over my curiosity. “Not really. It’s a little more nuanced than that,” he says. I wait for elaboration. “I can influence someone,” he admits. “But not against their nature. I can’t make someone want something they don’t already want. It’s more like… lowering the volume on their hesitation. So, usually after I feed, I can influence someone to forget it. You’d be surprised how many people just want to forget.”

I take this in. “Have you done that to me?” The question leaves my mouth before I can soften it.

His head jerks back slightly, eyes flashing. “No.” Then softer, “No, Ilya. I haven’t. I wouldn’t.”

Well, so much for blaming my lack of focus around him on vampire mind control. Seems like that’s completely on me.

“Okay,” I say, taking in all this information. “It’s a lot to wrap my head around. I’m sorry for all the questions,” I admit to him. “I’ll probably have more, but I’m still getting a hold of it all,” I say quietly, happy to divulge the truth to him.

“That’s fine,” he says, laying a gentle hand on my knee. “I actually wanted to ask you a few questions too, if you’re okay with that.”

I turn my body slightly so I can face him on the couch. “Sure.” Already running through what he might ask.

His eyes cast toward the ground, suddenly timid. And now I’m really curious about what he’ll ask. He clears his throat, and I watch the motion like a bird of prey. “The other night, you implied that you don’t follow some of the more, um, traditional priestly values, and I was curious about that,” he stutters out.

Oh, I bet he was curious about that. I smile, the amusement over him being uncomfortable about sex a hilarious role reversal considering who we are.

“Shane, are you asking if I have sex?” I say bluntly, my voice having just the edge of teasing.

“Yes, I guess so,” he says, and it’s so cute — the way he can’t hold my gaze, the way he rubs his hands over his legs, back and forth.

“In short — yes, Shane, I have sex,” I say with a smile, all teeth. “The longer answer is a little more complex.”

“What’s the longer answer?” he asks, his mouth hanging open slightly, his eyes finally meeting mine.

“You want the whole tragic backstory?” I ask, my lips quirking up.

“Seems fair, since I gave you mine.” And he’s right, that does seem fair.

“You told me about your bar.” I shift slightly next to him, not to escalate — just to sit straighter. “Six years ago,” I say, “I went to one too.”

It’s odd — as I start, I realize I’ve never told someone the full story. I’ve shared bits and pieces, a detail to Father Crowell or Svetlana, but never the full unabridged truth. It’s almost daunting, but Shane’s eyes are open and guiding. So I take a breath and start at the most painful spot — the hardest to talk about.

“My mother was Russian Orthodox,” I begin, voice steady despite the old ache stirring in my chest. “Very devout. She found comfort in ritual. In structure. In prayer.” I unconsciously touch the holy crucifix that hangs around my neck, feeling its imprint against my skin. It was hers once — one of the only things that I have left of her, really. I swallow once.

“She’d been going to church all her life and brought me along most of the time as a kid. I think I was around seven when I realized that she was using church to get away from my dad. I think it’s pretty common around that age to realize your dad isn’t the hero you thought he was. I started seeing it more — the way she tensed around him, the screaming matches after I went to sleep at night, my brother’s jibing comments.”

His hands tighten.

“So whenever my father started drinking during the day or began to raise his voice at her, she’d pick up her purse and head to church.” I take a stuttering breath. It’s not easy to reflect back on this. She was so young when she had to deal with it all, younger than I am now. It’s unimaginable.

Shane is silent next to me, giving me the space to continue.

“I played hockey too,” I say to him, and there is a brief smile over the moment of shared history. “I’d like to think I was good, but it’s hard to be objective about that sort of thing. I stopped when I was 12. But for a while, hockey was my church. My father was overbearing about it, but he was supportive. He was excited when I won games and vile when I lost. My mother was supportive too. She drove me to all the practices and games, cheered me on in the stands, and iced my bruises after the hits.”

Another bracing breath.

“So I was preoccupied. I wasn’t going to church with her as much; she would go alone. I vaguely knew things hadn’t improved with my father, but there is only so much a kid can do,” I say, and I know it’s the truth. It’s taken me years to admit that it’s not my fault, that an 11-year-old can’t be responsible for fixing issues so expansive.

“She turned to the church when things started to get really bad — when it stopped just being words and yelling and became something else.” It still makes me sick to think about it — her seeking solace in the church, her broken body kneeling in prayer. “They told her to be patient. To endure. To pray harder.”

Silence settles heavily between us.

“She killed herself when I was twelve.” The words don’t tremble. I’ve had years to sand down their edges.

“I quit hockey the next week,” I continue. “How could I enjoy something when the light of my life was gone?”

His expression softens into something fierce and protective.

“I spent six years angry. Angry at my father. At my brother. At the church. At God.” I exhale slowly. “Things with my father grew worse; he was destructive, tearing himself apart with guilt and anger and letting it overflow onto my brother and me. Alexi resented me for it all and blamed me for it all. I spent six years like that — stewing in that house, angry at everyone, and barely scraping by. And every year I’d go to her grave on the anniversary of her death and ask for guidance, for direction. After six years of begging with no response, I was ready to give up.”

I meet his eyes, not sure if I should share how close I was to giving it all up — following in her footsteps.

“That night, I met a priest in a bar.”

He inhales sharply.

“He was drinking alone. I thought it was funny at first — a priest in a bar.” I smile even now. A priest and a vampire walk into a bar, and we’re like a bad joke.

“I approached him, ready to channel all that rage about faith and God into him. And somehow, the moment I began to share, he just listened. Took it all in — all the anger and disbelief, the fallen trust in God and the church. He didn’t deny it or try to fight back. He just listened as I spilled my heart out in some dingy Russian bar.”

I swallow. “And I told him how I was so close to giving up. That I just wanted to be somewhere else — anywhere else. I just wanted the pain to stop.”

“He told me I could leave. That he had contacts at American theology programs. That I could leave Russia and study to become a priest.”

Shane’s eyes are shining now.

“He said I could be the best version of myself.”

The echo hangs between us.

“I didn’t listen that night. Told him he was crazy and I’d never trust the church again after what they’d done to my mother. But I accepted the drink he bought me and the card he left with it.”

“I found his card the next morning after my father told me I wasn’t welcome in his house anymore,” I finish. “And I took it as an answer. A sign from God. A sign from my mother that this was the path I was meant to follow.”

Silence.

“So no,” I say softly. “I am not a regular priest. I didn’t seek Catholicism out of obligation or misguided duty. I sought it because it was the answer I needed when I was lost. Because God hadn’t abandoned me as I thought — I just needed to seek Him out. And I sought it out so the next time a broken young woman walked through a church’s doors, there was a better chance that I’d be on the other side. That she’d be believed and heard. Celibacy was never the thing that mattered to me, nor any of the other archaic rules,” I finish quietly. “Service was. Being the priest someone like my mother needed.”

Silence stretches after I finish. I expect questions. Instead, Shane moves. Not dramatically. Not urgently. He just shifts closer on the couch until our knees press together.

“You were twelve,” he says finally. It’s not disbelief in his voice. Not pity. Just something low and tight — controlled anger aimed somewhere far beyond this room.

“Yes.”

His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking once near his temple. He looks away briefly, like he’s picturing it. A boy. A church. A mother kneeling in prayer. “They told her to endure,” he says slowly. Carefully. Like he wants to be sure he heard me correctly. It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

His hands curl into fists against his thighs. I notice because I notice everything about him — the way his fingers press into the denim, the way his knuckles pale slightly. He’s not reacting wildly. He’s containing it. And somehow that feels more significant. “They failed her,” he says. It’s not dramatic. It’s not shouted. It’s a statement of fact.

“They did.”

His gaze shifts back to me then — steady, searching. “And you’re still here.” There’s something in that. Something almost reverent.

“I am.”

He studies me like that’s the most incomprehensible part of the story. “You became a priest,” he says slowly, like he’s working through the logic out loud, “to be better than what hurt your mother.”

“Yes.”

“And you stayed,” he continues, leaning forward slightly now, elbows resting on his knees. “You stayed inside the same institution that failed her. You didn’t burn it down. You didn’t walk away forever. You rebuilt inside it.”

“Yes.”

His throat works. “And I’ve been trying,” he says more quietly now, eyes dropping to the floor between us, “to be better than what made me.” The vulnerability in that nearly undoes me.

“Yes.” The word feels heavier this time.

The symmetry settles between us — not neat, not perfect, but real. Two boys who lost something. Two men who rebuilt themselves differently.

“You really are a cool priest,” he murmurs at last, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I snort despite myself, the tension breaking just enough to breathe. “Careful,” I warn, a smile tugging at my mouth. “I’ll put that on the church website. Father Rosanov: cool priest. Now accepting vampires and emotionally damaged men.” That pulls the faintest grin from him — small, but genuine. The kind that doesn’t quite reach his fangs.

“You know,” he says slowly, eyes lifting again, mischief flickering briefly before something more serious settles in, “most priests I’ve met would’ve tried to exorcise me by now.” There’s humor in it, but it’s defensive. Testing.

I’m grateful for it. Grateful for the shift in tone. I’m happy to have shared my past with him, but I can feel the edges of it still raw beneath my skin. If I dig any deeper tonight, I might fall apart in front of him — and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. “I don’t perform exorcisms without consent,” I reply easily, matching his tone, leaning back slightly as if this is all casual conversation and not the unraveling of both our lives.

That earns me a startled huff of laughter from him — surprised, almost boyish. The sound warms something in my chest. “Good to know,” he mutters.

His mouth curves faintly. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. But then the amusement fades. His expression sobers again — slowly this time. Deliberately. Like he’s stepping back into something heavier. The humor drains from his eyes first. “Ilya,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it now. No edge. Just weight. And I know — instinctively — that whatever he says next will matter.

“I’m trying to be better,” Shane says quietly, fingers tracing an invisible line along the seam of the couch. “But better doesn’t mean human.” I wait. “I’m still a vampire,” he continues. “No matter how controlled I am. No matter how careful. I’m always going to want what vampires want.” There’s no self-pity in it. Just a fact.

“And you want me,” I say. His eyes lift slowly. I try to gauge if he’s answering about my blood or about me.

“Yes.”

“And my blood.” I clarify, forcing his hand.

“Yes,” he answers again — steady this time. Bolder than I expected from him. “I want you. And your blood.” Immediately, I feel heat through my body.  His confirmation of what I already know ignites my system and sends me into pure arousal,

“How would that look?” I ask, keeping my tone even, even though my voice comes out deep and rougher than I expect. “If I agreed. How does it work?”

He studies me carefully, as if gauging whether this is curiosity or invitation. “I can feed without killing,” he says. “Easily. It’s about restraint, not difficulty. I take what I need and stop. My fangs release a coagulant when I withdraw — it slows and then seals the bleeding. It helps the skin close.”

“And the pain?” I ask. I didn’t feel more than a prick the other night, but I have to imagine the real thing would hurt.

He hesitates — not because he’s unsure, but because he’s choosing his words. “It stings for a second,” he admits. “But that’s not what people remember.”

“What do they remember?” I ask, confused.

His voice lowers slightly. “Euphoria. It floods the system. Endorphins, adrenaline — everything heightens. For both of us.” It sounds like a filthy promise on his lips, one I want to vow.

“And with me?” I ask because I need to hear him say it. I want him to admit I’m different. I didn’t think I had a praise kink, but maybe with him I do.

His gaze darkens. “With you, it would be amplified.” He swallows once. “Everything is amplified around you.”

“Because I’m a priest?” Again, I’m baiting him.  I don’t care why it’s different with me; I just like hearing that it is.

A faint, almost sheepish smile flickers. "Holy ground makes things... intense. Churches make my senses spike. Almost to the point of pain: sensory overload. You wouldn't believe the things I was feeling that first night." He closes his eyes for a second, and it's clear he is summoning the memory in sharp detail. "The moment I walked through your doors," he continues, his voice quieter, "it was like being submerged in icy water and fire at the same time. Every sound echoed in my head—the creak of the pews, the flicker of the candles, your heartbeat—so loud I could feel it beneath my skin. The light in there was overwhelming, not just with my eyes but everywhere. The stones, the air, every carved cross and stained-glass window felt like they were pressing into me. Even breathing felt different. The air tasted stronger, thicker, almost electric; I could smell the incense, the old wood, the ghost of every prayer ever whispered there—all of it mixed together. Part of me felt like I was being burned from the inside, but it was addictive too, because everything was just… heightened. I don't know if that extends to priests." His eyes linger on me. "Or maybe you're just… you."

That does something warm and dangerous inside my chest. “And you can stop?” I press.

“Yes,” he answers confidently

“When I tell you to?” I say, checking his control.

“Yes.”- again, assured.

“Immediately?” I clarify, even though I already know what I’m agreeing to.  Even though I already trust him implicitly.

“Immediately.” He agrees resolutely, focused in on me

His answers are quick now. Certain. I shift closer, closing the remaining distance between us until our knees press firmly together. Not straddling this time. Not surrendering. Directing.

“If this happens,” I say calmly, resting my hand lightly against his jaw, “it happens because I choose it. Not because you’re overtaken.”

“I know.” His eyes are darting between my eyes, lips, and neck.  Very cute.

“And you don’t take more than I offer.” It’s nice to give him these directions.  Letting this moment fall under my control.  He is under my control.

“I won’t,” he agrees, his voice quiet.

I tilt my head slightly, exposing just enough of my neck to make the invitation clear — but not dramatic. Not sacrificial.

“Show me your control,” I say softly.

His pupils widen. Not frenzy. Focus. His hand comes up first — slow, deliberate — resting at my shoulder like he’s anchoring himself. He doesn’t move closer until I nod.

“Shane,” I murmur.

“Yes?” he asks, waiting on a breath for my next direction

“You may,” I say, giving him permission for this, but with the promise of more waiting between us. 

Chapter End Notes

Phew, that was a lot of dialogue and backstory info dumping. Hopefully it didn't get you down too much... I'm already working on Chapter 7, and we get some biting, kissing, and more. Thanks for hanging in there. I know this is a hike to get to the smut, but doesn't the wait make it better? Hopefully you're saying yes. Thank you, as always, for reading, giving kudos, and commenting. It really makes my day.

Chapter 7: Control

Chapter Notes

Phew, that was hard to upload with all the Ao3 outages, but we're back!
This chapter contains explicit sexual content and so will the rest of the story. Please consult the tags before reading.

Shane

I’ve done this before. Feeding, that is. I’ve done it hundreds of times, but never — not once — has it been like this.

Ilya’s neck is warm beneath my mouth, his hand braced at the back of my throat, holding me against him. Not forcing. Anchoring. The moment my fangs breach the soft skin of his throat, he lets out a small moan that sends a violent jolt through my entire body.

And then there’s the blood.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Ilya Rozanov’s blood is truly sensational — and sensational in the truest sense of the word. Every sensation rushes through me at once, exploding outward. The lights in the room are too bright. The cotton of my shirt against my skin feels abrasive. The sound of his breath as I take from him is deafening. And the taste — God, the taste — is like the finest glass of wine I’ve ever had, rich and layered and impossibly deep.

It overwhelms me to the point of distraction. But I focus. I hone in on control. On the feel of his hand at the back of my neck. On the steady beat of his pulse against my tongue. On taking slow, measured pulls instead of the frantic, greedy ones my body begs for. It would be so easy to lose myself in this. So easy to take more than I should. But I don’t. I stay centered in the weight of his hand on me. In the rhythm of his breathing. In the discipline of restraint.

“Stop,” he orders.

I pull back immediately. The word hits me like a snapped leash, and I obey without hesitation, licking an errant drop from my lips as I lift my head to meet his eyes. They’re blown wide. Dilated. Focused entirely on me. There’s a small smile stretching across his face, satisfied, not overwhelmed.

“Good,” he says softly, praise wrapped around the word. It lands somewhere deep in my chest. Warmer than the blood. I glow under it, shamefully pleased with myself for following his command so quickly.

But I can’t stop rubbing my lips together, chasing the lingering taste of him. And I can’t stop my eyes from darting back to his neck, where the faintest streak of red has begun to trail downward toward his collarbone. I want to lick it clean. Desperately.

I bring my eyes back to his instead, “Are you okay?” I ask curiously. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but I need to know if he’s feeling as good as I do right now. My eyes flick down to his shorts.  More specifically, the rather apparent outline of his erection through the thin material.  It’s a mistake.  I may have control over the bloodlust, for now, but I can’t control the way my body reacts to the sight of his arousal.  

“Yes,” he answers simply, to my questions I asked mere seconds ago and had already forgotten.

His thumb brushes just below the bite, smearing the faint line of red with clinical calm. He watches my mouth as I track the movement.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

“No,” he says quietly. “It feels… warm.” His eyes meet mine, still dilated, and he sounds a little floaty, almost drunk.  I’m used to the euphoria of feeding.  Usually, it leaves me— and I hate the word 'victim' for this, because that’s not how it is, but we’ll go with 'victim' for simplicity— happy and sated.  But not today.  I expected the results might be slightly abnormal with him.  Everything so amplified, be it the holy element of it all, or just something about him.  Something uniquely, dangerously him.

I may have anticipated it, or even expected it, but I’m still unprepared for the sight of Father Rosanov so intoxicated by my bite.  His elation matches mine, and I can only imagine how I look right now, lips bloodstained and eyes wide.

His smile turns slow — not innocent, not priestly, but knowing — as he lifts his fingers to my mouth, his blood still smeared across them. I welcome it immediately.

I take the two fingers between my lips, drawing them in with more hunger than I should allow, working my tongue over the pads of them, tasting what’s left of him there. It’s not about feeding anymore. It’s about not letting a single drop go to waste. The blood settles in my veins like fire, and all that heat has nowhere left to go but toward him.

And then our bodies are shifting. No words spoken, no instructions given — just a mutual understanding that we need more. One moment, I’m beside him on the couch, knees brushing, the next, I’m straddling his lap, the hard length of him pressing against me through his shorts, the friction immediate and undeniable.

I’m needy immediately, grinding down against him, hurried and wanting.

Ilya is more controlled, his eyes still filled with lust, but his movements deliberate. One hand remains on my face, fingers brushing over my lips and tongue, the other settles at my hip, gripping into my skin in a way I’m sure will leave fingertip-sized bruises later. I revel in the slight pain of it, tilting my jaw back and exposing the length of my throat to him.

He takes advantage of the shift, his hand slow and deliberate as it slides down to grip my throat. I’m at his mercy as he lightly squeezes the sides of my neck, my head going light with craving. He was at my mercy just minutes ago, but somehow this reversal — with him at my throat — is more intoxicating than his blood.

I let out an embarrassing whimper, my hips chasing friction against him, my body tilting backward off his, supported only by his fingers wrapped around my neck and his nails digging into my hip. His hand moves down my chest, his touch possessive in a way that makes me squirm. Both hands find my hips now, my chin lowering again so I can meet his hungry gaze.

“This is a bad idea,” I let out in a whisper, my lips betraying my thoughts by voicing them. It’s the one thing my mind keeps catching on. This is a bad idea. This shouldn’t be happening. He is a good man, trying to make the church better, and I’m… well, not a good man, that’s for sure. I shouldn’t want this. And I shouldn’t allow myself to have it. And yet I remain planted on his lap, his hands still on my hips, anchoring me there.

“Why?” he questions, and my mind has already gone blank.

“Why is it a bad idea?” he clarifies, sensing my confusion — the way my thoughts can’t quite follow a straight line tonight. Whether it’s the lust or the euphoria of his blood coursing through me, I’m far too easily distracted. And the issue is only amplified as he moves his mouth to my neck, placing slow kisses and licks beneath my jaw.

I moan at his ministrations, but upon hearing the sound, he pulls back an inch, his hot breath still tickling my throat.

“Why, Shane?” he prompts again, his voice low against my skin as he resumes his slow torment along my neck. “Talk, or I’ll stop.”

I swallow at the threat, and I know he can feel the motion as his tongue drags along my Adam’s apple. “It’s a bad idea,” I manage, my voice uneven, “because you’re… you.”

He hums softly against my skin, unimpressed.

“That’s not an answer.”

His fingers tighten just slightly at my hips, slipping just below the waistband of my shorts — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who’s holding me upright. My hips twitch forward instinctively, betraying me.

“You’re a priest,” I try again. “You can’t do this. You can’t have me like this.”

“Seems like I can,” he says against my skin, one hand coming around my body to pop open the button of my shorts. The soft click of it feels louder than it should. And it’s really not fair when he does this. How am I supposed to concentrate on why we shouldn’t when every action convinces my body we should?

“You shouldn’t want me,” I say. “Not like this.”

“And why not?” he asks, his hand drifting lower, teasing, deliberately imprecise — so close to where I want him, but never quite there.

Because I’ll ruin you. Because I already have. Because I taste blood on my tongue, and you’re looking at me like I’m not a monster.

“You’re a good man,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “You’re making the church better. You’re honoring your mother. And I know you said the celibacy part doesn’t matter to you, but it’s not about the sex.” My breath stutters. “It’s about the sex with me.” The frustration bleeds into my voice, louder and rougher than I mean for it to be.

He pulls back slightly, his lips tilting up toward mine like a plant reaching for the sun.

“And why would sex with you be a problem, Shane?” he asks, his gaze heavy now — not teasing, not amused. There’s something almost offended in it. Protective. I can feel the fingers still hooked at my hip tense, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt again.

“Because I’m…” My breath stutters out. There are too many ways to finish that sentence. I’m a monster. I’m not safe. I’m barely holding onto control. I’m already half in love with you. Every option feels too raw, too revealing.

“I’m not good,” I finish instead, settling for the smallest version of the truth.

His expression softens in a way that hurts. “You are so good, Shane,” he says, his lips so close I can feel the warmth of them. “I wish you could see it the way I do.”

And that does it. The fight for restraint — for morality, for distance, for doing the right thing — drains out of me in one steady exhale. Before I can overthink it, I surge forward, kissing him hard enough that our teeth click. It isn’t careful. It isn’t restrained. It’s desperate in a way that feeding never was.

His hands tighten on my hips immediately, guiding the movement instead of stopping it. Our bodies move together this time — deliberate, friction building fast. The euphoria from his blood hasn’t faded. It’s just changed shape. Settled lower. Hotter.

“Ilya,” I warn against his mouth, the edge creeping back into my voice.

“Still in control?” he murmurs.

“Mostly,” I admit.

His answering smile is wicked and pleased.

“Good.” And then he rolls his hips up into mine, slow and intentional, and the restraint I’ve been clinging to thins to a thread.

His hands are hot as they toy with the hem of my shirt before pulling it over my head. I am putty in his hands, molding into anything he wants. He guides my head with his fingers, chases my hips with his own, all the while wrecking me with his mouth on every bit of skin he can reach. It’s torturous and euphoric all at once. I should be embarrassed by the sounds escaping me — needy little whimpers that reveal just how long it’s been since I’ve been touched like this — but I’m not.

My hands run wild, too. At times they get lost in his curls; at others, they drift lower, far more deliberately, reaching down into his shorts to cup him through his briefs. He’s hot beneath my hand, and for the second time tonight, I’m imagining what he will taste like.

We’re wild with each other. Hands aren’t careful, and mouths aren’t either. I know I’ll be covered in a myriad of marks tomorrow — my own private collection of bruises, scrapes, and hickeys. Moments of tonight painted in purple, scarlet, and maroon. I’m vaguely aware of his hands cupping me through my own briefs, my shorts pushed halfway down my thighs in frantic need. Most of my focus is on not finding release just from his touch and kisses. For God’s sake, my cock isn’t even out of my underwear yet, and I’m already losing control.

But it’s a losing battle.

I’m not sure if he knows it — if he sees the way I’m fighting for control — but he doesn’t relent. Instead, his touch speeds, his kisses deepen, and he begins whispering praise against my lips.

“So good for me.”

“Feel so good in my hands.”

“This cock is so hard for me.”

The words unravel me faster than his hands ever could.

I’m not even sure what my hands are doing anymore — whether I’m still palming him or if I’ve simply frozen as he brings all his attention down upon me. Looking at his face is too much, like staring directly into the sun. So I turn instead, pressing my mouth to his neck. And that’s my undoing.

It’s barely there — just the faintest trace of his blood, not even enough to stain his skin — but the taste blooms across my tongue in an explosion of heat. My vision goes white at the edges as I shudder against him, the pleasure cresting faster than I can stop it. My fingers dig into his arms as I ride out the wave of my release.

I’m still shaking when I realize what I’ve done. The pleasure ebbs just enough for awareness to flood back in — the warmth in my briefs, the way my fingers are still gripping his arms, the sound of my breathing, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. I can’t look at him.

“I—” My voice is wrecked. “Sorry.”

I’m spiraling out, and I can feel the heat in my face.  I’m sure I’m as flushed as a sinner in church, how ironic.

“Oh,” he says, brushing his thumb lazily along my hip. “Is that what we’re doing? Apologizing for being enthusiastic?”

My head snaps up. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to what?” he interrupts lightly. “Have a good time?” Heat floods my face.

“I said I had control,” I mutter. I feel like slinking away and hiding in the shadows.  I can still feel him hard beneath me, proof that he didn’t finish as I did.

“You did.” His tone shifts just slightly — steadier now. “I told you to stop earlier. You stopped.” His fingers press briefly at my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You didn’t lose control of your hunger.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You just really liked what I was doing.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. And I hate that my body reacts immediately to the memory.

“I came too fast,” I say anyway. He hums thoughtfully, as if considering it.

“Well,” he says slowly, “if you’re going to be dramatic about it…” He shifts slightly beneath me, very deliberately. “It’s very flattering, actually.”

That stops me. “Flattering?” I repeat.

“Yes.” His lips brush near mine, but don’t quite kiss. “It suggests I’m very effective.” The confidence in it is maddening. My embarrassment doesn’t vanish, but it shifts — less shame, more heat.

“And for the record,” he adds lightly, “I quite enjoyed watching you lose your composure.”

Before I can spiral again, his hand moves deliberately, dipping into my briefs.  It makes the briefest contact with my cock, causing it to twitch before he removes his hand. He brings his fingers back up between us, glancing at them briefly, at my cum that now lingers on them,  before lifting his eyes to mine. There’s mischief there now.

“See?” he says softly. “Very effective.” I’m awestruck when he places the fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean. I groan his name. He only smiles, warm and pleased. I squirm on his lap slightly, reminded of his hard cock, still beneath me.

“We don’t have to do anything else,” he says, tone settling again. “I’m good.” A pause. “Very good.” He says it earnestly, sensing my thoughts before I can say them, before I can act on them.

I stare at him. “I want to,” I say.

That wipes the playfulness from his face — not completely, but enough. His gaze sharpens. “Still in control?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“No blood,” he adds.

“I won’t.”

He studies me for one more second — then nods.

“Then take your time,” he murmurs. “Let’s see how controlled you are when you’re trying.” And that — that is infinitely more dangerous than mockery ever could be. I shift down his body slowly, sinking to my knees in front of him on the couch. My shorts slide down my legs and stay there. It’s a little rough, the threadbare carpet not providing much comfort to my exposed knees, but I relish the bite of the floor as I stare up at him, my fingers dipping into the waistband of his shorts.

His eyes don’t leave me, and I don’t even realize I’ve frozen, waiting for his approval until he gives it. “You may,” he says, and the echo from earlier — the invitation to once again taste him — has me salivating. I slide my fingers beneath the waistband of both his briefs and shorts, pulling them down his legs and leaving them in a pool on the floor. Then I focus on him.

He’s large — because, of course, he is. I had felt him through his briefs, but seeing him in front of me is a different story. It’s been, quite frankly, a while since I’ve done this, and I’m concerned I won’t be able to fit it all in my mouth. But I’m eager to please him, eager to taste him. So I banish those fears, bringing my mouth to him and licking up the underside, flattening my tongue against him.

His reaction is immediate. One hand grips the couch, the other fists into my hair, and his head drops back against the cushions, a low “fuck” tumbling from his lips that makes my blood roar in my ears. Spurred on by his reaction, I do it again, this time bringing my lips around him and giving a slow, languid suck. His hand anchored in my hair clenches, the motion causing my scalp to sting and my cock to stir again… already.

I can tell he’s holding back — that he wants to use his hand to direct my mouth, but he’s choosing not to. And I know I shouldn’t test him on this, that he is not the type to enjoy someone teasing him, but there’s something spurring me on with every fiber of my being, a chant in my bones saying, “Push.” So I do.

I give him slow licks, close my mouth over him, and bring a hand up and down occasionally. But I don’t really give it my all. I don’t take him fully or beg him to use me the way I’m sure he wants. I can tell he’s barely clinging to control. His knuckles on the couch are white, the hand in my hair trembling slightly with the force it’s taking him to hold back. He takes deep exhales through his nose, like he’s meditating — more likely praying for patience.

I think I’m getting away with my torture, with the little game I’m playing, until I raise my head and meet his dark eyes. The self-satisfied smile plastered across my face drops immediately, but it’s too late. I’ve been found out. And maybe I really am a glutton for punishment, because the dark look on his face is turning me on more than his blood did.

His hand that was previously gripping the couch slides up to cup my jaw — hard. He leans forward so our faces are close enough to touch as he whispers, “Shane.”

“Yes,” I say guiltily. Or I would say it guiltily if I felt guilty. But I don’t. I feel excited, aroused, curious about what he’s going to do next.

“Is there a reason you’re being a little cock tease right now?” he asks, his lips brushing over mine as he speaks.

My pulse kicks. My mouth goes dry. I’m at a loss for words, which he seems to know. His smile is devilish, and I begin to wonder if provoking him was the right move.

“Open,” he says, placing a finger in my mouth and pulling it open to his liking. I brace my hands on his thighs and keep my eyes on his as he leans over me. I think he might be going in for a kiss, and I move to close my eyes, to part my lips, but he keeps his hand wrapped around my jaw, his eyes still meeting mine when he spits in my mouth.

My immediate impulse is to swallow, but I keep my eyes on his, waiting for him to tell me what to do. This seems to please him. “Show me your tongue,” he commands, his voice gravelly, his accent thicker than I’ve heard it.

I stick out my tongue, letting him take in the sight of his spit mixing with my own. I barely hear him when he murmurs “good” under his breath. Then his hand guides my head back down, my game's over. “Keep your mouth open for me, Shane,” he says authoritatively, his eyes meeting mine. “Tap my thigh if you need to stop.”

I nod, and with that last bit of consent sealed between us, he takes control. I knew I was toying with him earlier, but it isn’t until he’s panting my name and moving against me that I realize this is the outcome I wanted — for him to take over control, for him to use me however he wants.

I’m a mess. I can feel spit leaking from the corner of my mouth and traveling down my jaw. His hands are rough in my hair, on my jaw. Even the sounds in the room are filthy. But nothing is filthier than the words streaming from his mouth — a delicious mix of praise, obscenities, and my name, whispered like his favorite prayers. I relax my throat around him, savoring the burn of air in my lungs as I attempt to take full breaths through my nose.

I’m not sure how long it's going to go on like this. Time blurs as I let him use my mouth, until his movements grow erratic, his breathing stuttered. And finally, he’s spilling down my throat, and I get to taste him the way I’ve been craving since I first tasted his blood — hell, maybe since the moment I darkened his church doorstep.

I’m still catching my breath when he finally pulls me back up beside him. My knees protest as I climb back onto the couch, but I barely register it. My whole body feels wrung out, overstimulated, sated, buzzing in a way that borders on exhaustion. His hands are gentler now, one cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing lazily over my lower lip. “You still okay?” he asks quietly.

I nod.

“No blood?” he checks again.

I huff softly. “No blood.” That seems to satisfy him. He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead, not my mouth, not my neck, my forehead. The tenderness of it nearly undoes me more than anything that happened before.

“You did well,” he murmurs. I close my eyes at that, not because I’m ashamed, but because I’m tired. Tired in a way that feels new. My body doesn’t usually beg for sleep. Nights are when I’m sharpest, but tonight feels like I’ve run a marathon inside my own skin. “I should go,” I say automatically. The words are impulse more than desire.

His hand stills where it’s resting against my back. “Do you want to?” he asks.

No. The answer is immediate and visceral. There are still a thousand questions hanging between us, about feeding, about faith, about what this means, about what comes next, but none of them feel urgent enough to pull me toward the door.

“I don’t,” I admit.

That seems to be all the invitation he needs. He stands, tugging me gently up with him toward his bedroom. I sway slightly, not dizzy, just depleted. I stand in the doorway, watching as he moves around the room, carefully closing the curtains, deliberately, making sure not a sliver of early light peeks through. When he returns, he doesn’t say anything clever or teasing.

I hesitate at the threshold. He notices. “You don’t need permission,” he says softly. “But you have it.” That echo from earlier settles warm in my chest. You may. This time, I step inside on my own.

I lie down cautiously, half-expecting my body to resist the idea of sleep. I’d normally wash my face and apply my skincare — yes, vampires still need skincare, possibly even more than humans with the whole sun issue — but exhaustion drags at me like a tide, and I sink into the mattress still shirtless, my briefs clinging to my skin uncomfortably.

Ilya walks away, and I let my eyes drift closed just for a moment. I’m stirred awake by him kneeling beside me with a warm washcloth, wiping my skin clean. The intimacy of the gesture makes my eyes sting.

“That better not be holy water,” I joke, pulling off my briefs and lying back to enjoy his care.

“What would happen if it were?” he asks curiously.

“I’m actually not sure,” I admit. “Most likely the same as other holy symbols.”

“How so?” he says, his hand unconsciously drifting to toy with the crucifix around his neck.

He goes back to his work with the cloth while I explain, “They don’t burn me necessarily, but they run hot — like touching candle wax.” I reach up and run my hand along the chain at his neck, drinking in the sting of heat from it.

“Like the rosary I gave you?” he asks, sitting back on his heels to look at me, one hand touching his crucifix, the other lingering on my waist. “Did you keep it?” he adds, sounding slightly guarded.

“It’s in my shorts pocket on your living room floor,” I admit, and his eyes flash. “I’ve carried it with me every moment since you gave it to me.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, seeming to let the words sink in. Then he returns to the bathroom to rinse the washcloth, stopping at a wooden dresser to grab two pairs of loose boxers. He tosses one at me, and I catch it, slipping into the clean fabric and settling beneath the blankets.

He climbs in beside me without ceremony, one arm sliding around my waist. I think our conversation is finished until he adds,, “You kept something that hurts you.”

I find his eyes in the dim room. “It was from you,” I answer, hoping that’s enough.

He doesn’t press further. He just leans forward and presses the sweetest kiss to my lips, not heated, not sexual, just reassuring and comfortable. His fingers trace absent patterns against my skin.

“Stay,” he says. It isn’t a command. It’s a request.

There are still questions. Doubts. The sharp edge of tomorrow waits just outside these walls. But his arm is warm around me. The curtains are drawn. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like something that only belongs in the dark.

“I’ll stay,” I say.

He hums softly in response. And when sleep finally drags me under, I let it.

Chapter End Notes

Yay! What a plot-heavy chapter. Fair warning, the next couple of chapters will be smut-heavy; that's just how I outlined it, so these two will be doing some weird stuff. As always, thank you for reading- kudos and comments make the world go round.

Chapter 8: Trust Me

Chapter Notes

Is there some vocabulary that I recognize a non-native English speaker probably wouldn’t use even after a decade in the US? Yes. But don’t worry about it. Ilya reads the New Yorker.

Also, 7.5k-word chapter when I usually write like 3k—sorry/you’re welcome.

I also didn't read this through after I wrote it, sorry, so if you see any major grammar/spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Ilya

Typically, I wake to my alarm and the early morning light filtering in through the windows. Today is different. I beat my alarm, waking earlier than usual despite my late night. The room is dark, all the curtains drawn to protect against the sun. It was a preemptive measure. I’m not even sure it’s necessary for Shane, but with his insistence on the “night shift,” I have to assume it is because of the sun.

The bed itself is warm, combating the cold morning that has chilled the rectory. Shane is draped against me, like he sought out my body heat in the night, and I smile to myself at that. I like the idea of him coming to me for what he needs. His weight is steady against me, his breathing even and deep. It makes me want to go back to sleep, to pull him into my arms and fade back under with him against me.

I can’t, of course. I beat my alarm, but not by much, and I have chores to attend to. Things to complete before Father Crowell arrives for the day. God, the thought of Roger stirs me out of my sleepy stupor. I withdraw from Shane’s arms reluctantly. He doesn’t stir, just rolls over and snuggles against the pillow I’ve vacated.

I ready myself for the day slowly, gathering my clothes and taking them to the bathroom — another step to try to avoid waking the sleeping man — vampire?, is he still considered a man? — sprawled across my mattress. In the bathroom, the lights are almost blinding after the dark of my room. I take a glance in the mirror, and a breath whooshes out of me at my reflection. I’m ready for the blotched marks along my collarbone that have been there for previous days, but they’ve tripled. A new collection of purple, red, and blue marks has been added along my neck and collarbone. Hickeys and bruises alike. There are additional ones on my body too, lots of little blackberry-sized bruises in the shape of Shane’s fingertips dotting my skin.

I run my fingers over my neck, expecting the worst damage there, but I’m incorrect. There are two pinpricks there, no bigger than a mosquito bite. No bruising, no redness, nothing — healed over just like he promised. I can’t tell if he was careful last night in stopping his hickeys and bruises just below where my collar sits, or if it’s just luck, but either way the marks disappear as I slip on my shirt, button it all the way to my neck, and add my clerical collar. There’s a moment of something I can’t name — shame? guilt? — at covering his marks with my priestly uniform. Like I’m hiding. I don’t like the feeling, but I can’t afford for Roger to see the marks.

I flick the light off and head back into my bedroom, my eyes adjusting until I can see Shane still nestled into my blankets. I’m not sure about the procedure here — whether I should leave a note or wake him up. A note would be simple, something for him to find and understand. But I’m indulging in a little selfishness this morning, so I sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand over his shoulder, softly saying his name.

“Shane,” I say, lowering my head closer to his.

“mmmmmmm,” is his response, a half-asleep groan at the injustice of being woken up. His hair is mussed, and there’s a tiny bit of drool on the pillow beneath him — a fact I’d never admit to him.

“Shane,” I coo again, my hand rubbing over his arm. His eyes open groggily. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I say, running a hand over an errant strand of hair that brushes his forehead. “I need to go into the church and get started on my work for today. Are you okay here?” I pause for a moment. I know so little about him, about what he needs. “I wasn’t sure with the sun or…” Again, I trail off.

He looks around at the windows, blinds, and curtains still drawn tight, then up at me, a happy, sated smile crossing his face before he relaxes back into the pillows. “I don’t burst into flames in the sun,” he says, closing his eyes. “It just… blisters,” he adds, gesturing vaguely at his skin, eyes still closed. “I’ll just stay here and sleep,” he says, burrowing back into the covers like a cat woken too soon from its afternoon nap.

I smile at sleepy Shane. I wasn’t expecting him to be so grumpy when tired, but I like it. It’s so domestic to see him like this. It stirs something deep in my chest that I don’t have time to examine. I lean forward and place a soft kiss on his forehead before getting up to leave, shutting the door softly behind me. I do a quick scan of the living room and start a wash cycle of our clothing. I leave the rosary from his pocket on the counter, the sight of it making me smile. He kept it. He said he did, but seeing the proof of his truth in front of me hits a lot harder.

I grab a protein bar for breakfast and walk the few steps out my door to the chapel entrance. I slip into the quiet church and allow my brain to relax as I begin my day, lighting candles, sweeping the floors, unlocking the door. There is comfort in the normalcy of the tasks, familiar after months of doing them. A light ringing catches my attention as I’m sifting through a mountain of paperwork. The landline is ringing. Yes, the landline — I told you Roger was old-fashioned, didn’t I? It rarely rings, but some of our older members like the comfort of it.

“Hello, thank you for calling St. Michael’s, this is Father Rosanov speaking, how may I be of service to you?” I say into the receiver, my voice cordial, I hope.

“Ilya, it’s Father Crowell.” Roger’s voice comes through clearly on the line and I’m confused because he has my cell phone number, but who am I to argue.

“Father Crowell, how can I help?” I ask.

“Ilya,” and again, him addressing me by my first name and me addressing him by his title, “I’m not going to be in this week. Father Johnson fell and broke his hip last night and will be getting surgery. I’m going to be covering his duties at St. Mary’s.” He takes a breath, like it pains him to say his next lines. “I’ll need you to cover services and duties this week,” he says. It’s not a request, but a command.

“Of course,” I readily agree. A week without Roger looking over my shoulder during every prayer sounds heavenly.

“Ilya, this is very important. Our congregation expects a certain level of care, and you need to make sure you meet their standards.” I don’t like his tone — admonishing, like I haven’t spent the past nine months focused on serving these parishioners. “You’ve been distracted as of late,” he declares, leaving it open, letting the words sink in.

“I’ll be focused, sir,” I say, laying it on thick, hoping he’ll move on with his day.

“I would hope so, Ilya. You’ll be taking your vows in two months, and I need to be able to speak on your character. It would be a shame to let months of work go to waste over something small,” he says, and his insinuation is clear.

“Of course, sir,” I say, my tone even as I hide all the things I’d like to say to him.

“Good. I’ll be back next Monday. Call me if there are any issues,” he says, and there is a click as the line goes dead.

I let out a deep breath as I hang up the phone. I try not to let Roger’s words affect me, try not to think about them, but they spend the day haunting me.

During my morning Liturgy of the Hours, I lose focus several times, thinking of freckles and sharp teeth.

Holding confessions, I find myself wishing Shane were the one behind the curtain.

Even polishing the communion chalices, I am thinking of glasses of red wine and droplets of blood.

I head out for lunch, picking up some extra to bring to one of our parishioners who is in the hospital, an older lady named Alice. She’s been going to the church her entire life but doesn’t fall into the “traditional is best” mold that Roger promotes. I have a huge soft spot for her, and from the smile on her face when I enter her room, it’s reciprocated.

We pass lunch by chatting about this and that. She tells me about her grandchildren — she has seven of them — and then recounts her favorite stories to me. It’s a pleasant afternoon and a nice break from the heaviness that sat with me in the church this morning. I pray with Alice and I’m getting ready to leave when she stops me in the doorway.

“You seem much happier than I’ve seen you, Father Rosanov,” she says with a smile. “It’s a good look on you,” she adds with a wink.

“Thank you, Alice,” I say with a smile and head back to the church, but the words stick with me even once I’m gone. Harmless flirting from a 92-year-old notwithstanding.

The afternoon drifts by in a mountain of paperwork and quiet solitude. It’s good for thinking, but my thoughts are so jumbled right now. My head is toiling with this — my mind thinking of Shane, my heart trying to be a good priest, all the while battling the guilt of being distracted and hating that I am. It’s an exhausting day. The only thing getting me through it is the thought that Shane is in the rectory waiting for me. It’s motivation, but again, it is distraction.

I would typically do my evening prayers in the rectory before bed, but I do them in the church before I leave for the night. I have a feeling I may be too busy tonight to do them later.

I stop dead when I open the door to the rectory that evening, all my conflicting emotions washing away immediately. Shane is inside, in my tiny kitchen, cooking. He’s listening to something on his phone with headphones in — my headphones, I notice — and leaning over the stove, stirring something in a pot. The whole room smells delicious, a tantalizing mix of herbs and garlic. For a moment, I simply stand in the doorway and watch him. I drink him in while he cooks, unaware of my staring.

I step in and close the door softly, but he is finally alerted to my presence with the click of the lock. He turns, a spoon in his hand, and I can’t keep the dopey smile off my face. He’s wearing my clothes, in my kitchen, cooking dinner for us. I think I might have to lock the door and keep him here forever.

“Your pantry situation is deeply concerning,” he says by way of greeting, like we do this every day. He turns back to his meal on the stove, giving it another stir.

“Well, next time you come over unannounced after days of absence I’ll be sure to go grocery shopping,” I joke, crossing the room in a few strides and coming up behind him. I press a gentle kiss to the side of his neck, sliding my arms around his waist. He’s stirring spaghetti on the stove, some kind of tomato sauce covering it, and there are honest-to-God meatballs cooking in a separate pan.

“You can cook,” I say dumbfoundedly, like it’s shocking that a man in his late twenties (I think — I actually have no idea how old he is. Oh God, what if he’s 100 years old?) can prepare a simple meal. “I wasn’t even sure if you ate,” I add, surely digging myself into a deeper hole.

He seems light and happy when he chuckles at that. “I still eat, still drink, still cook,” he says, raising the spoon at me accusingly, like I don’t know how to cook. I do. I just haven’t in a while. I was busy being sad that he ran away. “And before you ask, yes I can eat garlic,” he adds, gesturing to the pot.

I wasn’t planning on asking that, but I guess it’s good to know. I file it away in my “Shane Hollander Vampire Facts” folder and withdraw my arms from him. “Can I do anything to help?” I ask, feeling useless in the kitchen right now.

“I moved our clothes to the dryer. You could fold those,” he says, and I get a flash of what it would be like to be married to Shane Hollander. It’s just a second, but it makes my throat dry, makes me want to kiss him.

I do as he asked, folding the clothes from the dryer and placing his shirt, shorts, and briefs in a neat stack on top of my bed — which has been folded, pillows fluffed. I’m hoping to lure him back to my room with his clothes. It’s a little devious, but what can I say.

When I return to the living room Shane is placing two prepared bowls of spaghetti and meatballs on the counter. He turns to face me. “I’m just now realizing you don’t have a table to eat this at,” he says, glancing around the small room.

“No,” I say, flushing. “I haven’t ever had a meal with company here,” I admit. “I usually just eat in the armchair and use the side table.” It feels vulnerable to share this with him. Every part of me wants to tell him everything I’m thinking. That he is the first. The only one I want here, like this.

He gives a timid smile, grabbing the bowls off the counter and handing one to me. “Thank you,” I say, letting my hand linger on his for an extra moment. I sit on the couch and cradle my bowl in my lap. Shane sits next to me and does the same. It’s silly and informal, and so wonderful that I can barely handle it.

We eat our food in companionable silence and I’m shocked by how good it is. I can’t believe I had the supplies for this in my sparse pantry. I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow and buy everything Shane could want if he keeps cooking like this.

I clean up our dishes as he stays on the couch, and then I return to him, settling back into the cushions and throwing my arm around him. He settles into it easily, leaning into my body.

We sit like that for a while, the quiet stretching comfortably between us.

“As tempting as it is to move into the rectory permanently,” Shane says after a moment, “I should probably go back to the hotel tonight.”

I frown slightly. “Why?”

“Because,” he says patiently, “I currently have one shirt, zero toothbrushes, and no laptop.”

I immediately begin to problem solve and even circle back for a moment to my earlier idea of locking him up here.  Which is crazy, unless. No. I’m not locking the nice vampire up in my rectory. Bad Ilya. Instead I take a big swing “You could bring your stuff here” I say softly, just putting the suggestion out there.  What I wouldn’t give for some vampire-level persuasion right now. 

“Ilya” he starts, and I can tell immediately from his tone he’s going to voice all the reasons he shouldn’t. 

“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand “please don;t say you can’t” I say sounding almost breathless “because I’m going to counter everything you say” I warn.

He raises his eyebrows at this “everything” he says, questioning, daring.

“Yes, everything” I assure

“Okay, let’s start with schedules.  I usually wake up around 3pm and go to bed around 9am. I typically work from usually 10pm to 5am. That doesn’t exactly match your schedule Ilya” he says, crossing his arms. 

I have to admit.  It’s a strong start for him, but I am not to be deterred. “I’m a night owl, I can stay up late with you, and you’re welcome to work here when I’m sleeping” I say and then curiosity strikes me “What do you even do? I don’t think you mentioned it”

“Oh, it’s boring” he says waving me off “I’m in cybersecurity”

“You… fix computers?” I question. 

“Not exactly.” His mouth twitches. “Companies hire me to break into their systems.” I stare at him openmouthed.

“Legally,” he adds.”I’m not a criminal Ilya” he says with a mischevious smile that I want to taste. “But it pays well, has flexible hours, and lets me keep my visa “And don;t distract me” he admonishes “I’m telling you why I can’t stay here” he continues

“Wait” I have to stop him “your visa?”

“Yes” he answers, clearly thinking im trying to derail the conversation.  I am derailing it, but not on purpose. “I’m canadian”

“Canadian” I say with a loud laugh. “I can’t believ I didn’t know that”  I’m gleeful at the info.  I feel a new connection to him, both of us immigrants here. 

“Are you really having a bigger reaction to me being canadian than me being a vampire” he asks, shaking hi head at my glee. 

“Sorry, sorry, I was just surprised. I let out a last lingering laugh and cross my arms “continue” I allow.

“What about Roger?” he asks “I think he’s going to notice that you’re hiding a man away in your place” 

I sit up at this “Actually, Roger is out for the whole week, so until next Monday, he’ll be out of the picture” 

Shane’s posture changes just slightly, sinking a little deeper into the couch “Oh” is all he says, and I think I may have just won. So i go in for the kill “Stay for the week Shane, we can figure the rest out on Sunday, but I want to see you every night this week. Please” 

“Okay” he agrees.  Rosanov :1, Hollander: 0.  “I’ll stay for the week, or until you get siuck of me” he says. 

“Impossible” “I say with a smile. 

“But, I do need to go to the hotel and get my stuff, and check out I suppose” he says.  

“Do you want a ride” I ask him

“No, I’d like to walk.  It’s not too far and I like to get some fresh air at night after being cooped up all day.”

I can’t argue with that.  I let him stand and walk to the door with him. He goes to open it, but I hold out my hand stopping him. “Wait” I tell him and his brow furrows.  It smooths when I press my lips to his “come back to me Shane” I tell him sagainst his lips and he hums in response. 

I watch as he walks away, cutting through the woods that border the property with ease, every bit the creature of the night he claims to be.  I step back inside and the place feels cooler without him in it, lonely. 

My eyes drift to the rosary still sitting on the counter where I left it that morning, but I’m stirred from it when my phone begins ringing in my back pocket. I retrieve it, expecting it’s Roger with another request, but I’m surprised to see Brandon’s name across the screen.

Brandon is my mentor in all the ways Roger isn’t. He’s the priest I met in the bar all those years ago, the one who supported me through all my study and training. He’s the one I should have called the moment I met Shane and started having these feelings, but I’ve been avoiding it.

I pick up the phone hesitantly. “Hello?”

“Ilya!” he says warmly. “Hey, man. It’s been a while.”

My stomach drops immediately.

“Did Roger ask you to call me?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I intend. There’s a pause.

“No,” Brandon says slowly. “Should he have?” His voice is slow, curious.

I sink down onto the couch and rub a hand over my face. I have clearly revealed my cards too early with my suspicion over his call. “No,” I say after a moment. “He just… thinks I’ve been distracted lately.”

“Have you?” Brandon asks.

“Yes,” I admit immediately.

“Well,” he says lightly, “that’s usually a sign something interesting is happening.” He waits a beat before adding, “You sound different. You don’t usually sound this alive when I call.”

I hesitate. There’s so much I want to tell him. So much I want to confess, as it were. So many sins I’ve committed, and more that I’m planning to commit. But I decide to talk to Brandon as my friend tonight rather than my confessor.

“There’s… someone,” I say finally.

Brandon makes a quiet, satisfied sound. “Well that explains the distracted part.”

“It’s not like that,” I say quickly.

“Oh, it’s definitely like that,” Brandon replies. “You’re terrible at lying, Ilya.”

It’s not necessarily true. I can lie. I have lied. But not to Father Brandon Wiebe — he can always sniff it out.

“They’re just… complicated.” Understatement of the year, but I’m not quite ready to tell my friend that I’ve invited a handsome vampire to spend the week with me.

“Everyone is complicated,” Brandon says. “That’s not a reason to deny yourself.”

“It’s more than that,” I insist, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “I’m about to take my vows. Roger already thinks I’m not focused enough. If he knew I was—” I stop myself.

“Seeing someone?” Brandon supplies gently.

“Yes.”

There’s a small pause on the line.

“Ilya,” he says, patient in the way he always is with me. “You know those things aren’t mutually exclusive, right?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you can have a romantic life and still pursue God,” Brandon says simply. “You’re not entering a cloister. You’re not becoming a monk.”

“Roger seems to think I should be,” I mutter, not adding that I was contemplating celibacy a few weeks ago.

“Well Roger sounds exhausting,” Brandon replies dryly.

I smile despite myself. “I don’t even know what this is yet,” I admit quietly. “We barely know each other. But when he’s around…” I trail off.

Brandon catches it instantly. “He?” he says.

The word slips out before I can stop it. “Yes,” I say after a moment. “He.”

Brandon doesn’t miss a beat. “So you met a man who makes you happy,” he says calmly. “That doesn’t sound like a spiritual crisis to me.”

I laugh softly. “You didn’t hear the part where he’s complicated.”

“Ilya,” Brandon says, “I just hope you’re treating him — and yourself — with grace. You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know. If you care about him, you’ll treat him well, no matter how complicated it is between you.”

Before I can respond, there’s movement near the front door. I glance up.

Shane is standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, his bag slung over his shoulder. He hasn’t stepped inside yet. Just waiting.

Something warm spreads through my chest at the sight of him.

“I have to go,” I say to Brandon on the phone, my eyes meeting Shane’s across the room.

“Oh?” Brandon says.

“He’s here.” 

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Well,” Brandon says lightly, “for what it’s worth… you sound happier than I’ve heard you in a long time.”

I glance at Shane again. He’s still standing patiently at the threshold. “Goodnight, Brandon.”

“Goodnight, Ilya,” he says. “Go invite the poor man inside.”

I hang up the phone. Shane raises an eyebrow slightly from the doorway. “You going to let me in?” he asks.

“Do I need to?” I ask. I’m still getting the hang of all the vampire rules. His face flushes at this.

“Yes,” he says sheepishly. “It’s sort of required every time I enter a ‘private residence,’” he says with finger quotes. “I’m not exactly sure of the semantics, but I can’t step through your door if I tried.”

Interesting. I’m already having evil ideas of what I could do to taunt him through a doorway he can’t cross. But that will have to wait for another time, because I want him inside, now.

“Shane, please come inside,” I say in my most polite tone.

It does the trick. He takes a big step inside, dragging his suitcase behind him and planting it in my living room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

He turns, leaning against the door and meeting my eyes. “Father Rosanov, look at you inviting a monster into your home,” he smirks at that. “Some might say that’s very dangerous.”

I creep closer. “I like a little danger,” I say, hooking a finger into the belt loop of the jeans he’s wearing. His hair is damp, like he took a shower at the hotel. He smells incredible, and I want to taste him. “And I think,” I drag him closer by the loop, our chests brushing, mouths inches apart, “that you like a little danger too.”

He doesn’t respond with words, instead showing his affirmation with a bruising kiss that knocks me backward a little. Note to self: ask him if he has some kind of vampire super-strength or if he’s just naturally this powerful. He slips his tongue into my mouth and the thought is gone in an instant, everything replaced by the feel of his mouth on mine.

He pulls back with a smile and my eyes once again catch on the rosary sitting on the counter. I pick it up, wrapping the beads loosely around my fingers, watching him. “This is yours,” I say. It’s not a question. Doesn’t require a response, but he gives me one anyway.

“Yes,” he says.

I smile, holding it out to him. It’s a test. I know what he said about holy objects, the heat he feels from them, the pain. He knows I haven’t forgotten the conversation, I know he does. So it does something indescribable to me when he holds out his hand accepting the rosary. I expect him to take it in his hand and add it quickly to his pocket, but he doesn’t. Instead he twirls it through his fingers, the same way I did.

I know it has to be uncomfortable, if not painful, but his face betrays nothing. Instead his eyes meet mine in something of a challenge. Or at least, that’s how I’m interpreting it. But I have to be sure, need to actually confirm it before we go any further. Because if he’s asking for what I think he is, then we will need some rules.

He seems to think the same, as he dangles the rosary from his finger in front of me, like he’s hypnotizing me with it. “If you’re going to test me,” he says softly, “you should probably explain the rules first.” Then he brings the rosary over his neck, wearing it like a collar.

“Did you like what we did last night?” I ask, ignoring his question about the rules. We’ll get to that, but I need some info first.

He blinks at me. “Are you serious?” His face is flushed, and I didn’t know it was possible for a vampire to be blushing so hard. Aren’t they supposed to be ghostly pale?

“Yes.” I answer simply. I’m desperate to know, but I don’t want to let him know that. Not yet.

“I think me coming in my pants from just kissing and grinding was a pretty clear answer to that.”

My hand snaps out before I even think about it, landing a light smack against his ass. “No sass, Shane,” I say calmly. “I asked you a question. Answer it without the sarcasm, please.”

He exhales through his nose, though there’s a hint of a smile on his mouth. “Yes,” he says. “I enjoyed it… Father.”

“Careful,” I say, but my blood heats at the title. If I’m not going to hell for anything else, I’m surely in hot water for enjoying him calling me Father like this. His smile widens slightly and it sends a jolt of arousal down my body.

“What did you enjoy about it?” I press. He shifts his weight a little, considering the question more seriously now.

“Touching you,” he says slowly. “Having you touch me. Kissing you.” His voice lowers a fraction. “…letting you fuck my mouth.”

My pulse jumps at the bluntness of it, but I nod. I was hoping he’d say that. I suspected it from his reaction last night, but him being able to verbalize it means he’s accepted it, and that’s so much better than I could've hoped.

“So it wasn’t just the feeding,” I clarify, the one bit of the equation I remain unsure about.

“No,” he says immediately. “It contributed, but I would’ve enjoyed it even without the blood.”

“Good.” I step a little closer. “Because I’d like to do some similar things tonight. Things where I’m in control and you listen to directions.” I hold his gaze. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“No caveats?” I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. That he’ll have a list prepared of hard limits or if he trusts me so implicitly he can’t think to have one.

He hesitates just long enough for me to notice. “I think,” he says carefully, “I’d let you do anything you asked.”

I shake my head slightly. “Careful, Shane. You shouldn’t make promises like that.” Fuck, even if it thrills me to hear him say it.

He watches me closely now. Gives the tiniest lick of his lips that has my blood heating.

“But while we’re talking about it,” I continue, “if you ever want me to stop, I’d like you to have a safe word.”

“A safe word?” he repeats. “I can’t just say stop? That’s what made you stop when you were feeding.”

“Stop can be confusing in a scene,” I explain. “I don’t want to mistake ‘don’t stop’ for the wrong thing and pause when you don’t actually want me to.”

He nods slowly. “So instead… let’s use something clearer.” Brandon’s voice echoes faintly in my head. I hope you’re treating him — and yourself — with grace. I am sure that Brandon didn’t mean it this way, but I just can’t resist.

I look back at Shane.

“Grace,” I say. “Let’s use grace as your safe word.”

“Grace,” he repeats softly.

“Yes. Good.” I nod once. I like hearing him say it; everything sounds good on his tongue. “And just like last night, if your mouth is otherwise occupied, you can tap my thigh and I’ll stop immediately.” I try not to think about last night, his lips on me. I’m already hard, and the thoughts of his pretty mouth wrapped around my cock are not helping me focus on the conversation at hand.

“Okay.” I study him for another moment.

“Now,” he says after a beat, “what’s your safe word?” I blink.

“My what?”

“If we’re doing this properly,” he says mildly, “you should probably have one too.”

I consider that for a moment. He’s right, I did use stop to end his feeding the other night, but it goes against everything I just spelled out.

“...Mercy,” I say, finding a sick symmetry in mirroring his own word with mine.

He smiles slightly. “So, Ilya,” he says, my name rolling off his lips in a delectable way, “where do you want me.”

Fuck. He’s trying to kill me. Not literally, though I’m sure he could. But I can’t handle him saying things like that. “Bedroom,” I manage to say, my mind so hazy with lust as I watch him saunter into the bedroom like he owns it. I take a deep breath before I follow him.

Shane stands still beside the bed, not unsure or timid, just waiting for my directions, and the sight of his obedience has me feeling especially sinful.

“Take off your clothes,” I tell him. It’s a simple command, easy enough to follow, but a good baseline for me to determine if he’s going to follow without question. I’m, of course, otherwise motivated as well. I still haven’t seen him fully nude. I caught a slight glimpse of him last night when I washed him off after sex, but it’s not quite the same.

I watch him as he strips, my body still, his eyes meeting mine as he rids himself of his shirt, pants, socks, and eventually briefs. I expect him to stand there waiting for the next directions, but instead he gathers up his clothes and neatly folds them in a stack. Then he picks up his washed clothes that I put on the bed earlier—I forgot about my little bait—and adds both sets to the tops of my dresser. So neat. It’s so endearing that I’ll forgive him for not having permission to do so.

He raises his eyebrows at me. I’m not sure if he’s waiting for his next command or if he’s questioning me being fully dressed, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not the one calling the shots.

“Lie down on the bed on your back,” I command, making my plan of attack for him. There are so many things I want to do to him, but I’m determined to savor it. Not everything has to happen tonight. I have him all week, and hopefully more than that. Forever. My possessive side calls in my brain. But I ignore it.

I walk to the edge of the bed. Shane is completely naked in my bed, with the exception of the rosary he still wears. That and the matching collection of bruises and hickeys he has on his body from our encounter last night. It seems he didn’t escape unphased by it. And I really like the way he wears my marks. Oh, he really is trouble, isn’t he.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the necklace and moving to slip it off of him.

“Of course,” he answers—so obedient.

I trail my fingers over the beads, warm beneath my fingers from his body heat, but not hot in the way he’s told me they feel to him. I hold the cross between my thumb and pointer fingers, letting the rest of the beads dangle down beneath my hand. I drag the necklace lightly over his body and he gives a jerk at the contact. I can see his hands twitching at his sides, trying to stay still.

I lift the necklace and a sigh of relief courses out of him.

“Okay?” I ask, checking in on him.

“Yes,” he replies, and his voice comes out raspy and needy.

“Perfect,” I say. “You’re already doing such a good job.” I praise him and watch it land across his features—his eyes meeting mine, his lips falling open. “Raise your hands above your head and grip the post of the headboard.” I ask, and his compliance is immediate.

He wraps both hands around one of the thin wooden posts that line my headboard, his eyes never leaving mine. I still toy with the rosary in my hands, occasionally letting it drop the couple inches to make contact with his chest before wrenching it back up. Each time his body twitches. His whole body. But he keeps his hands wrapped around the post.

I take the rosary and wrap it around his wrists, holding them against the post, the cross hanging idly against his hands. As far as bondage goes it’s very ineffective. He could easily break free of it, and that’s not even touching on the potential of him having some kind of “extra vampire strength.” But that’s not the point.

“You could break free of this if you wanted,” I ask, and he nods, his fingers flexing on the post, but his wrists staying where they are. “But you’re not going to, are you, Shane?” I confirm, and he shakes his head no. I should leave it there. He’s answered me, but I just love pushing him. “Why not?” I ask.

“Because you’re telling me not to,” he says, his voice soft and aching. He really is so perfect.

This time I give him my praise in the form of a deep kiss, pressing my lips against his before pulling away. His head follows me, chasing more, but he stays tethered to the bed, unable to follow. I think I really like this version of Shane. All tied up and at my disposal.

I take my time stripping my clothing off. I do it slowly, giving him a show, enjoying it all the more with his inability to touch me. He stays silent, his eyes trailing over my body, taking in the various marks he gave me last night, eyes catching and holding on my erection for a long time. There’s such roiling heat in his gaze that I’m powerless to play coy any longer. I slide onto the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him.

There is a clash of our bodies against each other. Our cocks slide against each other in a way that ignites every part of me, our lips harsh against one another with need, and our chests rubbing in a delicious friction. I pull back for just a moment so I can watch his hands flex beneath the rosary, his knuckles white from gripping the post, but still anchored there.

“So good for me,” I praise against his lips before kissing him again. I linger in the kiss for longer than I planned, letting my hands roam in a luxurious way that he can’t have with his own. It’s a little cruel to taunt him by touch when he can’t do the same, but hey—I said I was a priest, not a saint.

Eventually I give his lips a break and sit back on my heels, looking down at him. His lips are stung and red from my exploration, his eyes dilated, and his chest heaving with breaths. Barely holding onto the control it’s taking to leave his hands where they are or holding back from biting me, I’m not sure. But either way he’s holding back, and that in itself is impressive.

I slide down his body, straddling his legs so I can bring my mouth to his cock, and he loses composure before I even make contact. His hands are still attached to the post, but his hips give a thrust, trying to push his erection closer to me, and he moans out, “Ilya, please.”

Now, the begging I like. The thrusting when I didn’t ask for it, I do not. So I take my forearm and band it against his pelvis, pinning him against the bed and directing, “Don’t move, Shane.” And then I add, “But, by all means keep begging. I do love to listen to you devolve into a wanton little slut for me.”

This results in a needy whimper that I’ll be replaying in my head until the day I die. I finally relent, bringing my mouth to his cock and taking him deep into my throat. I don’t tease him like he did to me last night. I set a vicious pace, using one hand to stroke him while my mouth works him over. My other arm still holds him down, and it’s not an easy task. He’s squirming against me, his mouth letting loose an almost unintelligible string of begging and moans.

Eventually I remove my arm from him, pulling back from his cock to formally ask him again, “Don’t. Move.” I hate asking him twice, but I’m taking his disobedience as a compliment. I like to think I’m pretty good with my mouth. I look up at him and his eyes meet mine, his expression strained. His knuckles still white on the post, and he gives a short nod in confirmation of staying still.

“Good,” I say, bringing my mouth back over his cock and spitting on it. I watch the spit slip down his shaft, sliding down further, and I catch it with my fingers, bringing the moisture between his cheeks. I use a single finger to run a circle around his hole, and his body gives a jerk.

I don’t warn him again, delivering a flick to his rigid cock and admonishing him, “Don’t move,” I say, returning to my torture of him. I bring my mouth back down on him, working him with my tongue while my finger plays with his hole. I can’t do too much with only spit as lube, but I can certainly tease to the point of oblivion.

Shane’s body is shaking and I’d be worried that it’s too much for him if not for the absolute cacophony of moans and whimpers leaving his mouth. I’d thought about gagging him at some point, but that idea is abandoned as I hear him begging for me. I’d sooner silence an orchestra.

“Are you going to come for me, Shane?” I ask, flicking my tongue over his tip and catching a bead of precum. Then I bring him back into my mouth.

“Fuck, I—” he stops for a second, his face contorted like he’s thinking very deeply. “I don’t. I don’t think I can. Without—” Another suck of him, another whimper. “Without—” he starts again, but is once again brought wordless by my mouth.

“Without what?” I question, my hand taking over for my mouth while I question him.

“Permission,” he says like it’s causing him pain. “To come inside,” he says with a groan, and amusement dances across my face.

“Permission to come inside my mouth,” I say with a laugh. Oh, that is too good. I fucking love vampire rules. “You actually need me to invite you to?” I ask. There’s no way.

“Yes,” he muffles out, the weight of holding back making him shake violently. “Please, I can’t without—”

I know I should invite him to. Tell him to come in my mouth, to let me swallow his release down. But I’m nothing if not cruel. So instead I say, “No,” pulling my mouth off him.

That stops him. “No?” he groans in confusion, raising his head off the bed as much as he can to stare down at me.

“No,” I confirm. “You can come, but not inside my mouth.” I say. I wait for his reaction, for protests, for begging. I don’t get it, because the moment I’ve given him permission to come, he is. My hand still works him over as hot jets of his release coat my fist. And I think this might be my new favorite sight. Shane Hollander, sweaty, restrained, and covered in cum in my bed. I want to take a picture of it. But I’m not even sure if he shows up on film. That’s a vampire thing, right?

He’s gasping as I slowly remove my hand from him, his eyes closed as he sucks in big breaths of air. I give him a moment to compose himself. He does so rather quickly, his eyes flicking up to his hands. “Are you going to untie me now?” he asks, his pupils still wide.

“Not yet,” I say. “Stay just like that,” I instruct. I slide my body back up to his until I’m straddling his hips again. Then I take the release that still coats my fist and bring it down to my own erection, stroking myself with his cum while he watches.

“Fuck,” he says, low and breathy at the sight.

I wish I could tell you I make it last, that I torment him this way for an age, but I don’t. In truth I come incredibly quickly, so turned on from his obedience and whimpering that I was on the edge before even touching myself. I bring myself close to orgasm quickly and then push myself forward, placing my cock between his lips seconds before I finish. He doesn’t need direction for this. He eagerly accepts my cock between his waiting lips and swallows me down as I come.

When I’m completely depleted I reach up and quickly undo his hands. They immediately thread into my hair and drag me down for a kiss that makes us both sigh in happy contentment. I roll off him, onto my back next to him on the bed, still clutching the rosary in my hand as we both catch our breath.

Once I’ve collected myself enough, I begin checking on him, running my hands over his wrists where the beads of the rosary have left red indentations in his skin. I kiss those softly, telling him how good he is, how well he did.

Shane is a delirious, sated mess on the bed as I take care of him. His head is relaxed on the pillow and he looks at me like he’s drugged. I wipe him off with a warm washcloth, like I did the night before, and then pull him against me in the bed for a while, playing with his hair and placing soft kisses to his forehead.

And I think for a fleeting second that I’d give anything in the world to stay just like this, trapped in this bliss with him, forever.

Chapter End Notes

AHH, we finally got here. I was fully inspired to write this fic from a TikTok that inquired, “Does a vampire have to ask permission to cum inside?” — I may be misquoting, but you get the idea. So naturally, instead of writing a quick, nasty one-shot, I had to write a long, emotionally driven AU that balances the question of love vs faith. But we still got nasty with it. And trust there’s more smut coming, but also more philosophical questions, angst, and Roger trashing. Stay tuned, and thank you for all the kudos and comments. Love you freaks.

Chapter 9: Forgive Me

Chapter Notes

I decided to shorten this story from 14 chapters to 10 because frankly, I lost my motivation for it. BUT, I regained it while writing this chapter, and I'm actually really loving the new outline. I hope you will like how it turns out in chapters 9 and 10. I'll have chapter 10 out by the end of the week.

The only sad thing is I had to cut out some big plans for nasty smut chapters—R.I.P.—so I tried to include an overview of those in this chapter; maybe someday I'll write them out in full.

Shane

For a week, I fall into the quiet bliss of life with Ilya.

Ilya wakes early. Earlier than anyone should, in my opinion. Sometimes I’m out, enjoying the last slivers of night, feeling the breeze on my skin before I head back inside and I miss him entirely. Sometimes we cross paths—him climbing out of bed and me climbing into it, ships passing in the night.

I wake late in the afternoons in Ilya’s bed, sunlight bleeding faintly around the edges of the curtains that have been closed since the night I arrived. The mattress still smells like him—incense, laundry soap, and the faintest trace of candle smoke that seems permanently woven into the walls of the rectory.

In the afternoon, while the sun finishes its descent below the trees, I spend time around the tiny rectory. Sometimes I stare out the window and watch for parishioners from between the blinds. They greet Ilya on the church steps with such joy, such ease. A feeling I’ll never get with him beyond these walls. It makes me burn with jealousy and then immediate guilt. I don’t own Ilya’s time, and he deserves the sunshine and the people who love him.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering what they would say if they knew what he comes home to at night.

There are times in the quiet afternoon where I have far too much time in my own head. When I question what I’m doing here, what I’m doing to him. I haven’t influenced him beyond any human capabilities, but I can’t help feeling like I have. Like I’ve diverted him off his path of righteousness, a temptation he should’ve never had to battle.

And sometimes—when the house is too quiet and the sunlight creeps through the curtains—I wonder how long something like this can possibly last.

Then he comes back and the thoughts are pushed away, banished by the glimmer of his smile and the feel of his hands.

Evenings belong to us. He comes home just after sunset most days, exhausted and smelling faintly of old wood and incense, his collar slightly crooked and his hair a mess from running his hands through it all afternoon. He drops his keys on the counter and leans against me like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days.

We eat together in the living room because he still doesn’t own a real table, and I don’t feel like it’s my place to buy one, even though I want to. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. I always cook.

He came through on his promise to buy groceries, at first filling his fridge and pantry with an assortment of basic items—fruit, vegetables, starches, and proteins. I cook a simple salmon and rice bowl and Ilya acts like I’m on Top Chef. But the next day he comes in with a generic white bag and hands it over like it’s a Valentine’s Day gift he isn’t sure he should’ve bought, a blush creeping across his face.

Inside it’s filled with mirin, hondashi, fresh udon noodles, red and white miso, and napa cabbage, and I realize he must have gone out of his way to visit an H-Mart.

No one has ever tried this hard to make me comfortable before. I’m not sure I deserve it.

He’s thoughtful and caring, so soft around me as we spend the evenings together. I cook, we sip cheap wine, and he touches me absentmindedly. He seems to lead with his hands, always grazing them over my lower back, shoulders, arms. Constantly touching without really trying, a tether that connects us, like he can’t quite get enough of his skin on mine.

They’re gentle touches around the house, soft in a way that I’m not accustomed to.

When dinner is cleaned up and the sun has long disappeared from the sky, his touch changes. The touches move from my lower back to my hips, from my shoulders to my neck. His grip firm and his eyes wild. I’d feel horrible about corrupting him if it didn’t feel so very good.

One night he brings two bottles with him to bed and blindfolds me. I can’t see when he alternates between the two liquids, only wait for the difference in feel. One is a slick oil that he uses to massage my muscles and slip his fingers inside me. It smells like pine and feels like heaven on his hands. The other feels like water but burns like his rosary. He trails it down my legs, across my sternum, flicks droplets of it over my erection. It’s a particular brand of torture, waiting to see what he’ll decide on.

Another night he restrains my hands behind my back and uses a knife to drag shallow cuts along different parts of his body. Then he has me lick the blood from them, hands free. There’s no battle for control, no war between desire and bloodlust like this. All the control in his hands, me just following his commands.

He doesn’t even truly fuck me until we’re close to the end of the week, having far too much fun torturing me in all kinds of other devious ways. When he finally drives inside me after a week of this torture, of wanting, of waiting, I’m so on edge it takes everything inside me not to come immediately.

When he has me in bed—and I say in bed mostly metaphorically; he has me everywhere in the rectory, no surface unchristened—he’s commanding, rough, leaving dots of bruises, marks of purple and black along all my most sensitive parts.

It’s hard to pick a favorite side of him though, because I love the intimacy with him. I adore when he ties me up and makes me his, when he bends my body into the shapes he likes and lets me lick him.

But there is grace in the way he takes care of me afterward. The gentle way he kisses my wrists when he removes the binds. The way he holds me against him in the hot shower, washing my hair for me. Even in the whispered affirmations he presses against my skin when we lie in bed afterward, his voice growing heavy with sleep until he drifts off.

It feels like it’s working, like we’ve created a place just for us in the space between our two lives.

In the evenings I work. I leave the rectory and walk in the moonlight, stretching my legs and enjoying the cool air on my skin. Sometimes I pick up one of the endless books on theology that line the bookshelf of the rectory and dive into it. It’s soothing to let my hands run over the pages he’s touched, to let my eyes follow the words he has read.

Before I know it the week has passed, and neither of us has brought up me going anywhere.

For a moment it almost convinces me we can keep doing this forever.

Forever lasts exactly one week.

I don’t see Roger over the next few days, steering clear of the church after he arrives and long after he leaves, but his presence has infected everything. The air is tainted with him and as much as I try to act like it hasn’t, as much as Ilya tries, everything feels different.

The quiet bliss we cultivated in the span of a week sizzles out, and things that felt sweet last week feel empty now. I stay out of sight, I keep the curtains drawn and move quietly through the rectory like a ghost. I’ve been doing it since last week, technically, but now it feels different. Before it felt playful, like a secret. Now it feels like hiding.

Ilya tries to keep everything the same, clutching at the threads trying to hold it together, but he doesn’t quite manage it. He comes home each night  heavier than he did last week, a weight in his shoulders he didn’t have five days ago.

One day I wake earlier than normal and peer through the blinds and catch a glimpse of Roger and Ilya standing in the breezeway between the church and the rectory. Roger’s hands move in sharp gestures while Ilya stands still in that frustratingly patient way he has.

Then Roger stops talking.

And Ilya drops his gaze.

And suddenly I understand exactly what I’ve done to him.

On Thursday Ilya oversleeps—not by much, but enough that he’s rushing through the rectory in a blur of buttoned shirts and half-finished coffee. Friday he comes home with paperwork he didn’t finish at the church.

Saturday he falls asleep on the couch with his head in my lap while I’m catching up on reading. I run my fingers through his hair while he sleeps, and I don’t feel peaceful. I feel guilty. He wakes later that night to his phone ringing and slips off into the bedroom to answer it in private.

I don’t mean to listen. But I do. What good is enhanced hearing if you don’t use it to listen in on the occasional phone call? Even with my hearing better than average I still only catch pieces.

“…I know.”
“…I’m trying.”
“…it’s not that simple.”

Then a pause. And quieter:

“I don’t want to lose either.”

On Sunday Ilya disappears earlier than normal, clearly determined to get back on track, to reconcile for the lack of focus he has had this week. When evening descends I cook dinner, the meal coming together perfectly on time for his arrival. Except it doesn’t come.

I wait for him to walk through the door, hair rumpled, and smile crooked. He doesn’t. It’s almost two hours later that the door finally cracks open and Ilya slips inside, dinner long cold on the stove.

He apologizes and I wave him off. He doesn’t owe me anything after all. He happily eats a cold dinner and is gracious with me for making it.

He’s affectionate after dinner, more than usual. Touching me, kissing me, pouring out frustration he won’t disclose into his fingers and tongue on me. We’re frantic with each other on the couch, him trying to push away everything he carries from work, me trying to swallow the feelings of shame that plague me.

After, we lie on the couch, me still draped over his lap when he says it.

“Roger thinks I should move after my vows,” he murmurs. “Take a small parish somewhere.”

I hum noncommittally while his fingers keep tracing circles against my skin.

“But,” he continues, voice quieter now, “I’ve been thinking… maybe I don’t have to.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “What do you mean?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I could stay here. Or find somewhere that works for us.”

Us. The word lands between us like a dropped glass—sharp and impossible to ignore.

He smiles a little, like the idea has been growing in his head all week. “I could make it work,” he says softly. “For you.”

Ilya realizes something is wrong before I say anything. Maybe my breath catches, maybe my body goes rigid. I’m not really sure, but something alerts him that his words haven’t landed how he wants.

“Let’s talk about it,” he says softly, like I’m a wild animal he’s trying not to spook, but it’s too late. Consider me spooked.

I slip from his lap and begin pacing the room, silent, the words stuck in my throat. I don’t even realize I’ve gathered a handful of my things until my arms are full of them. He watches quietly as I stare down at the objects like I’m not sure how they got there.

I walk into the bedroom and place the collection into my suitcase, haphazardly. It’s not like me to pack like this—so disorganized—but my brain isn’t working, my mind jumbled.

“Please talk to me,” Ilya says quietly from behind me. “Shane.” He tries again.

I don’t turn around yet. The zipper of my bag sounds impossibly loud in the small room.

“I think I should go.”

Silence stretches behind me, and when I finally turn I see the exact moment the words land on his face.

“No.” The refusal is immediate. “You don’t get to decide that by yourself.”

“I do, actually,” I say. I have to. I think I’ll break into pieces if I don’t.

“You don’t.” His voice cracks slightly on the word and I hate that more than anything.

I sigh and lean back against the wall. “Ilya.”

“No,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just decide this and walk away.” He brushes a hand over my cheek and I keep my eyes on the ground.

“I’m doing what’s best for you,” I assure him, because I’m not going to let him throw away everything for me. Not going to let him disgrace his mother’s memory in that way. I can’t. I won’t.

His expression hardens instantly. “You don’t get to decide that either.”

“Ilya—”

“No,” he repeats. “Stop saying my name like that and explain what the hell is going on.”

I take a breath and meet his eyes. “You’re about to take your vows.”

“Yes,” he says curtly.

“You’ve spent years working toward that.”

“Yes,” he says again.

“And now you’re talking about rearranging your entire life because of me.”

“That’s my choice to make,” he says softly, stepping even closer. Close enough that I can see the exhaustion behind his eyes. “I can still be devoted with you. Devoted to you.”

The words hit harder than I expect. “And what about God?” I ask.

He frowns. “What?”

“You can’t have me and God. It’s only been a week of trying to juggle your responsibilities here and a half life with me and you’re falling apart.”

“That’s my decision to make. I’ll figure out how to balance it better. How to do both. How to have both. I don’t see the problem.”

“That’s because you’re standing in the middle of it,” I say, shaking my head and stepping away from his tortured expression. I can’t bear to look at it.

“I can serve my church. I can take my vows. And I can love you,” he says, and my breath catches.

The word love catches me off guard. I almost turn, but I don’t. I can’t look in his eyes right now, can’t see what emotion is behind those words and I certainly can’t let him see mine.

“You’re willing to give up everything for me,” I ask, still facing away.

“Yes.” The answer comes instantly. Without hesitation. That’s what breaks me.

“I can’t let you do that,” I say resolutely, picking up my suitcase and carrying it to the living room, scanning to see if anything else needs to be gathered.

“You’re not letting me do anything,” he snaps. “I’m choosing,” he says, following at my heels.

“And that’s exactly the problem.” I spin on my heel to face him.

He stares at me like I’ve just insulted him. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” I grind out through my teeth.

“Then trust that I know what I want.” He sounds so desperate that I almost give in.

So I change tactics. I slip from emotional to something crueler. Something he won’t forgive. Something that will make him angry.

“I could compel you differently,” I say flatly.

The shock on his face is immediate. “You said you’d never do that.”

“I know.” I hold my resolve, keep my voice steady as everything inside me crumbles at his expression.

“Shane,” he says, voice pleading.

“I could make this easier for you.”

“You’re not compelling me,” he says resolutely, like it’s his choice.

“You wouldn’t even remember.”

“It would never work anyway,” he says, his expression turning stony, arms crossed in defiance.

“What?”

“You told me how compulsion works. The person has to want it somewhere in the back of their mind.” He steps closer again. “There isn’t a part of me that wants you to go.”

He reaches out, using two fingers to tilt my head up so our eyes meet.

“Not even a small part that thinks things would be easier if I never stepped through those doors?” I challenge, watching the blow land in the tightening of his jaw. “Not a part of you that misses the devotion you had before I… derailed it?”

A small twitch in his face betrays him.

“I think,” I say softly, “there will always be a part of you that wonders if things would be better if you never met me.” My voice falters. “Please forgive me.”

With that I turn away.

I grab my suitcase, put on my shoes, the rectory silent in a way I haven’t heard in the two weeks I’ve been here. Like the world is listening for what comes next.

When I look up again he’s standing in front of the door, blocking it.

“Please don’t leave,” he says. The words are barely louder than a whisper.

My chest aches. “Ilya.”

“Stay,” he says, and it comes out like a broken command. A plea. A wish.

“I need your permission to enter, but I don’t need it to leave,” I say, sidestepping him, bag in hand, and opening the door.

“Goodbye, Ilya.”

He doesn’t answer.

I don’t look back, because I don’t think I can. If I look back and see what I’m leaving behind, I’ll never recover.

I suspect I already won’t.

Chapter End Notes

Oh no, the girlies are fighting. I'm sorry for the whiplash of the smut from last chapter to the angst of this one, but rest assured, the next chapter will clean it all up.

Thank you so much for reading along. This is not my most popular fic, but it's the one I've worked the hardest on, and I'm excited to see it through to the end (I will NEVER leave a fic unfinished). As always, please whore yourself out in the comments — it really makes my day.

Chapter 10: Grace

Chapter Notes

Final chapter!

I really hope you liked this story. This wasn't how I originally outlined it (fuck a third-act breakup), but I actually ended up liking this version so much more than my original plan, and hopefully you loved it too.

Thank you so much for reading.

Shane

The world feels devoid of color, as if all the pigment has been blanched from the cities I visit and the towns I haunt. Hotel rooms blur together, roadways seem endless, and even food loses its splendor. I subsist on only the basics—bland sandwiches and water. Like, I don’t deserve good food. I sure feel like I don’t.

The blood is even worse. I still need it—obviously—but the taste is like soot in my mouth. Nothing compares to Ilya. I find donors in bars, clubs, and even the occasional store. They share themselves with me and then forget, barely a nudge from my compulsion needed. I only wish I could use it on myself. I want to forget. Desperately, I want to forget about a place with stone walls and warm hands. But at the same time, I cling to the memories. They keep me afloat.

For the first few months, I travel to different cities, staying in the north and relishing the limited daylight. Each evening, once the sun sets, I wander wherever I find myself—entering public places, libraries, parks, restaurants—seeking comfort in the sounds of laughter. Still, it does nothing to ease the emptiness inside me.

The first real feeling comes on an evening in Michigan. I’m not even sure what town I’m in anymore; every day is a new version of the same thing. After sunset, I walk down a frozen street, the chill blistering through my coat. Suddenly, I hear shouting, laughter, and the sharp sound of blades scraping ice. Curious, I follow these sounds until I find myself at an outdoor rink. A tangle of teens is on the ice, passing a puck around. I’m not sure if it’s a practice or just a pickup game, but everyone looks so happy, their breath fogging in the cold as they skate and call to one another. For a moment—just for the first time in months—I feel a sliver of warmth simply from watching them.

Moments like that are rare. Instead, I've spent almost eight months drifting from place to place, life dull and numb. But sometimes, fleeting emotional reminders break through—like the quiet joy at the hockey game or, more often, the surge of anger whenever I pass a church. That pain is raw and immediate: anger at myself, at God, at everything. The feelings are never far away, even as I wander.

I was really angry at God right after my accident. I felt like a lifetime of going to church on Sundays and saying my bedtime prayers should have earned me some sort of protection from Him, but it didn’t. I took a single bad hit, and it ruined so many of my plans. So even though I was angry, I prayed and prayed and prayed. I prayed to get better, to be able to play as I used to, to feel some kind of purpose again. And it didn’t happen. It felt like God had turned His back on me after so many years of my belief in Him, so eventually I turned my back on Him in response.

And then when I became a vampire, I knew that door was closed for good. No salvation. Cursed to a life damned.

And yet, I still found myself standing on the steps of His church all those months ago. Still seeking shelter from the rain in a place I believed had no place for me.

And somehow, despite everything, I found something there anyway, not in the pews, not in the scripture, but in the quiet patience of a priest who looked at me like I wasn’t something broken. Ilya had faith in a way I didn’t anymore—faith that God loved everyone, faith that forgiveness meant something, faith that a creature like me could still sit inside those walls and not bring the whole place crashing down.

For a while, I almost believed it too. That was the problem because I had already learned what happens when you believe too much. When you build your life around faith and then watch it crumble under a single bad moment, God turned His back on me once. I wasn’t going to let that happen to Ilya, too.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I turned my back on him first.

I told myself it was an act of mercy. If I left, he could keep everything he’d worked so hard to hold onto: his faith, his calling, his God. Yet ever since, that decision has been a festering wound—anger twisting inside me, burning against myself, against God, and for that foolish, reckless moment when I dared to believe I could have both.

The anger doesn’t fade with time. It just dulls, rounding off around the edges like an old bruise that never quite heals. Some nights, though, it burns brighter than others. Especially when I pass a church with lights still glowing inside. I sometimes slow down, stare through the windows at the warm yellow light and quiet rows of pews. Then I force my feet to keep moving.

I don’t go inside. I don’t think I could. Because the last time I did, I found something there I wasn’t supposed to have.

Ilya.

The memory of him infiltrates the strangest moments. The sharp bite of incense near a cathedral. The creak of wood in a silent hallway. The relentless whisper of rain against stone. I try not to linger there, but if I do, loneliness billows in, cold and clinging as morning fog.

So I keep moving—new cities, new streets, new shadows. None of them holds meaning. They’re just stages for emptiness to play out again and again.

I’m sitting in a dim diner somewhere in northern Ontario one night, pushing a fork through a plate of fries that taste like cardboard, when my phone vibrates against the table. The sound startles me enough that I almost knock the glass of water beside it over. For a second,d I just stare at the screen like it might disappear if I look away.

The name glowing on the screen makes something unfamiliar stir in my chest. Rose. I let it ring once more before picking up. I've dodged more of her calls than I’ve answered the last few months, but I’ve picked up enough for her to know the basics of my two weeks in New England.

“I was starting to think you’d finally thrown your phone into a lake,” her voice says the moment I answer.

I lean back in the booth and stare out the frosted window. The empty street lies beyond it—silent, waiting.

“Not yet,” I tell her.

“Well, that’s good news,” she says lightly. “Because I have a request.”

“There’s a pause just long enough that I know I’m not going to like whatever comes next.

“Can the next stop on your tour of self-loathing be Montreal, please?” she asks. “I miss you.”

“I’m not on a self-loathing tour, Rose,” I say, raking my hands through my hair and resting my elbows on the sticky table in front of me.

“Oh, please,” she says, exasperated. “I heard you’ve been voted into the top ten angstiest vampires list this year. My bet’s on you winning the title.” She can’t see me, but I roll my eyes anyway. “But I’m hoping that a little trip to see me might cheer you up a little.”

I mull it over for a moment, debating leaving behind my routine— or, as Rose calls it, my "self-loathing tour." Part of me wants to keep moving as I have, but a larger part knows she’s right. In truth, I can’t recall a time Rose was ever wrong. She is the only reason I've made it through the years since my transition.

Rose was the first vampire I ever met. Technically, I tried to feed on her.

It was only a few months after I’d turned, when I was still stumbling through everything—hungry all the time, angry at the world, convinced that whatever I’d become had stripped away whatever humanity I had left. I saw her leaving a late-night event in Toronto and followed her down a quiet street, certain I’d found an easy meal.

I barely made it two steps into the attempt before she laughed. Then she turned around, grabbed me by the collar, and told me if I was going to try to eat someone in an alley, I should at least learn how to do it properly.

She’s been stuck with me ever since.

Rose knows vampires all over North America—little social butterfly that she is—and somehow she’s managed to build a life that looks almost normal from the outside. Acting, traveling, premieres, parties. She moves through the world like the sun doesn’t terrify her, and damnation isn’t something that should make a person lose their mind.

There are times when I look at her and almost convince myself I could live like that, too. Something resembling a full, fairly normal life. She certainly does.

“I’m in Ontario already,” I say after a moment, staring down at the cold fries on my plate. “I could make the drive to you in a day,” I say, letting the words linger for a second, mulling over the idea in my head.

I let out a slow breath and lean back in the booth, staring up at the flickering fluorescent light above me. The diner is mostly empty this late at night, just a tired waitress wiping down the counter and an older man nursing a cup of coffee in the corner.

“I don’t know, Rose,” I admit quietly.

She’s silent for a moment, which immediately makes me suspicious. Rose is rarely silent unless she’s deciding how gently she wants to deliver the next blow.

“Shane,” she says finally, her voice softer now. “You’ve been wandering around North America for eight months pretending you’re some kind of tragic literary figure. I’m not asking you to solve your life tonight. I’m asking you to come stay with me for a week or two.” Then a slower breath, “I miss you, and I’m worried about you.”

I don’t stand a chance against that. I could fight back. Tell her not to worry. But I’ve never been able to tell Rose Landry what to do. So I agree. I have her send me the address of the apartment she’s staying in while she films in Montreal—some swanky place I’m sure she’s in the penthouse of. I pay for my terrible fries and start up my car. There’s no use in delaying my departure. There’s a whole night ahead of me to drive.

Rose is—like always—correct. After just a few days in Montreal, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in, well, eight months. There is a spark in Rose that is simply contagious. She lives her life with such abandon. She has a wide circle of friends and costars, and she seems to know a vampire in every city. I think every time I mention a different place I’ve visited, her response is, “Oh, you should’ve told me, I know a vampire there,” and it leads to an elaborate story of how they met.

We spend almost two weeks traversing the city at night, trying new bars, restaurants, and clubs. Rose loves dancing, and I love watching Rose be happy, so we make it work. But there is a part of me that misses a quiet night curled on a couch with the scent of incense lingering on the clothes of the man next to me. But that’s not an option. So I try my best to focus on enjoying my time with Rose and the beauty of her city.

She’s busy still, slipping off often for filming and sometimes gone entire days on set. She tells me she added some ridiculous clause into her contracts about not filming in direct sunlight because she has an “allergy to the sun,” so she’s able to do most of her scenes on sound stages or at night. When she’s gone, I enjoy the incredible apartment (penthouse, as I’d predicted) that production has put her up in. I work out in the gym that far surpasses the sparse hotel gyms I’m used to. I read books, and even watch some trashy reality television.

“Hey, remember when you found God last fall?” she says from the couch one evening while we wait for the sun to finish descending. Rose is sprawled out on her stomach, feet in the air, and eyes locked on her phone as she shuffles between different text threads with a speed I can barely track, her fingers flying over the screen.

I make a small “mmm” in acknowledgement, not quite trusting my words. I’m not sure where she’s going with this, and I’m not sure I want to find out. Rose is my best friend, my mentor, and she’s really brought me back to life (figuratively), but she can be quite meddlesome. There’s a reason I’ve only given her the barest details of the whole “Connecticut debacle.”

“Well,” she says casually, still staring down at her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. “Apparently,y you started some kind of movement last fall.”

I frown slightly. “What movement?”

“You know,” she says, waving a hand vaguely in my direction, “the whole vampires-going-to-church thing.”

I snort. “I did not start a movement.” Considering the only person I’ve told about my brief church attendance was Rose, I think it would be pretty hard for me to be the figurehead of a movement.  And, I really only was in the actual “church” twice, the rest of the time I was just playing house with a priest, not really very devout of me.

“Tell that to Svetlana,” Rose replies. Finally raising to meet my eyes with the smirk of someone who knows they’ve got your attention.  She moves so she’s sitting on her knees and fully facing me.

“Svetlana?” I question

“Yeah,” she says, brightening immediately. “You’d love her. She’s gorgeous and a little bit mean.” That could describe about half of Rose’s friends. “She lives in Boston now,” Rose continues, still half absorbed in her phone. “Anyway, she texted me yesterday because apparently there’s this church there that’s basically become vampire central.”

I hum noncommittally.

Rose smiles, clearly pleased she has an audience now. “Like, a ton of vampires are going. Midnight mass, evening services, everything after dark. Svetlana says the place is packed.”

“Good for them,” I say, not really paying attention.  It’s not really a concern of mine that a group of vampires in Massachusetts has become religious.  

Rose continues, undeterred by my lukewarm reaction. “The priest is one of her friends. Well, I don’t think he’s a vampire. But honestly, who knows? Half the vampires I know pretend to be human anyway.” I shrug. “Anyway,” she continues, warming up now that she’s fully in storytelling mode, “Svetlana used to be a nun.”

I blink. “What?”

“Maybe not a fun nun actually, but for sure something religious or something, I don’t remember exactly, but that’s why she came to the U.S.. We met at a premiere in Prague a few years ago and—”

“Rose,” I say, stopping her from, what I’m sure is, another long story about Prague.  I love listening to Rose, but I want to hear where she was going with this church story.

“What?” she says

“Focus,” I tell her kindly.

She sighs dramatically. “You’re no fun.” She rolls her eyes, but continues,  “Right, right.” She flicks her phone screen again. “So Svetlana says the priest there is… what did she call him…” She squints at the screen. “Something like ‘sexy, but devout.’”

“That sounds promising.” It is apparently my particular brand of danger.

“Anyway, he runs the whole church at night so people who can’t go during the day can still attend,” she continues. “Night workers, insomniacs, vampires—very inclusive situation.” I nod absently.“Anyway,” she says, scrolling again, “Svetlana keeps texting me about it because she thinks it’s hilarious that vampires are going to church now.”

“Hilarious,” I deadpan.

“She says the priest is very attractive too,” Rose adds thoughtfully. “Which probably helps attendance.”

I huff quietly. I’m sure it does. I know very well the draw of an attractive priest.

Rose squints again at the screen. “Oh!” she says. “And she mentioned he’s Russian. I do love a foreign man, so mysterious.”

My attention snaps back. “Russian?” I ask carefully.

“Yeah,” Rose says, completely unaware she’s just detonated a bomb in my chest. “Or maybe Ukrainian? Something like that. Svetlana just said they talk in Russian sometimes after mass.”

My fingers tighten slightly against the couch cushion. “That’s… interesting,” I say.

Rose scrolls again. “Oh, here it is,” she says brightly. “His name is—” She pauses for half a second. Then reads it off her phone. “Father Rozanov.”

The room goes very, very still.

For a moment, I’m convinced I imagined it. That my brain simply reached for the one name it’s been circling like a wound for the past eight months and shoved it into Rose’s story. But Rose is still staring down at her phone, scrolling through the messages like nothing in the world has just changed.

“What did you say?” I ask, my voice shaky.

Rose glances up. “Father Rozanov. That’s the priest’s name.” Her face drops when she sees my expression.

My heart starts beating so hard I can hear it. “That’s… that’s his name?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “Why?” Her confusion and curiosity mixed across her features. I stare at her for a second longer than is reasonable before a laugh escapes me. It isn’t a happy sound. Rose slowly lowers her phone. “Okay,” she says carefully, studying my face. “What’s happening right now?”

I drag a hand over my face and lean forward, elbows on my knees, suddenly unable to look at her. “That’s him.”

“Who’s him?” she says, lost.

“The priest,” I answer simply.

Rose blinks. “The Connecticut priest?” I nod.

“The one you…?” Another nod. No words needed to finish that sentence.  Rose sits up a little straighter on the couch, interest sharpening across her features. “Okay,” she says. “You’re going to need to start explaining things immediately.”

For a moment, I just sit there staring at the floor, trying to decide where to begin. Then the words come all at once. I tell her about the church, about the rain, and the first night I stepped inside just to get out of the storm. I tell her about confession, about the rosary, about the way Ilya looked at me like I wasn’t something monstrous. I tell her about the week in the rectory — the cooking, the quiet evenings, the way he would fall asleep with his arm wrapped around me like I might disappear if he let go.

Rose doesn’t interrupt once. And then I tell her how I left. By the time I finish, the room has gone quiet again. Rose stares at me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then she leans forward and smacks me on the head.

“Hey—!” I shout in protest, rubbing the back of my head.  She’s way stronger than she looks.

“What the hell, Shane?” she says, loudly—too loudly, in my opinion —but I think mentioning that will get me another smack, so I don't voice my concern over her volume level.

“You could have metaphorically slapped some sense into me. You didn’t actually have to hit me,” I say, still rubbing my head.

“No,” she says flatly. “You needed the real thing.” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised, “You’re a vampire, Shane, you can handle a light smack on the head,” she says, eyes rolling at me.

I continue to rub the back of my head and glare at her while she folds her arms and leans back into the couch cushions. “Let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “You met a man who cared about you. You fell in love with him. He told you repeatedly that he was making his own choices. And your solution was to disappear in the middle of the night like a Victorian ghost.”

“I didn’t disappear—”

“You absolutely disappeared.”

“I left because it was the right thing to do,” I insist. “He was about to take his vows. His entire life was built around that church.”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t going to be the reason he lost his faith.”

Rose stares at me as I’ve just said the stupidest sentence she’s ever heard. “Shane,” she says slowly, “Remember when we talked in the hotel all those months ago, and you were freaking out over spending a couple hours with the man, and I told you — and I remember this perfectly— ‘let him make his own choices’ because we were having this same conversation!” She glares at me with this.

“I was protecting him,” I say, scooting back from her on the couch in case she decides to opt for another hit.

“From what? Happiness?” I open my mouth, then close it again. Rose throws her hands up. “You martyr complex disaster of a man,” she mutters. “Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” I say quietly, and it’s the truth.  At the end of the day, that’s all I want.  To do the right thing.

“For who?” She questions, tilting her head

“For him!” Obviously for him.

“No,” she says sharply, leaning forward again. “You did what made you feel like the hero of the story. You decided what his faith meant. You decided what his future should be. You decided he couldn’t possibly choose you and God at the same time. And then you ran away so you wouldn’t have to find out if you were wrong.”

The words land harder than the slap. “I thought…” I start, then stop.

“What?” Rose presses.

“I thought if I stayed,” I say quietly, “he would give up everything for me.”

Rose tilts her head again slightly. “And you didn’t think maybe that was his decision to make?”

I don’t answer. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then Rose reaches over and taps her phone again, turning the screen so I can see Svetlana's messages. There are photos of the church — candles glowing, people packed into the pews, the place warm and alive in a way that the stone behemoth of St. Michael's never quite was.

“All night services,” Rose says softly. “A priest who welcomes everyone.” My throat tightens. “He didn’t lose his faith,” she continues. “He built something new.”

I stare at the photo for a long time before finally leaning back against the couch.  My head is pounding in a way that has nothing to do with her smack.  “I should have talked to him,” I say.

“Yes,” Rose replies immediately.

“I shouldn’t have run,” I admit.  The words are sinking into me like lead.  The admission is making me think of every moment of misery I’ve had since I walked out his door.

“No,” she agrees.

Another quiet moment passes between us before I exhale slowly and run a hand through my hair again. “I need to go to Boston.”

Rose grins immediately. “Well, that’s convenient,” she says, already reaching for her phone again. “Because I know a vampire there.”

I glare at her. “Rose.”

“What?”

“You’re insufferable,” I say, but I’m smiling, and even that feels foreign.

She shrugs, completely unapologetic. “But you’re going.”

And for the first time in eight months, the road ahead doesn’t feel quite so empty.

Ilya

My vow ceremony is scheduled for January 27th, almost exactly three months after Shane leaves. I’ve spent the past 9 years of my life leading to this moment, and I decide I won’t be taking my vows about three days after he’s gone. His scent hasn’t even faded from my pillows yet when I come to the realization. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall where the morning light usually creeps through the curtains- curtains I haven’t opened even though he’s gone, and I know with a certainty that feels both terrifying and freeing that I’m not ready to make the promises required of me.

It’s not because of Shane. At least, not entirely.

Shane's leaving hurt in ways I didn’t know a person could hurt. For weeks after he goes, I wake in the middle of the night, he night reaching for him before remembering that the space beside me is empty again. But the truth is, the doubt had already taken root before he walked out that door. Loving him only forced me to finally look at it.

I still believe in God. That part never wavers.

But the life I had been preparing for—the rigid structure of Roman Catholic priesthood, the vow of celibacy, the quiet understanding that my entire life would be shaped by obedience to an institution that rarely bends—suddenly feels like clothing tailored for someone else.

Father Brandon is the one who finally says it out loud. “You don’t have to lose God just because the Catholic Church isn’t the place you serve Him,” he tells me gently over the phone one evening. “There are other paths, Ilya. Ones that allow priests to live full lives.”

The idea feels radical at first. It takes weeks of prayer, long conversations with Brandon, and more than one sleepless night before I finally admit that he’s right. My faith was never the problem. Only the structure I tried to fit it inside.

Father Crowell — rather predictably — does not take my shifting faith very well.  There are arguments about months of his time “wasted” on shaping me. Not a “very good catholic” attitude from him in my opinion, but I don’t let it get to me.  I had already packed my bags before telling him, anticipating his response.  He doesn’t get more than a few insults out before I’m in my car heading to Boston to visit Father Weibe.

I stayed with Brandon for a few months.  We pray together, and he takes my confessions where I tell him everything, well, almost everything, still no mention of vampires, I was absolution, not a psych ward visit. Brandon is the mentor I need; he helps guide me to different options, including searching through different churches in the area and meeting their leadership.

By spring, I find myself standing in a small Episcopal church in Boston, speaking with a bishop who listens patiently as I explain my background, my training, my desire to serve. They accepted my transfer more easily than I expected. Apparently, priests crossing denominational lines is less unusual than it feels when you’re the one doing it.

And so I begin again.

When I first arrive at St. Andrew’s, it isn’t struggling, exactly. The bishop and the small congregation who still attend have cared for the place well over the years. The floors are polished, the candles lit, the hymns sung with gentle devotion every Sunday morning. But the sanctuary was built to hold far more people than the handful who fill it now. Twenty parishioners on a good day. Thirty if someone brings a friend.

Bishop Caldwell doesn’t seem particularly worried about it. “Churches grow and shrink like tides,” he tells me one afternoon as we walk the property together. “The important thing is that the doors stay open.”

The people who come are kind. An older couple who have sat in the same pew for forty years. A quiet young man who plays the organ with a kind of shy dedication. A retired teacher who insists on arranging the flowers near the altar every Saturday morning. They welcome me easily, happy simply to have someone younger to help carry the parish's weight.

But it doesn’t take long for me to notice who isn’t there. Most people who live in the neighborhood work during the day. Nurses, restaurant workers, delivery drivers, bartenders. People whose lives don’t fit neatly into a Sunday morning schedule. So the first thing I changed was the time.  We add an evening service. Then another. Eventually, a late one, well after the sun has gone down. I keep the Sunday service the same for the loyal parishioners, but move the rest of the week's services to the evening.

I tell myself it’s not for Shane, but I’m not sure if I believe myself.

At first, only a few new people appear. A nurse who comes straight from the hospital is still wearing her scrubs. A bartender who slips quietly into the back pew after closing his bar for the night. A man who admits, with some embarrassment, that he hasn’t slept through a full night in twenty years and finds the quiet of the sanctuary comforting.

And then there’s Joy. Joy owns a small bakery two blocks away, and the first time she appears, she arrives carrying three large boxes filled with cinnamon and sugar. “End-of-day leftovers,” she explains cheerfully, setting them down on the small table in the parish hall. “If I don’t give them away, I’ll eat them all myself.”

From that point on, St. Andrew’s begins to smell permanently of baked goods. Blueberry muffins one week. Banana bread next. Once, an entire tray of lemon scones disappeared in under five minutes. People start lingering after services. Talking. Laughing. Drinking coffee in the small parish hall while Joy insists everyone take something home with them.

Word spreads the way it always does — quietly, person by person.

Someone brings a friend. Someone mentions the church to a coworker who works night shifts. Someone tells a neighbor that the priest doesn’t mind if you show up late, leave early, or sit in the back and say nothing. And slowly, almost without me noticing, the empty pews begin to fill. One night, a familiar face is sitting in the front row when I begin my sermon, Svetlana.

I recognize her almost immediately. She sits with the same casual attitude I remember from all our years together. When the service ends, she approaches me with a large, knowing smile.

“I wondered if you would end up somewhere like this,” she says.

It takes a moment for me to realize what she means, but when it settles, I find myself smiling back. We spoke only briefly that night, but after that, she became a regular presence. Sometimes she arrives alone, sometimes with friends who sit quietly beside her in the back pews. People who keep their coats on even inside. People who arrive after sunset and slip away again before dawn.

I have my suspicions. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever they are, they seem comfortable here. Relaxed in a way that tells me they’ve spent a long time believing they weren’t welcome in places like this. And that, more than anything, feels like confirmation that I’m doing something right.

I think of Shane, of course, I constantly think of him.  I notice him in small ways too, not actually him —unfortunately— but the idea of him, my favorite details in the quiet smile of a parishioner lingering after service to thank me for the sermon. In the scent of fresh bread drifting through the parish hall, Joy arrives with her nightly offering of muffins and scones. In the H Mart down the street from my small apartment, where I sometimes stop after evening prayers, wandering the aisles longer than necessary and remembering the way Shane’s eyes lit up when I brought him those ingredients during our week of bliss.

There’s no rectory here. Just a modest apartment a few blocks away from the church, close enough that I can walk back after the midnight service when the streets are quiet, and the city feels like it belongs only to those of us still awake.

Sometimes, during those walks home, I wonder where he is. Suppose he’s found somewhere that feels warm. Somewhere that feels safe. If he’s sitting in some small corner of the world where the doors are open, the lights are soft, and no one is asking him to prove he deserves to be there. I hope he has. I hope he found a place like this.

Not all the moments here are warm. One evening, a woman waits until everyone else has left before approaching me. She stands near the front of the sanctuary, twisting her hands together, eyes fixed on the floor like she’s afraid the words will shatter if she says them too loudly.

“My husband,” she says finally, her voice small, “he… sometimes he gets angry.” I recognize the sentence immediately. It's built carefully to hide the truth within it.

We sit together in the small office behind the sanctuary for almost an hour. She speaks in fragments at first, halting pieces of a story she’s clearly never told out loud before. By the time she finishes, her hands are shaking.

I don’t tell her to pray harder. I don’t tell her to forgive him. Instead, I give her the number of a shelter two neighborhoods away and tell her she deserves to be safe. When she finally leaves the church, the night air has turned cold, the streetlights glowing in soft circles along the sidewalk. I lock the doors behind her and stand alone in the quiet sanctuary for a long time.

For the first time in my life, I helped someone the way I always wished someone had helped my mother. The realization hits me all at once, so sudden it knocks the breath out of me. I make it home before it breaks me.

My apartment is dark and silent when I step inside. I lean back against the door, pressing my hands over my face as the emotion finally spills over. It isn’t just relief or grief or pride — it’s all of it tangled together, years of memory and anger and quiet hope finally finding somewhere to land.

And the first person I think about telling is Shane. I want to tell him everything. How brave she was to speak. How proud I felt as I walked her to the door. How, for the first time, it felt like maybe all the years of study and doubt and searching had actually led somewhere good.

The thought comes so automatically that it takes me a moment to remember he isn’t here. The apartment is still quiet. My voice has nowhere to go. I sit there for a long time wishing, with an ache that hasn’t softened even after all these months, that I could tell him about it.

By late June, the church is full most nights.

Not bursting at the seams, not some grand cathedral spectacle, but comfortably full in a way that still surprises me when I step out of my office before the evening service. Every pew holds someone now. Some familiar faces, some new ones. The quiet murmur of conversation drifts through the sanctuary as people settle in, the scent of coffee and Joy’s blueberry muffins lingering faintly in the air.

Tonight it’s raining outside, the quiet patter of the drops on the roof comforting.  The stained glass windows glow softly in the streetlights from outside, colors washing across the wooden walls in gentle blues and golds, raindrops creating cascading shows that I watch race each other. It feels warm in here despite the rain, lived in. Home.

I glance down at the notes in my hand one last time as the organist finishes the prelude. I spent most of the afternoon working on this sermon, scratching out lines and rewriting them.  I keep most of my prepared sermons fairly short, speaking from the heart and spending the rest of the time speaking with different people one-on-one afterward.  It’s less formal, and seems to make people more comfortable than me speaking for an hour straight.

The clock on the wall behind the sanctuary reads 11:59.

I step forward to begin, and then the front doors open. The sound is quiet — just the soft creak of old hinges — but it cuts cleanly through the room. A few heads turn instinctively toward the entrance, mine included.

For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. The figure standing in the doorway is half-shadowed by the storm outside, rain blowing in behind him in thin silver lines under the streetlights. Water darkens the shoulders of his coat, his hair damp against his forehead.

But I would know that silhouette anywhere. My breath stops halfway in my chest. Shane.

The entire church seems to fall away around the edges of my vision. The murmured conversations, the rustle of programs, even the faint hum of the organ behind me all dissolve into something distant and muffled.

He hasn’t stepped inside yet. He’s just standing there, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe like he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross the threshold. I know he can; no one has had trouble with it, and I wonder for a terrifying moment if he isn't crossing it because he doesn’t want to. But then he steps inside and sits in the very back pew, his eyes meeting mine for a moment.

My eyes flick instinctively toward the front pew. Svetlana is already looking at me. She gives the smallest smile. Not smug, not triumphant — just knowing. Like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than I have, I’ve told her bits and pieces about my time with Shane, but she looks like she knows a lot more than what I’ve mentioned.  Very curious.

I swallow, forcing my lungs to remember how to breathe. There are a hundred thoughts racing through my mind all at once. Questions. Fear. Hope so sharp it almost hurts.

But the church is still full. Every seat occupied, every pair of eyes slowly turning back toward the front as they realize the service has begun. And I am still standing at the pulpit.

“I had a sermon prepared tonight,” I say to the room, my voice steadier than I feel. “But I think I’d like to talk about forgiveness instead.” A few people in the pews glance up, and the room settles into quiet.

My hands rest against the wood of the lectern. “In the Gospel of Matthew, Peter asks Jesus how many times we should forgive someone who wrongs us. He offers a number he thinks is generous — seven times.” A faint smile touches my mouth. “But Christ answers him: seventy-seven times.” A few people nod softly. “The point wasn’t the number,” I continue. “The point was that forgiveness isn’t meant to run out.” My gaze lifts again without meaning to.

He hasn’t moved. Still sitting at the back. Still listening.

“And when Christ was dying on the cross,” I say quietly, “after everything that had been done to him… he still said, ‘Father, forgive them.’” The church grows very still. “So if that kind of mercy exists,” I say, my voice softer now, “then surely there is mercy enough for us too.”

I pause, searching the room. “People come through these doors carrying all kinds of burdens. Some believe they’ve made mistakes that can never be undone.” My fingers tighten slightly on the lectern. “Some believe they’ve become something beyond redemption.” The storm rattles faintly against the windows again. “Some believe they’ve been abandoned by God.” I let the silence linger. “But grace was never meant to be earned,” I say gently. “Grace is the thing that meets us when we fail.”

I finish my sermon with some prayers, lead a few more hymns that I like, and take comfort in the smiling faces sitting in the pews, but it’s impossible to draw my eyes away from his for more than a few moments.  I’m being drawn back into Shane’s orbit like gravity, and I have no desire to resist it, no matter how much it hurt last time.  

After I finish the sermon, I make the rounds, greeting familiar faces and promising joy that I will indeed bring a cinnamon roll home with me — not that she needs to bed, I’ve been eyeing them since the moment she stepped inside.  I try not to look to the back of the church, too afraid that I conjured him up in my imagination and he’s not really here. Too afraid that he was here and now he’s gone- again. People begin to filter out, and I hear little laughs and shrieks as they run through the rain to their cars.  Svetlana comes up to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek and a very mysterious “good luck” before she heads out the door as well.

And finally, when the last of the people make their way to the doors, I finally let my eyes drift to the back of the church.  I brace myself for emptiness, just a folding table of picked-over baked goods and a few flickering candles. But it’s not what I find.  He’s there, still sitting in the same pew, eyes on me, waiting patiently.

I walk over with courage that I don’t feel and slide into the pew next to him.  Not touching, even Roger would approve of the distance between us, but even being in his proximity feels dangerous and explicit.

The church feels different when it’s empty like this. Softer. The stained glass throws muted colors across the wooden walls, blues and golds pooling across the floor.

Shane stares straight ahead at the altar.

“I think I owe you a confession,” he says after a moment.

A faint smile pulls at my mouth. “You’re in the right place, no confession booth here, but I’m always happy to listen,” I say softly.

He exhales slowly, rubbing his hands together. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says. “Leaving.” His voice is steady, but there’s something tight underneath it. His eyes still face forward, and I drink him in unabashedly, memorizing every detail in case I lose him again.  “I thought if I stayed… you’d give up everything you worked for. Your vows. Your faith. Your life.”

I shift slightly on the bench without really thinking about it, closing some of the space between us.

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” I say gently.

“I know that now,” he says and finally turns his head slightly so our eyes can meet, the shift closing another inch of space between us- not that I notice.  We sit in silence for a moment, the rain filling the space between words. “I should have talked to you,” he continues. “I should have stayed and let you decide.”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “You should have.”

He nods once, accepting the answer without argument. “I thought God had already taken enough from me,” he says after a moment. “When I lost hockey. When I turned, I didn’t think I could survive losing you, too.” My throat tightens. “But the only time I ever felt anything close to faith again,” he says, his voice softer now, “was when I was with you.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I move a little closer on the pew until our shoulders nearly touch. “I couldn’t have taken those vows,” I admit finally. “Even if you had stayed.” Shane turns to look at me for the first time. “I decided not to take them right after you left, but I think I’d been considering it for a lot longer than that”.

A faint, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

“So you see,” I say softly, “you didn’t destroy my faith.” I glance around the small sanctuary — the wooden beams, the warm light, the quiet evidence of the life that fills this place now. “If anything, you helped me understand it better.”

Shane follows my gaze around the room, taking it in slowly. “This place…” he says. “It’s different.”

“Yes,” I agree. Our hands rest on the same stretch of polished wood between us now. Neither of us moves them away. “I built it so people who thought they didn’t belong anywhere would have somewhere to sit,” I say quietly.

Shane swallows, his eyes flicking toward the door and then back to me. “And am I one of those people?” he asks.

I smile softly. “You always were.”

For a moment, we simply look at one another, the distance between us gone entirely now. Then he leans forward and presses a soft, careful kiss to my lips — gentle and reverent, like he’s still half convinced the walls might collapse around us. When he pulls back, I rest my forehead briefly against his.

When the kiss breaks, Shane doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches for my hand and threads our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When the kiss breaks, Shane doesn’t step away.

Instead, he reaches for my hand and threads our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, neither of us says anything after the kiss. The church is quiet now, the last of the candles flickering softly along the altar, rain whispering against the stained glass.

Shane glances around the sanctuary, taking it in slowly — the warm wood, the scattered hymnals, the lingering scent of coffee and Joy’s muffins. Then he looks back at me.

“Can I stay?” he asks softly.

The question lands somewhere deep in my chest, simple and earnest in a way that makes my throat tighten. I smile and reach for his hand. “Yes,” I tell him gently. “You may.” Shane exhales, the tension finally leaving his shoulders, and threads his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He settles beside me in the pew, our shoulders brushing together in the quiet sanctuary, his hand still wrapped in mine. The church is nearly silent now. The last of the candles flickers softly along the altar, their light dancing across the stained glass while rain taps steadily against the windows. Another dark and stormy night.

We sit there together watching the candlelight shift and waver, neither of us in any hurry to move. And we stay like that, side by side in the quiet warmth of the church, until the first hint of dawn begins to creep through the stained glass.

Then we stand, still hand in hand, and head home. Together.

Chapter End Notes

That’s all for now, folks.

Sorry, there wasn’t nearly as much smut as I originally planned — the story really got away from me and turned into something a lot deeper than I expected when I first got the idea to write vampire/priest smut. Maybe I’ll throw out a few one-shots later just to get that out of my system.

But seriously, thank you for following along, and for all the kudos and comments (I have a praise kink, sue me). Love you. Uh.

Now I just have to decide if the next AU is mafia, cowboy, or more college. Let me know if you have requests.