Page 49 of Beneath His Robes

He ran to God, and I ran to the devil.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at me, his eyes trying to process the man I used to be and the man I had become. I could see it—the regret, the confusion, the unspoken question of ‘why.’

I didn’t need to explain myself. Not to him. Not to anyone. I had made my choices. It wasn’t like I was forcing anyone to look or touch. It wasn’t like I was asking for his pity. I didn’t need his sympathy.

But fuck, when he looked at me like that, like I was something dirty, something broken, I wanted to collapse.

I wanted to run.

Instead, he was silent. He was watching me with those haunted eyes like he was seeing through me—seeing me for what I really was instead of the mask everyone here saw.

“You don’t have to do this,” Elias finally said.

His voice was so quiet, so full of…of something I couldn’t name. Maybe pity. Maybe sympathy. Either way, I didn’t need his judgment.

I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped my mouth.

“I know,” I said. “I choose to. While you listen to people’s sins in a little booth, I make people scream for mine.” The words came out too harsh, too raw, but I didn’t care anymore. “This is my life, Elias. You don’t get to come here and judge me for it. I don’t need your fucking pity for who I am. You don’t know me. You never did.”

His face fell for a second, but I couldn’t focus on it. I couldn’t afford to look. If I let myself care, if I let myself see how badly I wanted him to understand, I might crack. And I couldn’t afford any more tears in the fabric of my soul. Not now.

“Then show me.”

I blinked, not realizing If I had heard him right. “What?”

Elias’s jaw flexed, and he looked around at the people in the club before settling his gaze back on mine. His blue eyes were determined.

“I said, show me. Show me who you are, Ronan Saint Clare.”

* * *

I led Elias into a private room in the back, the rooms we used for high rollers and big clientele. When the door was closed and the sounds of the booming music faded into the background, I just stood there.

What the fuck are we doing?

What was I doing?

There was a rolling cart with a bucket of ice and champagne. Clearly, some celebratory client was meant for this room, but I didn’t give a fuck.

Elias looked around the area and walked forward to the lone seat in the middle of the room. There was a pole that was slightly elevated directly in front of me, and the bottom fixture was lit up in different colors.

“How does it work, Ronan?” Elias said, his voice tight but still filled with that determination of earlier. I cleared my throat, unsure why I was even playing with the idea of doing this to a fucking priest.

“Do you want me to call you daddy, too?” I mocked, turning away and staring at the full-length mirror. There was no escaping Elias here. His reflection bounced off every damn corner of the area.

“Does my Cassock bother you all of a sudden?” he said, his tone just as biting as mine.

I rolled my eyes, but my jaw fell open when he pulled his robes over his head and neatly folded them beside his chair. I hesitated, watching his movements. He was undoing the tight white vest underneath and then his shirt under that. Little by little, Elias was…stripping.

I swallowed a knot in my throat and couldn’t help but stare at his beautiful body. God, it had been so long since I saw all the smooth contours of his chest and abs. I wanted to kiss his Adonis belt, bite his fucking hips and push down his pants to rip off that fucking cage from his beautiful cock.

“Is this better?” he said, his voice still cocky but now with a shaky edge to them.

I swallowed again and returned his icy, mocking glare.

My body was so used to the movements. As soon as I stood on the stage and the pole was in my grip, I let my body sway.

The lights dimmed, and music began to play in the background, the beat enunciating every thrust of my body and the tense squeeze of his chair. His knuckles were white, his bottom lip chewed to hell, busted and bleeding, yet he didn’t speak.

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