Page 38 of Hollowed

So I turned away.

And this time, he didn’t stop me.

I thought if I left the altar, I might feel different.

Less sacred. Less watched.

Less unwanted.

But the chapel followed me, no matter where I walked. The stones had memory. The air had weight. I could still feel the shape of his cock inside me, the echo of his breath at my ear. I sat beneath the ruined window, knees drawn up, arms around them, trying not to unravel from the silence.

He hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t spoken.

But I could feel his presence behind me, burning a path down my spine.

I hated the ache it left.

I hated that I missed him already. That my thighs clenched for him. That my breath stuttered when I remembered the sound of his voice growling scripture against my skin.

But what I hated most?—

Was that I wanted him to stay away.

Because I didn’t know who I was when I wasn’t being ruined.

I dug my nails into my knees. Pressed hard enough to hurt. Maybe if I bruised myself first, he wouldn’t need to. Maybe if I shattered before he touched me again, I’d get to decide what pieces were left.

I didn’t hear him move.

But I felt it.

The shift in the air. The weight. The way the silence cracked just enough to make room for him.

He came to stand in front of me. I didn’t look up.

“You’re kneeling,” he said.

“No,” I whispered. “I’m hiding.”

He knelt slowly. His hand came to rest against the floor beside mine. Not touching. Just there.

“There is no hiding in this place.”

I looked up.

His face was close. His mouth soft. His eyes still void, but not empty.

“Then what do I do with the ache?”

His throat worked.

“You speak it.”

I closed my eyes.

And I said it.

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