Page 234 of The Devil's Thorn
Eve wasn’t the villain they wanted her to be. She didn’t ruin paradise. Shechoseto see the truth, no matter how it hurt. And Adam followed—not because he was tricked, but because she was worth it.
And Lucifer?
He wasn’t just a snake. He was once the brightest among angels. The most beautiful. The mostloyal.
Until he disobeyed. Until herefusedto kneel. Until he fell. And they called that evil. But maybe… Maybe rebellion didn’t always look like wickedness.
Maybe it looked like devotion twisted out of shape. Maybe it looked like a man who watched a world built on silence and control—and decided to burn it down with his own hands.
Maybe it looked like Rafael.
He wasn’t an angel. But he wasn’t a devil either.
He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t promise salvation. He offered truth. Dark. Ruthless. All-consuming. But real.
And now that I’d tasted it… I didn’t want Eden. I wanted the fall.
I stepped back from the Bible slowly, the words still echoing in my mind.
I wasn’t afraid of sin. I was afraid of what cameafter—when there was no going back. When you stood there, stripped bare, and realized the only thing between you and ruin was the man holding the match.
My fingers touched the bracelet on my wrist. My mother would’ve hated this. Or maybe she’d understand. Maybe she had a moment just like this—surrounded by marble and gold, on the edge of something that couldn’t be undone.
I moved slowly through the cathedral, each step soft, deliberate, like the very stone beneath my feet was listening.
The air inside felt different the deeper I went. Not colder—just heavier. Like the weight of centuries was pressing down from the ceiling, holding its breath.
Light filtered through the stained glass in scattered colors, painting the marble floor with blues and crimsons and gold. Candles flickered in the far corners. The occasional creak of the old wood or the distant flutter of wings in the rafters was the only sound.
It was quiet. But never silent. Like God was still here. Or maybe something else.
I walked past a row of statues nestled into the wall—stone saints and angels, hands raised in benediction, robes carved in eternal motion. Most were untouched. But one caught my eye.
It stood slightly off-center, tucked beneath a broken arch, draped in shadows. The statue of a saint—barefoot, hands crossed at his chest, expression sorrowful. And around his shoulders, a long silk sash. Cream-white, edged in gold thread, resting with impossible elegance across the cold stone.
It didn’t belong. Not out here. That was a priest’s stole—meant for the altar. For absolution. For grace. And yet… here it was. Forgotten. Or maybe waiting.
I stepped closer without realizing. The soft brush of my jacket sleeve whispered against the stone as I reached up, fingers grazing the
fabric gently. It was smooth. Cool. Soft like water. But itfeltlike fire. Holy. Sacred. Wrong.
I curled my fingers into the edge of the fabric, but didn’t take it. Just held it for a breath, then let it fall back into place.
I couldn’t say why it stirred something in me. Maybe it was the idea of what it had been used for—forgiveness. Or maybe it was what it could be twisted into.
I moved on, pulse steady now but deep. Throbbing low in my throat. And then I saw them up close. The confessionals.
Three of them, side by side. Carved oak, their wood darkened by age. Arched doors with delicate lattice windows. Curtains half drawn. Velvet cushions inside for kneeling, resting. Empty. Waiting.
I didn’t go inside. I just moved toward them slowly, then sat at the stone steps leading up to the nearest one, my back against the wall, arms draped over my bent knees.
And I stared.
They looked like cages. Sanctuaries. Graves.
How many secrets had been whispered through that screen? How many prayers offered with trembling lips and hands that would never be clean again?
I wondered what would happen if I walked inside now and spoke the truth. Not to God. To theonly man who ever made me want to sin.
