Many days had passed since the conversation with Father Leo. And yet, his words haunted me more than any punishment or sermon ever could. I awoke this morning to the pale light filtering through the stained-glass windows, the cathedral quiet except for the faint echo of my own footsteps as I walked the halls. I had tried to convince myself last night that I would not think of him, that I would focus on my prayers and my duties. But even in the serenity of my small cell, his presence lingered, pressing against the walls of my mind. A doubt flickered:
"What if the things he said were true? What if he can help me gain my freedom..."
I tied my habit with trembling fingers, my hands betraying my resolve. Focus, Aria. Do not let yourself falter. I came here to live my own life, to escape the shadows of the family who abandoned me and a world where no one could be trusted. Yet, the memory of his calm, dark blue eyes—the way his voice wrapped around me like a velvet rope—refused to leave.
The morning bells tolled softly, calling the nuns to prayer. I hurried to the chapel, hoping that ritual would steady me, yet even the familiar chants felt hollow. I was not alone in my struggle. Sister Agnes, a kind-hearted woman with a sharp gaze that seemed to pierce through falsehood, noticed the unrest in my eyes as soon as I arrived.
"Aria, my child," she whispered, her voice gentle yet firm as we prepared for morning prayers, "you walk with shadows clinging to your shoulders. Pray, yes, but do not let your heart wander into temptation. Some tests are silent, but no less perilous."
I bowed my head, gripping my rosary tightly. "I… I will be careful, Sister," I murmured, though even I could feel the lie in my voice.
She placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. "Oh dear, be wary of those who smile too easily, whose words linger in your heart longer than their presence should allow." Her eyes softened, but the warning was unmistakable. I nodded, swallowing the sudden lump of guilt and fear in my throat.
After prayers, as the other nuns dispersed to their duties, I found myself wandering the garden quietly, hoping the morning air would clear my mind. Yet, of course, fate had other plans. I rounded a corner, carrying a basket of linens, and found him there.
Leo.
He stood by the fountain, the water catching the light and casting faint reflections across his sharp features. Even in the muted morning, he seemed to command the space around him—calm yet predatory in the most impossible way. That smile—the one that made my knees weak and my heart race—curled across his lips.
"Good morning, little dove," he said softly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to make me shiver.
I stiffened, holding the basket a little too tightly. "Father… Good morning," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral, to ignore the rapid fluttering of my pulse. Why is he calling me names now?
He stepped closer, careful not to brush me, yet close enough that I could feel the faint heat of him. "I trust your prayers were… enlightening this morning?" he asked, tilting his head in that infuriatingly gentle way, as if reading my very thoughts.
"They were…" I faltered, then swallowed hard. "I… I focused."
He let out a soft hum, the sound vibrating against my ears in the most distracting way. "Good. But a little bird cannot always hold its attention, can it?" He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Sometimes the heart wanders to places it shouldn't."
I blinked, attempting to hide the rush of heat that spread through me. "I… I do not understand, Father."
He chuckled, a low, teasing sound. "Ah, but I think you do, little dove." His eyes glimmered with amusement, but there was something darker beneath—something that both terrified and drew me in. "Curiosity is a dangerous thing, yet so beautiful when… guided properly."
My hands trembled as I arranged the basket, fumbling the linens, and he watched, not offering help but letting the small clumsiness mark me as human, fragile, aware. "Father… please," I whispered, though I did not know if I was asking for restraint or permission.
He tilted his head again, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. "Why do you plead, little dove? Do you think I would harm you? Or… do you already know that a bird such as you would be foolish to resist?"
Heat rose to my cheeks, my chest tightening. His words were like silk over steel—soft but sharp, tempting yet dangerous. "I… I am not… foolish," I said quickly, though my voice faltered.
His gaze softened for the briefest moment, and he reached out, lightly brushing a strand of hair from my face, just grazing my cheek. My breath caught, and I closed my eyes instinctively, shivering under the warmth of his fingers. "Perhaps not… yet," he murmured, stepping back just enough to allow me to regain a small semblance of composure.
I clutched the basket to my chest, aware of how quickly my body betrayed me, aware of how deeply his presence unsettled my mind. "I… I must continue my duties," I said, forcing myself to move, though each step felt heavier than it should.
"Of course, little dove," he said, his voice a whisper now, almost lost in the morning breeze. "But remember… every step you take, even away from me, leads you closer to where you are meant to be."
I turned, pretending not to hear, but the warmth of his words lingered, curling around my heart, making it both lighter and heavier at once.
Later, as I passed the small chapel, Father Gabriel approached quietly, his brow furrowed. "Aria," he said, lowering his voice, "do not let your thoughts wander too far during prayers. I… I have noticed your distraction."
I felt my stomach twist. "I… I am only… trying to focus, Father Gabriel," I said, forcing my hands together in prayer, hoping my rising panic did not betray me.
He studied me for a long moment. "It is unusual to see such… vulnerability in you. Be cautious. Not all who walk with you in light are entirely light themselves."
I nodded quickly, hiding the rapid beating of my heart. Light… darkness… it feels all mixed together. I whispered a silent prayer for strength, though I feared the answer might come in the form of him again—Leo, always watching, always present in my thoughts.
By midday, I had managed to finish the smaller tasks quietly, tidying the hallways and preparing the chapel for the next service. Yet, as the shadows grew longer, I found myself near the confessional. I had no intention of speaking to him there—prayers and duties alone would protect me—but of course, he was already there, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting.
"Little dove," he said softly as I approached, his eyes glinting with mischief. "You look… distracted."
"I am… only tending to my duties," I said, my voice tight, though my fingers curled nervously around the edges of the confessional screen.
"Ah…" he breathed, tilting his head. "Duties are important, yes… but sometimes the heart has other… responsibilities." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of him, the brush of his sleeve against mine as he adjusted a candle.
I froze, acutely aware of how small and delicate I must seem under his gaze. "Father… please," I whispered, not sure whether I meant it as warning or plea.
He leaned slightly toward me, his voice dropping, smooth as silk. "Do not be afraid, little dove. I only wish to guide you… to help you understand the feelings you are only beginning to recognize."
My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard. "I… I am not sure I understand," I admitted, my voice barely audible.
He smiled, a small, knowing curl of lips that made my knees weak. "You do, more than you realize. Every glance, every heartbeat, every flutter of doubt… it tells me what your mind and body cannot yet speak aloud." He reached out, gently steadying my hand against the edge of the confessional, and I felt a shiver travel up my spine.
"I… I must…" I began, but the words faltered as he spoke again.
"Do not fight yourself, little dove. Curiosity is not sin… yet resisting it… resisting me…" His voice lowered to a whisper that seemed to wrap around my ears, "that may be impossible."
I closed my eyes, the warmth of his hand lingering, the smooth timbre of his voice wrapping around my heart. I felt my resolve weakening, my denial faltering. My words died in my throat. I wanted to ask if I could trust him. Yet, I could not speak it, could not admit it, not even to myself.
When he finally stepped back, the spell of his presence did not leave me. I left the confessional slowly, heart racing, cheeks burning, hands trembling as I clutched my habit. I felt the weight of something I could not name pressing against me—fear, desire, anticipation—all woven together into a sensation I could neither escape nor deny.
Alone in my cell, I sank to the small wooden chair, breathing shakily. I am not… I am not…
To be continued.....