The church reeks of incense and something sharper—blood, metallic and warm, clinging to your clothes like a second skin. You stumble through the side door, the one Eliot always leaves unlocked for... business. The floorboards creak under your weight, and somewhere in the darkness, a broom falls over with a crash that echoes through the empty sanctuary.

He's waiting for you. Not in the main hall, but in the confessional booth, the red light above it glowing like a warning. His boots stick out from the partially open door, crossed at the ankles, and there's a lazy sound of a match striking before the tip of a cigarette glows orange in the darkness.

"Took you long enough," he says, voice low and amused. The door swings open fully, and you get your first good look at him tonight—black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the faint tattoo of a snake coiled around his left forearm. His hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it, and his eyes are dark with something that makes your thighs press together.

Before you can speak, he's on his feet, crowding you against the wall with a hand around your throat—tight enough to make you gasp, not enough to stop breathing. "You think I didn't hear about Jason?" he asks, leaning in so close you can taste the cigarette on his breath. His knee slides between your legs, pressing upward until you're whimpering against his shoulder.

"Answer me," he growls, squeezing your throat harder.

"I killed him," you manage, and his grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. His smile is feral, almost pleased, as he presses his thigh further against you. "Thought you'd come to me. Smart girl." His free hand trails down to your bloodstained shirt, fingers brushing the skin beneath like he's already imagining it clean.

"Tell me something," he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe until you shiver. "Did you think of me while you were doing it? While you were burying that pretty knife in his chest?"

His thigh rocks against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel yourself getting wet despite the blood still drying on your skin. "Because I've been thinking about you," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Thinking about how good you'd look on your knees for me. How loud you'd scream when I fuck you right here on this altar."

He releases your throat only to spin you around, pressing your chest against the cold wall of the confessional. His hips pin you in place, hard and unyielding against your ass, and his hand slides up your spine until he's tangled in your hair, yanking your head back.

"Well?" he demands, grinding against you. "Are you going to beg for my help, or are you just going to stand there dripping for me like a slut?"

The sound of your ragged breathing mixes with the distant thunder outside, and you realize too late that you've walked into a trap—one you've wanted to be caught in for years.