althea.

It had been instilled in you that waste was a sin, especially when it came to sacred nourishment that brought pleasure and energy—yet, at the same time, you were taught that too much pleasure in eating would lead to the sin of gluttony, something unacceptable for someone meant to live on sanctified fasts and renunciations of carnal desires. The Elder Sister collected the basket of bread rolls she had baked earlier, eyeing you with that bitter, long-faced stare, signaling that supper was over. You nodded, a rehearsed gesture of humility, rising swiftly to ask for the sisters’ blessing before leaving, making your way to your quarters with measured steps, hands clasped in false simplicity, eyes fixed on the stone floor. Even in vocal silence, your restless mind never stopped racing…

And to think your choice had been entirely different before crossing the drawbridge of that cold stone fortress… Oh, how you spent your long, lonely nights contemplating your melancholy, gray present, glancing back at a past splashed with blues and purples—a life both happy and unhappy—and trying, through the stained-glass mosaic of a saint in your window (vibrant blues, reds, yellows, and greens), to glimpse your future. When sunlight hit and cast those colors over you, still lying in bed, you imagined your future would be bright, full of life, warmth, comfort, and vitality.

But when the silver-blue moonlight, like the veil you sometimes wore over your navy-blue uniform, cast those same colors in darker, muted shades, you feared your future would be cold, inhuman, unnatural. Somehow. And even though you prayed every single day, hands pressed tightly together, your beloved rosary swinging between your body—so large you wore it like a belt, its heavy silver crucifix studded with flecks of ruby-red and sky-blue topaz dangling between your legs, its translucent ruby beads threaded between silver links—your fingers moving habitually from one crystal sphere to the next, you felt empty. A polished gemstone, beautiful yet misplaced, forced into a role that didn’t honor your worth—and so your prayers grew hollow, filled with nonsense for a God who probably wasn’t even listening.

If He had ever heard you, He clearly hadn’t liked what you asked for and instead turned you into His sad little joke.

A nun.

You—so full of beauty, talent, and love to give and receive. The only thing you truly enjoyed about being a Bride’s Christ was the doors it opened to knowledge: you learned to read and write, to cook with the finest ingredients, to sew, even to play the piano and violin—and, as a bonus, you met other girls who secretly shared your melancholy, trapped there by circumstance. But what else could you do? Defy those in authority? Speak against those who ruled over you? Those were the distant days of your past when your voice went unheard—and even now, in your mid-twenties, you still hesitated. The Mother Superior made sure to keep your sharp tongue locked behind your teeth, while the Elder Sister watched your every move with bulging eyes. Even with your feet on the ground, your head was always in the clouds, as if you could fly beyond the monastery’s walls—a mausoleum disguised as a sanctuary. And apparently, that was a sure path to damnation. It would attract evil spirits and ill omens, they whispered to you daily.

And so you lived a life of renunciation, modesty, and… well, a few small sins.

After all, if God was omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent—if He truly was watching your tedious little life in this godforsaken place where even Judas might have kicked off his boots under one of the massive trees where you sat and secretly ate stolen communion wafers, one after another—then He clearly wasn’t all that interested in your mediocrity. Especially not when you lied about aches and pains to skip obligations and stay in bed. And speaking of bed…

Your sacred sanctuary, where you were meant to focus on blessed rest, became the cradle of your vivid imagination on hot and cold nights alike. Your hands took on a life of their own, becoming someone else’s—someone you’d read about in forbidden library books—lips brushing your nipples, fingers threading through your hair, something thick and throbbing pressing between your legs. It was the moment when the entire world erupted from within you, a fleeting constellation, sweating out all those tiny sins and making you feel, for once, like you truly belonged in this world.

And on that night, the eve of Good Friday, curled in the silence of a nearly empty convent—just you and your small universe—watching moonlight pierce the stained glass, your hands too restless to resist, you gave in to temptation once more. Heat crawled up your spine as your dominant hand slipped beneath your cotton nightgown, seeking the center of all your pleasure—and all of Eve’s inherent sin—stroking over warm, soft skin, parting your folds to tease that magic pearl. You loved the comparison that women hid a luminous pearl between their thighs, one that, if touched just right, could blind anyone with its radiance.

No one had ever taught you how to pleasure yourself, but thank Heaven your curiosity and hunger were greater, and so you had learned.

And there you were—eyes shut tight, fingers frantic, breath ragged—chasing that carnal ecstasy. Your imagination flowed so easily into forbidden fantasies that suddenly, it wasn’t just you anymore. A man was there with you—handsome, charming, with a sweet gaze and a smile like no other. His rough hands moved over your body, his touch like a serpent coiling inside you, flooding you with pleasure, pleasure, nothing but overwhelming pleasure.

And so, you and God kept this secret between you.

The next day, all you had to do was pretend—for the sake of your audience—that your purity remained unshaken.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Remmick knocked on the wooden door, once, twice, three times, until he was finally greeted by a grumpy man who looked him up and down:

"What do you want?"

"Friend, I just wanted to come in a bit and take shelter from this hellish cold and warm up... I'll pay!" His voice was polished, his gaze the most pleading among all the poor wretches, his appearance even more decadent: dressed and walking like a poor laborer, with frayed pants, worn suspenders, a thick, grimy linen shirt, dirty boots—all spoils from his last hunt. He wanted to look like a man of the countryside, someone who belonged to those regions, so he dressed and acted the part. The surly man eyed him up and down, doubting his words. It was late at night, a light drizzle wetting the man outside, who shoved a hand into his pants pocket, pulling out a small bag of coins that jingled heavily.

The man gave him another strange look—it wasn’t common for strangers to show up out of nowhere, knocking on the doors of a tavern and asking to enter. Normally, people just walked in like any other normal person would. But this stranger, with his angular face, dark topaz eyes, thin lips in a smile with prominent canine teeth, looking like a demonic elf with the face of a stray dog, made him doubt the madness of humanity.

Remmick cleared his throat:

"So, can I or can I not—" he made a gesture with his hand, pointing inside the bar: "—come in?" He raised his eyebrows. The other huffed, shrugged, leaving the door open, muttering:

"Come in, then. Just don’t cause any trouble, or I’ll kick you in the balls all the way to the next gutter."

"Yes, sir!" Remmick entered triumphantly, feeling the hot breath of beer and foul stench mixed with the stuffiness of a place where men fell at the feet of women sitting on their laps, eager to earn a coin or two for their services, hot blood pulsing between their sweaty, tired flesh—a mix of possibilities that enchanted him. He looked around, sensing certain distrustful glances at his slender figure—he was a man of average height, neither too tall nor too short, but fortunately, he had preserved the defined physique of his past human life. This was his new persona. A mere wandering peasant, harmless at first glance. He smiled tightly, lowered his head, and walked to the counter, where he gestured to the bartender:

"And you, sir? What’ll it be?"

"Red wine."

"Pay now. We don’t like freeloaders here," the man said, filling a battered cast-iron mug with lukewarm wine. Despite his diet being predominantly blood, Remmick had, over time, come to tolerate certain other liquids—red wine being one of them. He drank it both to reminisce about his long-lost humanity and to play a social role that could deceive others. He pulled three copper coins from the pockets of his borrowed pants, handing them to the bartender, receiving in return the nearly full mug of wine. His mouth watered, the bittersweet alcoholic scent filling his nostrils; he wished it were blood. He looked at the server in front of him, imagining what flavor he might have, when a conversation beside him caught his attention:

"...but it’s just that Father Gael has these crazy systems of his, says it’s safer to travel at night, and now that we’re just one night away from reaching the Benedictine Sisters' monastery, he insists on hurrying this step. Said that as soon as the moon is above our heads, we’ll mount the carriage and head to our destination."

"What a pain in the ass, that priest! He should’ve stayed in his own church..."

"I think so too—" Remmick turned his head discreetly to get a better look at the men chatting behind him, in a corner farther from the rest of the bar: one was tall and thin, wearing a large black cloak, with sunken eyes like someone who hadn’t slept in nights, drinking beer, while the other in front of him was dressed like a local craftsman; "—but without this job, I can’t support my family. And Father Gael is eager to arrive just on Good Friday, to settle these pending matters with the Sisters' monasteries..."

"What’s been going on, my friend?" The other man, who had been listening to the first, asked, fueling Remmick’s sudden interest, who, in turn, also wanted to know more, sipping his wine; the other shrugged, took a generous swig of beer, wiped his thin lips with the back of his right hand, while his left rummaged through his pockets for something, the rustling of fabric and jingling coins audible to the vampire’s sharp hearing:

"From what I’ve heard these past days of travel, the diocese is making some kind of deal with the imperial government to turn some of the more remote monasteries into boarding schools for troubled youth, the divergent types, and they need the approval of the evaluating Fathers and Mothers. That’s why I’ve been on the road for months with Father Gael, going up and down these remote areas in these far-off places... We left this monastery for last because it was a place of great emotional memory for the priest."

Remmick smiled, slowly turning back to face forward, his eyes gleaming with the thoughts swirling in his fertile, purely wicked mind. A special meeting with the Sisters on Easter? It sounded like an opportunity to surrender to his past.

He whistled to call the bartender:

"Hey, where’s the Benedictine Sisters' monastery?"

The bartender eyed him suspiciously, wiping a mug with a damp cloth:

"And why the interest? You looking to take vows?" he mocked, laughing. Remmick kept his expression neutral, holding back from letting his teeth accidentally protrude at that ugly face of his:

"Not that it’s any of your business, but—" he glanced again at the thin man, judging by the conversation, the carriage driver, who stood up and tossed some coins on the table: "—let’s say I have business with the Sisters."

"Hmm, whatever kind of business you have with them, even if I gave you the exact address, you’d hardly get in..." the man replied, taking Remmick’s empty mug and refilling it, provoking a confused expression from the vampire, who furrowed his brows and pursed his lips. The bartender grinned, explaining:

"This one’s on the house, for your courage to want to enter one of the most well-protected places against any man not wearing a cassock or carrying a letter addressed directly to the Mother from the Pope!" He handed him the mug, a smirk framing his face.

But Remmick had already thought of exactly that. He accepted the mug with a smug smile:

"That’s not a problem for me."

And it wouldn’t be. When the Devil wishes to enter somewhere, even if it’s the dwelling of God, he finds a way. And Remmick could already visualize the monastery’s doors wide open to him, as well as the baptism of blood and the prayers that would profane that place.

And that was already making him thirsty with anticipation.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You woke up to knocks—no, more like violent banging—on your door. Rubbing your eyes, drowsy, you waited for the noise to stop so you could return to your sacred slumber, but instead of fading, the pounding grew louder, more irritating, piercing your head with sharp noises. You took a deep breath, opened your eyes to the warm, colored lights above you—outside, the sun’s rays announced the new day. Good Friday. Your heart warmed, for this was the best time of the year—when you and your sisters came together to prepare delicious feasts, held storytelling circles (even if biblical, you still cherished them immensely), and played in the hallways, free from the fixed duties of cloistered nuns in the middle of nowhere. You loved feeling minimally alive, and they almost always had visitors: men of God. Parish priests from distant lands, some handsome, most old and repulsive, who celebrated the Word and Easter Sunday with you.

You huffed, your thoughts interrupted by the Mother Superior’s grave voice:

"Wake up, girl! Wake up, for the priest will arrive soon, and we want everything in perfect condition to receive him!"

Silence. You were somewhat sulking under the covers, staring at the wooden door in front of you. The woman behind the door waited for your response, but when she got none, she scolded:

"Say something, girl, don’t be so rude!"

"I’m awake," you retorted, then added: "I’m already putting on my clothes, I’ll join you and the Elder Sister soon..."

"You won’t. I’ve told you. It’s madam. We’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen. Hurry, time waits for no one."

You rolled your eyes, silently repeating the words: 'you won’t, madam,' with some anger, staying exactly as you were: lying in bed. Suddenly, when you realized you were alone—the Mother Superior’s heavy footsteps always betrayed her presence, now fading down the hallway outside your room—you felt a sadness afflicting your flesh. You didn’t like feeling physical or emotional pain; either was a symptom of near-death to you. Pain caused anguish, a deep state of prostration and lack of spirit. You only liked the easy pleasures of the flesh, putting your mouth on something juicy and delicious, feeling those very carnal pleasures, and being in the heavens of dreams—and when the other sisters were one by one reassigned to other churches, convents, hospitals, or wherever else, leaving only you, the poor wretch among them all, the Elder Sister, and the Mother Superior, lately your days and nights had been an eternal balance between staying on that ledge of hopes, tiny pleasures, and silent laments.

And unfortunately, this would be the worst Easter for you.

With resentment, you woke up fully, got out of the warm bed, stepping onto the icy stone floor, clumsily removing your nightgown, grabbing your uniform: the loose black tunic. Your belt was your rosary, wrapped around your waist, tied tightly around your body, the end where the crucifix dangled swinging back and forth as you moved around the room, searching for your shoes. You found them under your bed, slipped on the leather shoes, and ignored the veil—at least you always avoided wearing them when no stranger who might covet you was around. You left the room, leaving behind the sorrow that weighed on your soul and the sins of the flesh committed under the moonlight.

All you had to do was close that door, and all your secrets would stay hidden in the intimacy of your room.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The arrival of this priest won’t be happy this time..." you began your lament while peeling garlic, feeling your fingers grow sticky with its viscosity, something you particularly disliked—much less the smell that clung to your fingers.

You received a condemning look from the Mother, but even so, you continued: "They always come when something truly happy and special is happening. But this time, it’ll just be to decree our end."

"Watch your tongue!" the Elder Sister cut you off sharply, stopping her potato-peeling for a moment: "You know better than anyone that this change is a necessary evil for all of us. Regardless of the occasion Father Gael arrives, we’ll welcome him with open arms and hearts."

"Yes, and you’ll have to keep that sharp tongue of yours inside that little mouth of yours—" the Mother commented, a malicious little smile playing on her dry lips as she seasoned a freshly slaughtered piece of lamb with red wine and fine herbs from the garden: "—or we’ll have to cut it out of your mouth."

You made a face, feeling frustration course through your body, rolling your eyes as the older women laughed behind your back.

It was always like this: they scolded you, made malicious comments, made you feel terrible about yourself, and then forced you to do something. Peeling garlic became a difficult, almost hateful task at that moment. In your heart, holding back tears of resentment that had built up in those last days, you hated that man who would come to bring bad news to your home.

To you. Into you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"This priest is taking too long... Did something happen to him? Worse yet, a storm is coming..."

"On Good Friday, no less!" the Mother replied to the Elder Sister, making the sign of the cross, while you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you, feeling distant from everything, one hand supporting your face, the other playing with the flame; your fingers went back and forth, making the light waver with your movements. You were so engrossed that you jumped when you heard the loud, sonorous, and shrill ringing of the bell from the back, announcing someone at the gates. In a flash, the Elder Sister stood up, a smile stretching from ear to ear on her long face with big eyes, clasping her hands in front of her chest, stunned with sudden joy:

"He’s here! Father Gael has finally arrived!"

"Great things—" you murmured, making a disinterested gesture, turning back to the candle when the Mother said:

"You go welcome the Father. The Elder Sister and I will set the table."

"Me!?" you pointed at yourself, indignant, frowning. Behind the Mother, through the long, oval window where the sky was as dark blue as the sea, the clouds collided, and lightning split them apart. You could almost swear it was a divine sign. The Mother merely nodded, already grabbing the heavy, rough set of keys from her belt—she handed you a smaller ring with two master keys, rusty and heavy, shedding flakes and smelling metallic from age.

"Go before our special guest catches a cold in this rain."

Like a cursed mouth, the rain burst forth, loud and thick. You clenched the keys in your palm, relaxing your shoulders, a sign you would obey the Mother’s orders. Before leaving, you heard her shout after you: "And don’t forget your veil!"

You shrugged, ignoring her.

Father Gael was familiar, practically family.

And it wouldn’t be any martyrdom for you to hide from a man as charming as the young priest. It never was.

Your steps were slow; you felt you had all the time in the world to open that enormous front door, even if it meant getting drenched by the rain to reach the wall, holding the metal lamp that swayed in your hand. You were convinced it would be like the other times Father Gael had visited the monastery: you’d open one of the wooden doors, then the metal gate, welcome him with timid smiles, gesture for him to enter, smile, and wait for him to step inside in his large cassock, perhaps a hat on his head, holding his suitcase, adjusting his collar and clerical neckband. He’d thank you with sweet eyes, a shy smile, head bowed, enter, and you’d have a dinner full of sermons at the dining table.

And unlike what you told the other nuns, biting your tongue, this would be a happy Easter.

But everything changed when you turned the key to one side of the wooden door, swinging it open, raising the lamp to illuminate what was in front of you, only to find another man standing behind the metal gate. Your heart stopped, and as if God wanted you to see with your own two wide eyes, lightning split the sky, illuminating everything in a vibrant pale blue, and the rain grew heavier, lashing the ground, splashing onto you and the stranger. A powerful thunderclap—a muffled cry from Saint Peter—announced the man standing on the other side. He was drenched, his straight dark hair plastered to his forehead, an angular face smiling without teeth, just a press of thick lips, hiding something from you, clean-shaven, eyes the same dark blue as the sky piercing you as he waited on the other side of the iron bars. Illuminated by the flame of your lamp—at least that’s what you wanted to believe—his hands were clasped in front of his body, harmless, wearing the cassock like a black cloak, the white clerical collar around his neck. A suitcase rested at his feet.

Calm, even soaked by the rain.

You swallowed all your questions, already preparing to simply close the wooden door behind you and run back into the castle, when the man stepped forward and made himself heard—very clearly to your ears, a deep voice with a heavy accent penetrating you:

"My lady! Don’t be alarmed! It’s me! The priest who came for this Easter..."

"Who the hell are you?" Your voice came out sharp, your eyes immediately widening at the naturalness of the curse, seeking instant reprimand from the priest. But the so-called Father didn’t scowl; on the contrary, the man opened his mouth in a nasal laugh-smile, revealing uneven, almost sharp teeth:

"I understand your question, my dear, but I can explain everything!" He clasped his hands, smiling as amiably as possible: "Just let me in to take refuge from this deluge, and I’ll explain everything."

You raised an eyebrow between suspicion and curiosity. You looked behind him, trying to spot any silhouette of a carriage or even Gael;

"Are you alone?"

"Just me and God..." he replied complacently, hands still clasped: "...and you now."

He added, looking at you with a gaze you’d never been looked at with before. Something coursed through your body, a warmth that didn’t come from the lit candle in your lamp. A strange fervor tinged your cold, rain-splashed cheeks. Hot, you felt feverish even in the rain. With newfound courage, you stepped out from behind the door, revealing yourself fully to him, receiving from the other priest a lingering look that stripped your soul uncomfortably, for you didn’t want to be undressed that way. You barely remembered the modesty you lacked: the veil that would hide your hair, exposing your nature to the strange man.

You stopped a few meters away from the man, gathering words at the tip of your tongue, shining the lamp near his face:

"And by what name may I call you, Father?"

A glint passed through his eyes, red-ruby, making you shiver. Quickly, he wiped his chin and lips with his hand, drying what you assumed was rainwater:

"I am Father Remmick, my sweet Sister, and you, by what lovely name may I call you?"

Your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile, completely taken by the vanity of being courted that way. Remmick smiled, waiting for your answer, but before you could reveal your name, a question crossed your mind:

"And where is your carriage, Father? You’re not telling me you came all this way on foot."

You tilted your head, analyzing Remmick, who stepped closer to the gate:

"Let’s say I had a terrible accident further down and had to leave the coachman to take care of things while I climbed the hill before it got too late... But it seems even so, the weather turned, and this deluge started pouring... So, darling, may I come in?" he asked, raising both eyebrows in a pleading look. Wind blew between your faces, your hair flying back, Remmick closing his eyes for brief seconds, nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling slowly. When he opened them, again that strange gleam in his gaze, almost opaque, which would’ve prompted another impertinent question if not for the Mother’s booming voice behind you:

"Let Father Gael go in—good heavens, who are you!?"

"You must be the Mother Superior—" Remmick changed his expression, making it polished, flashing his best smile at the woman eyeing him suspiciously, clasping his hands in supplication: "—as I was explaining to the dear Sister here, I am the priest who came in Monsignor Gael’s stead, who unfortunately couldn’t make it for this special occasion. I am Father Remmick, from another diocese not even from this region, but it’s with great honor that I come in the name of the Church and the State to settle pending matters and, well—" he looked at both of them, keeping his charming smile: "—if possible, spend Easter with you. I just ask that you let me in! Or I’ll turn into priest soup!"

You laughed, along with the man in front of you. But the Mother remained silent, observing him cautiously. Remmick seemed to remember something, bent down, and picked up the suitcase he carried, pulling out two letters, straightening and showing them to the Mother:

"Here! I have the diocese’s letter about the matters, and another signed by Gael himself about my coming in his place."

"Hand them to me," the Mother ordered. Remmick lowered the hand holding the papers, his voice more petulant:

"Only if you let me in. I’m freezing to death here, madam, and it wouldn’t be very Christian of me to die of some sudden illness."

You stifled a giggle while the Mother raised her eyebrows at the acidic reply. The Mother didn’t like it one bit, grumbling behind your back, but by hierarchical orders, it was up to her to accept his entry. She spat dryly:

"Open that gate and let him in, girl! God is in control of everything."

"Yes, madam," you replied obligingly, unlocking the other gate with a clank of the latch opening. Remmick remained still, watching you, waiting for your command. You cleared your throat and gestured with the hand holding the lamp for him to pass through the gate:

"Father... You may enter, and welcome!"

"Thank you, Sister!" He bowed his head, stepping one foot behind the other, smiling smugly at the Mother as he extended the letters, adding smoothly:

"Here you are, Mother! And surely, He is in control of everything!" He winked at her, smiling even wider.

To your eyes, he always seemed to hide something he wouldn’t say, not so soon, to you. Perhaps more comforting news that the diocese had decided to keep you there, or that in the end, you’d have the chance to choose your future... Or something worse. Your judgment of him was neutral, staying on the surface of cordial first impressions: polite smiles, welcoming gestures, soft voices, restrained glances... Especially since he was a man, a stranger—really, quite strange. Despite being handsome in his own way, still... Strange.

Remmick passed by you, walking side by side with the Mother, who had taken your lamp from your hands without ceremony, handing it to the man beside her, to open one of the letters, setting off ahead.

A cold air pierced you as you locked the iron gate, listening to their footsteps fade away. You looked beyond the bars of that gate where the rest of the world opened into a downpour of thick water, booming thunder, and occasional lightning illuminating the earth. Your heart filled with the smell of wet earth, rust, and something else that had entered with Father Remmick—metallic, dense, wet, somewhat sticky, and intrinsic to flesh, which pierced the soul. It was unnatural and almost bestial.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"Father Remmick, please, say a prayer so we may dine in blessings this Good Friday!" the Elder Sister requested, looking with interest at the man seated across from her, still damp from the rain, droplets dripping from the corners of his hair, a cigarette between his lips. Remmick was searching for a match to light his cigarette—another human habit he’d inherited after centuries of socializing with the living—receiving a lit candle from her hands. He smiled in thanks, took a slow drag, and blew the gray smoke upward, nodding at the request; they were seated at the kitchen table, the wooden surface full of useless food for the vampire, who only had eyes for the three women, mentally listing which of those lambs he’d sacrifice first. For you, your mouth watered at so much abundance before you, eager to devour every dish in front of you, playing with the crystal beads of your rosary as you waited for the signal to eat.

Remmick took another drag of his cigarette, seated at the head of the table, watching you with a certain fascination while the Mother eyed him with latent distrust, leaning at the other end. The vampire disguised as a priest searched his memories for the sermons and general knowledge Father Gael had offered him before becoming his dinner the previous night, as well as the prayers taught by those who had stolen his father’s lands—he took a final drag, immersed in that awkward silence, stubbing out the cigarette on his plate, a useless gesture for him, filled his glass with wine, took a sip, and finally made himself heard, loud and clear, dramatic like a small-town priest:

"On this special night of Good Friday, may your God bring peace and salvation to your hearts, as well as reveal to each of you here the true path of happiness, mutual love, and also life. Through Christ, Our Lord, amen!" He made a quick sign of the cross with his index and middle fingers, looked at the sisters who stared at him and repeated the gesture, murmuring "amens."

They waited for him to serve himself:

"Help yourselves, Sisters! I’ll stick to the wine, as I’m fasting and—"

"But Father Remmick, fasts are usually absolute. Both liquids and solids..." you said. The Mother tapped your hand:

"I told you to keep that tongue in your mouth—"

"Oh, no, don’t scold her for that—" Remmick intervened, amused internally by it all, gesturing with his hands, looking deeply at you: "—and you’re right, my young one, fasts are absolute, but I’m human, and like anyone, I have my weaknesses. And I believe that in times of death and rebirth like these, our Christ wouldn’t mind such trivialities, hmm?" He winked at you, making you nod again. The Elder Sister giggled in agreement, while the Mother Superior kept her stern expression.

You tried not to stare too much at Remmick, who remained motionless in his posture, like an absolute and static king in that chair, eyes attentive to each of you, occasionally bringing the wine glass to his lips. Until inevitably, your curious eyes noticed a rather peculiar detail

"Remmick, why aren’t you breathing?"

"What do you mean, Sister?" Remmick asked you, relaxing his tense shoulders, sighing deeply; the other two glared at you, embarrassed, you tried to redeem yourself:

"I think it was just my imagination, you know..."

"It must’ve been—" he affirmed, leaning toward you, an indecipherable little smile on his lips: "—in the dark, sometimes we can’t see well what’s right in front of us."

You nodded, feeling a shiver crawl up your spine.

They returned to that sepulchral silence, the Mother watching you eat; the way you served yourself wine and drank, letting the liquid trickle from your mouth at times, so great was your thirst for the wine. Remmick was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed, eyes attentive to how you served yourself and chewed the rare meat, blood splattering your plate, wine sliding down your chin, grapes bursting between your teeth. A full plate, a beautiful appetite.

The Mother held your arm as you reached for another glass of wine, muttering through her teeth:

"You’re more than satisfied, my dear. Now clean up and go to bed, it’s getting late..."

"Well, I think it’s time for me to retire to my quarters as well," Remmick drew your attention to him, standing from the table in a leap, grabbing his suitcase from the side. He turned to the Mother: "Where will I rest?"

"Follow me," the Mother indicated sternly. Remmick nodded, glancing quickly at you.

"Excuse me," he gave a brief nod to the Elder Sister and passed by you, but stopped near you, one of his hands holding your shoulder, squeezing the soft flesh lightly:

"And for you, my beloved Sister, I wish you the best and most unforgettable dreams! May God bless and protect you. Sweet dreams."

His voice entered you and took residence in your soul.

You looked at the Elder Sister, who watched you both distance yourselves, eyeing you from head to toe and whispering:

"I’ll accompany them. Have a good night’s sleep."

She left, the footsteps of the three fading, leaving only you and your solitude in the middle of that cold kitchen.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Your entire body was frozen, your bare feet touching stone after stone beneath your soles, the wind whistling and entering through the enormous windows of the hallway stretching, dark, ahead of you, piercing like ghostly hands through your cotton nightgown.

Your lips were slightly parted; at any moment, your deepest secrets could escape them, coming straight from your core. Your arms stretched forward, supporting you with each step toward the only lit light in that gallery of walls—from the end of the hallway, where a door was ajar and noisy sounds of things falling could be heard, echoing through the sedimentary stones. With glazed eyes, dulled by the veil of sleepwalking, you saw everything as a distant, blurred dream; you stopped at the doorframe, glimpsing the collapsed body of the Mother Superior lying around a thick puddle of a red liquid, a strange kind of clotted wine spreading around her. She was in her sleeping attire—like yours, a thick white nightgown—stained with the same red; her head was tilted back, eyes open in an expression of horror, from her gaping lips, a scream of fear that would never leave her mouth.

Not in life.

You followed the slender silhouette of Father Remmick dropping the body to the floor, the flesh of the Mother’s jugular torn by a sharp bite that ripped out a chunk, a piece of her flesh. The puddle expanded gradually, dyeing the woman’s thick, gray hair red.

And everything was red, the smell of death enveloping you, and the icy wind piercing your soul.

The scent of death enveloped you, and the icy wind pierced your soul.

Remmick turned around. He wore a white tank top, black tailored pants, and shoes on his feet. Blood dripped from his mouth full of sharp, thorn-like teeth. He held something between them. His eyes were dark, glinting like blood pearls as they fixed on you. His nails were claws, stained with blood. He smiled, twisted and grotesque, like a bestial, bat-like humanoid, staring at you in ecstasy before spitting the piece of meat onto the ground. His voice was no longer the same—it was unnatural, as if another being had overlaid his human speech:

"My little angel, it’s time to rest!"

Your eyes widened. Suddenly, your body felt weightless, floating toward him. Remmick’s clawed hand stretched out to you. Your heart raced, and for a few seconds, your soul slipped free from your body. Face to face with the monster, you saw your reflection in his eyes—completely drenched in red. Blood.

Remmick cupped your face, his nails pricking your skin, his breath reeking of nauseating copper against your cheek, the tips of his claws sending shivers down your spine:

"Just sleep, my angel. Your time hasn’t come yet… Sleep well. And dream of me."

Everything was blood. Dark red. Cold and hot. In the blink of an eye, you plummeted into freefall. And then, everything became warm dreams—of a human, smiling Remmick reaching out to you under a beautiful, sunny sky. Your heart calmed, and all was peace.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

The morning dawned strangely. Through your window, gray mingled with amber as dark clouds drifted across the sun’s rays. You remembered nothing of your dreams, only the last moments before bed—Remmick’s words carved into your soul, the chill of your room, the heat of your body burning from wine and something deeper, something intimate, blooming inside you. It made you shed your heavy clothes, seeking relief in nakedness, sitting on your bed, yearning for something. Something your mind conjured before your eyes, yet you refused to see.

You needed a touch that would caress your soul.

You took a deep breath, your legs pressed together, feet on the cold floor, ears attuned to the symphony of rain. You lay back fully on the bed, hoping to hear someone at your door—knocking, asking to enter. And if that unexpected visitor came, by the gods, you’d let them in immediately. But nothing happened, and in a moment of lucidity, you thanked the heavens that it was just a fleeting thought, a restlessness against everything you’d learned to reject, a lethargic symptom of the wine. Another deep breath, hands against your breasts, hot skin against sweaty palms. Beneath your skin, you felt your heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The sound of your breath through your nose. Until everything calmed, and you felt steady enough to rise and slip on your nightgown.

Now properly dressed to leave your quarters, your hands lingered on your breasts, feeling your heartbeat as you tried to decipher the shadows in your room. Outside, Saint Peter had stopped sending rain—and wherever Father Remmick was, his words still echoed in your mind. Maybe that’s why you dreamed of him. Even if you couldn’t recall the dream itself, you carried the certainty that he had appeared to you.

Stepping out of your room, you noticed how truly odd that Easter Saturday morning was. Normally, the Mother Superior would knock on every door to announce the second day of Easter—yet there you were, dragging your own feet, the sound of your closed shoes echoing through the empty hallway. Your eyes darted to each door, once the rooms of your fellow sisters, wondering where in God’s name they all were. You even wondered, as you descended the spiral staircase to the ground floor, where Remmick was staying.

When you reached the kitchen, you saw steam rising from a kettle and the slender figure of the Eldest Sister with her back turned. You approached slowly, scanning the corners for any sign of the Mother Superior or the priest. Neither was there.

"Where is everyone, Sister?"

"My God, child! You scared me!" she exclaimed, dramatically clutching her chest, her eyes bulging as she looked you up and down. You raised an eyebrow. The Eldest Sister took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf, and gave you a stern look before replying:

"The Mother Superior will be absent for a few hours… As for Father Remmick, he will join us once the sun sets…"

"How strange—" you muttered, making a face. "Why?"

"Not that it’s any of your concern, but—" the Eldest Sister turned back, kneading a lump of dough. "—from what Father Remmick told us yesterday—me and the Mother Superior—he prefers to remain secluded and fasting during Easter. He asked not to be disturbed and said he’d join us tonight for the celebrations."

"I see…" you whispered, running your fingers over flour-dusted utensils on the counter. The Eldest Sister continued her labor:

"He’s a man of great faith, locking himself away for hours without seeing sunlight. Great faith indeed."

"Or at the very least, he’s peculiar for avoiding sunlight… Where is he staying?" you asked, genuinely curious about the guest. 

The Eldest Sister huffed:

"Your curiosity will lead you astray one day, dear. But to shut you up: he didn’t want the usual guest quarters. He takes his Christian philosophies seriously, so we put him in the most isolated room—the one in the back, the lower level."

"Strange… That’s more like a dungeon than an actual floor."

"Well, now leave me be. We must prepare the finest meal for tonight."

"And what should I do?" you asked. The Eldest Sister sighed, stopped kneading, wiped her forehead with her forearm, and glanced at you over her shoulder:

"I don’t know, find something to do. Praying would be good—especially for God to grant you a little more restraint in your words."

You nodded slowly.

"Yes, ma’am."

You turned away, grabbing a stale piece of bread and a glass of milk for breakfast. The rest of the day was spent wandering the monastery halls, your hands trailing along the stone walls, pausing occasionally to admire a tapestry or the colossal bust of some ancient Mother Superior mounted on the rough-hewn rock. The eyes of illustrious priests seemed to follow you as you couldn’t stop thinking:

‘Strange Easter. Weird priest! He’s like one of those creatures I once read about… The Mother doesn’t even show up to say good morning. The Eldest Sister, as always, stupid toward me—when will I ever leave this place? I hate all of this. I hate all of them.’

When you looked out your window after a bath, your skin still damp and fresh with herbal soap and hot water, your hair dripping as you dried it with a cotton towel, the sun was already setting, casting red, blue, and green reflections against your skin. You smiled, and your heart swelled with a strange hope. You dressed, leaving your veil on the chair beside your bed.

You left your room almost eagerly, your steps quick, descending the stairs with a lantern in hand, your eyes alert, your ears straining for any unfamiliar voice.

"I come from lands far from here, Sister. I bring with me the promises made to my late father…"

Remmick was there, seated at the kitchen table, a flickering candle casting timid light before him as he pulled a cigarette from beneath his cassock, which draped over him like a black cape. His hair was damp, and a watery sheen on his skin suggested he’d just bathed.

When his eyes caught you approaching, his face broke into an almost sympathetic smile of sharp teeth:

"Little angel! We’ve been waiting for you!" He gestured for you to sit beside him, sliding the chair out with his foot. He remained still, watching you settle in. Once you did—between shyness and euphoria—he finally moved, pressing the cigarette tip to the candle’s flame. You noticed the Eldest Sister tense at your arrival, her gaze rigid. Still no sign of the Mother Superior.

"The Mother will arrive soon… She’s just preparing for this blessed night," Remmick said, spreading his arms, looking between you and the other nun with a mocking smile. A strange silence settled, all of you staring—mostly you and the Eldest Sister—while the air filled with the bittersweet scent of his tobacco. He cleared his throat, recapturing your attention:

"And you, dear Sister? What’s your story? I already know the Mother’s, and soon I’ll learn hers—" he glanced at the Eldest Sister, smirked, then fixed his gaze back on you, as if trying to read your soul. "What’s your story? Why are you here?"

You hesitated, looking down at the rosary coiled around your waist, seeking tactile comfort in your nervousness. It was hard to talk about yourself when no one had ever asked. You lifted your face to Remmick, finding his gaze strangely comforting. 

You glanced at the Eldest Sister, leaning back in her chair, before gathering your words:

"I’m from this region. Born and raised in a good family. My parents are laborers—my father a clothing artisan, my mother a spinner of the wool and cotton he uses. I have other siblings; two don’t even live here anymore. And well… I was promised to the convent while still in my mother’s womb, so for as long as I can remember, I’ve been part of the Church, and it of me, in some way… But here, I learned to read, write, play instruments—things I might never have had if I’d stayed with them…" You paused, searching for more to say. "I guess that’s it."

You waited for his reaction. Remmick studied you with a mix of deep interest and something like pity:

"Interesting story. It reminds me of mine… Being forced into something you don’t belong to—not how things should be. But thanks to your God, I found my salvation…" His voice grew distant as he side-eyed the Eldest Sister coughing violently.

"Something wrong, Sister?"

"No—cough!—I just—cough!—think I choked."

"Drink some wine. It’ll help," he said, offering her a cup. "Sometimes, we can’t keep our opinions to ourselves."

The Eldest Sister glared, formulating a retort to Remmick’s mocking tone. From the shadows, slow footsteps echoed until the Mother Superior appeared—erect and rigid, her veil gone, revealing long gray hair, her hands clasped over a heavy wooden cross hanging from a braided cord. She stopped at the far end of the table, her dark eyes meeting Remmick’s:

"Good evening, ladies… And sir."

"Good evening, Mother. Please, join us in this communion of food," Remmick said, staring deeply at her. You felt the atmosphere shift—something cold and heavy settling around you as the woman simply nodded politely and sat. The Eldest Sister finished her wine while you blurted out:

"Mother Superior, where were you all day!?"

"I was—" She hesitated, her eyes locked on Remmick. "—occupied with our transfer papers. So tomorrow, we may have a special Easter Sunday."

"Transfer? So we really are leaving…" Your voice was a thread between sudden sadness and anxiety. Then a cold hand covered yours—Remmick, looking at you with sweetness:

"Don’t worry, my angel. After tomorrow, everything will be different for you. For all three of you." He smiled—a closed-lipped, gentle smile, his fingers stroking your skin, his presence calming you.

The Eldest Sister scoffed, stirring her cup, staring at her full plate, then at the empty ones before Remmick and the Mother. She forced a smile:

"Aren’t you going to eat my food? And aren’t we having a special Easter vigil tonight?"

"Actually… I was thinking we could sit around a fire, sing beautiful songs that move us…" Remmick looked at you, tilting his head back slightly, revealing his row of sharp teeth. You shivered. He turned fully to you, his knee brushing yours under the table, sending a thrill through you. His cigarette was nearly burnt out on his plate, his right index finger between his lips:

"You just told me you play instruments, didn’t you?" He bit the tip of his finger, his irises flashing crimson for a split second.

You blinked, wanting to believe it was just the candlelight. Swallowing hard, you searched the others’ faces for support but found only blank stares. You looked back at Remmick, who grinned charmingly, making you whisper:

"Mhm... Violin and piano, mostly."

"Do we have either here?" he asked the Mother. "Ah, yes… I think I saw a piano somewhere. Would you play for me, dear?"

The mere thought of playing for him made your skin prickle. You stared, stunned, as his hand grazed yours over the table, his eyes piercing, empty of human warmth, as if he were peering into your soul, trying to claim your heart with the ice in his gaze.

"But Father, on Holy Saturday, we don’t usually—" the Eldest Sister began, breaking the moment. Remmick’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his thick brows, his voice cutting like a blade:

"But I do things my way, Sister."

He flashed her a tight smile, winked, then turned to the Mother. You noticed her pupils dilate slightly, her tongue flicking behind closed lips before she spoke, eerily calm:

"Sister, let Father Remmick guide our next actions. He is our shepherd, and we shall not want if we follow him."

"Then let us make music!" Remmick exclaimed, clapping his hands. He stood abruptly, adjusting his white collar, and offered you his hand:

"Would you do me the honor?"

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You stared at the piano keys, searching for divine inspiration. The music room—another stone chamber—was draped in wool and cotton tapestries for warmth. A fireplace, which Remmick had lit effortlessly (just a match and a breath, and the wood roared to life). The piano, black and vinyl, stood as the centerpiece of the monastery’s music lessons, its bench upholstered in red velvet, positioned before the crackling fire. Remmick sat behind you, legs crossed, his gaze boring into your back while the other sisters sat side by side, waiting for you to begin.

Lost in sheet music you knew by heart, your fingers slid over the keys—sharp, unprepared, a screech that made the Eldest Sister wince and Remmick stifle a malicious chuckle. Too nervous to face your small audience, you didn’t dare look at them.

You could’ve just convinced them you couldn’t bear this humiliation—until someone sat beside you, a cold aura making the candle flames tremble. A warmth surged through you despite his sharp scent. Head bowed, all you saw were his hands—male, thick-fingered, short-nailed, pale, veins a sickly blue.

They looked like a corpse’s hands.

"My angel, perhaps we can try this one—" he whispered in your ear, his breath vinegary with wine. Then he began to play, his fingers flying, the chords funereal and macabre, evoking death, funerals, midnight ladies and chrysanthemums, full moons and blood, burnt candles, ochre and rotting flesh. Your heart clenched—he was playing Marcia Funebre, your favorite piece, with the same possessed fervor you felt when playing.

Your left hand joined his right, slowly at first, then in sync, the music swelling—high notes like imminent death, low ones like the Reaper stalking his prey, then back to the sharp, fighting against fate, angels guiding you to fields of flowers you’d never seen, a moonlit lake, welcoming smiles… But Death lurked, always, blood-red eyes devouring you in crimson and dark blue, shadows swallowing your captive soul. Sadness, melancholy, lonely cloudy days, despair—Oh God, why have You forsaken me?—then serenity again. Tears welled in your eyes, violent as the notes you played, your heart racing with each high tremble.

Serenity returned. Lingering. The last breaths of a life surrendering to Death’s veil—but was Death not the eternal sleep? The final darkness before rest? The return to nothingness? The music faded. The funeral march brought solace, the acceptance that if this was everyone’s end, why not embrace it? Like hugging a saint in the flesh, weeping your sorrows, begging for freedom from human pain.

Remmick had stopped playing, hypnotized by you—how you commanded the instrument with such passion. Soul. Something he lacked. His eyes widened, lips parted, a suffocating feeling in that cassock that wasn’t his—though it was all a lie. Dressed in deceit for the cruel pleasure of ancestral vengeance, he felt his unbeating heart—no longer human—stirred by your playing.

And for all his falseness, so were the notes he’d just played. Death no longer haunted him as it did mortals. You were the melancholic lows, fleeing death; he was the ominous depths, the danger in the shadows. Tragedy. Blood. Corruption. Yet in the end, he was the joy, the grand guest of the funeral march you now played for him. And Remmick consumed you, the piano’s vibrations piercing his undead flesh, ecstatic at this art that could reach him despite his damnation.

His scarlet beast-eyes traced your profile, lost in the death of your music. Your beauty, the tears making you saintly, the blood pulsing in your neck inviting a bite, your wine-and-warm-skin scent enchanting him. Thick drool slid from his jaw. 

His thoughts narrowed to desire, lust, boiling blood, crimson, flesh—The music crescendoed. 

He leaned closer, lips parting. You, entranced by your own playing, eyes closed, swaying, didn’t notice the monster beside you, drawn to your warmth. The final notes—tam-tan-tan, tan-tan-tan-tan-tan.

Dazed, you didn’t see the beast lurking, pressed against you, coveting your warm flesh.

Remmick jerked upright, wiping his mouth, glancing at the Eldest Sister’s sharp glare. You, still numb from the music, didn’t notice him beside you, clinging to your heat.

His fingers brushed your cheek, ghostly soft:

"You played beautifully, my angel. We made beautiful music together today…" You smiled between relief and tears, a sob escaping.

"Don’t cry," he murmured, drying your tear. His touch was so… unfamiliar. Present in flesh, yet strange, like icy porcelain against warm wool.

Your eyes traced his face—fine wrinkles, stubble along his jaw, a crooked smile of jagged teeth.

He was so close yet so far, aching in your heart, in some part of your soul that shouldn’t yearn for this.

His persistent touch, holding your face like a precious thing despite its chill against your burning skin, sent vibrations through you. And staring so close, tasting his bloodlust, you imagined him naked for a fleeting second—your mind merging the crucified Christ from your chapel’s altar with a naked Dionysus from a forbidden book. Divine human beauty, dangerously exposed, sacred sweat, honeyed saliva…

His nature was far more bestial.

He wanted to tell you—the good and the evil in him, to touch you freely, to liberate you from everything he’d seen in the Mother Superior’s memories. Smiling his broken smile, he whispered so only you could hear:

"You played beautifully today, my angel. You stirred a heart that hasn’t beaten in ages…"

"Stop, I wasn’t that good—" you feigned modesty, afraid the sisters would catch your act, staring shyly at the keys. His closeness was surreal—something even Father Gael had never given you. Remmick laughed at a thought only he knew.

The Eldest Sister interrupted, her grating voice shattering the moment:

"I think that’s enough for tonight. It’s late, and tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We should all rest."

Remmick grimaced, exhaling stale air from lungs that didn’t breathe humanly, turning to the sisters—the Mother, plastic as if brainwashed; the Eldest, judgmental, earning his pity. From the Mother’s memories, he knew her—bitter, resentful, everything that made his venom boil with disgust.

He glanced at you, poking at phantom notes.

"She’s right," he said, standing, lifting the golden candlestick. "But first, I’ll escort our young musician to her quarters." He offered his hand again. "Come, angel."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Your steps were slow, right then left, your shadows stretching on stone walls from the candlelight. His voice dripped like melted honey:

"Do you like living here, Sister?"

"Hmm," you fumbled for the right words, fear creeping into your lips and wide eyes, captured by Remmick’s gaze—under the light, his irises held a strange crimson glint. He added:

"You can be honest. I’m a fervent listener, and I only want the best for you."

You looked straight at him—golden and fiery in the candlelight, his sharp features carved by God’s hands, yet now more sinuous, his eye sockets darkened so only that eerie glow remained. His hair gleamed, his clerical collar pale against his throat, his lips full, parted in a smile of jagged pearls. No statue of Apollo could rival him. Your heart pounded, and something deeper ached.

Your mouth opened, confessing what you’d never say aloud:

"No. To be honest… It’s lonely here. Too cold, almost inhospitable. I miss human contact, warmth, town festivals… Things I had to leave behind."

"I understand, angel. I know that pain better than anyone—" He touched his chest. "—and I can save you. Free you from all this."

"H-how?" Your voice faltered as you stopped outside your door.

The air grew thick, buzzing in your ears, your blood hissing. Strange. Remmick turned fully to you, candlelight illuminating your fearful curiosity.

“Exactly what you heard, my dear. I can save you—show you how wondrous the world can be. Let you taste the bittersweet tang of grapes, the burning sweetness of honey, even the rancid bite of spoiled butter... and savor it all with delight. Pleasure. Without restraint..." His hand rose to your face, his voice shifting into something ethereal, as if speaking to an empty room with unsettling intimacy: "I am what you desire, my angel. I am the one who heard your call and came to you—"

"I never asked anyone to come," you snapped, pulling away. The man’s expression twisted into mock sorrow, eyebrows lifting. "I... I don’t need any salvation, Father Remmick."

"Not even from your God?" His tongue clicked, a near-demonic smirk playing at the edges of his lips, fangs glinting. You didn’t see them—you were too hypnotized by the priest’s burning gaze, fear and a strange, gnawing desire eating at the core of your being.

"Least of all Him. When I know my prayers will never be heard."

"Perhaps I’m the one who will listen." His whisper was a serpent’s promise.

Silence.

Only your ragged breath, your pounding heart, your thoughts spiraling as you tried to see the real Remmick in the dim light. Your head felt heavy yet empty, the air thin, the taste of your own blood sharp in your nose and throat. Remmick savored it too—sweet, blessed, holy crimson running through your veins, his beast-eyes full of lust and corruption.

You stepped back, reaching your door.

Fleeing temptation and fear seemed wisest.

Remmick followed, lifting the candlestick to expose his face—now devoid of bestial traces, fading with the light.

Your hand gripped the icy doorknob—warmer than his—twisting it sharply, ready to escape, when a cold hand seized your shoulder. Large. Heavy. A touch that sent tremors through you, making you turn, meeting his pleading gaze—so genuine, so light, it made you pause.

Something unspoken hung between you—something no nun should voice, much less feel. A tension years in the making, caged by morality and hypocrisy, desire vivid in your eyes, your untouched body’s secrets laid bare before him. In your eyes, he was your superior, the one you should revere, kiss his blessed hands, wash his feet with oils and dry them with your hair—not want like a vulgar woman wants a man. Not like Eve craving Eden’s apple or Lilith mounting Adam.

Remmick sensed it radiating from you—your flesh crying for something, and he, attuned to such things, felt it. He hadn’t come here for you, didn’t know you existed—but the moment he saw you, he knew. It was intense. Voracious. Vile. Carnal. Crimson lust, purple desire, white sin.

He wasn’t lying about saving you. At least, not in his reality—already envisioning the celestial union between a damned soul and a pure one. Ironic. Delicious to him, who’d been judged by such people.

Remmick licked his lips, his voice like angels singing:

"I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only wish you the sweetest dreams."

"Likewise… Father Remmick," you replied softly.

Waiting.

His hand the tether between you.

At your answer, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours. A kiss. Chaste, closed-mouthed, the oaky taste of wine on his breath flooding yours. Your eyes widened in surprise before fluttering shut, years of sleepless fantasies fulfilled in the simplest way. Your hands flew to his face, trying to hold him there.

But he pulled back, leaving you chasing his lips, craving more.

He didn’t offer the apple for biting—just a taste, a scrape of teeth against the skin, soft yet unyielding without that first bite. And that bite, he’d only give at the right time—when God was watching, to catch you in sin. Your sin.

Laughing darkly, Remmick stepped away, leaving only the ghost of his lips on yours, tingling with need. Like a shadow, he retreated into darkness, murmuring:

"Goodnight, angel. Tomorrow will be a special day."

He didn’t give you time to reply, to protest the rupture, his heavy footsteps fading, the candlelight following until he turned the corner. You shut your door behind you, half-desperate, every hormone alight, shivers wracking you like Remmick’s fingers on the piano. How you longed to be played.

You muffled a scream of euphoria and fear—fear that He had seen your sin. The rot already spoiling your apple.

But you didn’t care, tiptoeing to bed, sinking into the covers, still in your nun’s garb, replaying the feel of Remmick’s lips on yours.

Again. And again. And again.

Until sleep took you, his words blending with dreams of longer kisses and bolder hands.

"I can save you. Show you the world’s wonders, let you taste the sour grape, the burning honey, the rancid butter—all with delight. Pleasure. No restraints… I am what you want, my angel. I heard your call and came to you—perhaps I’m the one who will answer your prayers."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

It all began with an icy hand slipping beneath your skirt, creeping like the serpent of Paradise along your skin, making your drowsy eyes blink beneath the weight of sleep that cradled you. You were dreaming, of course. Even if this one felt too vivid—even for you, who lived with your head in the clouds and your feet planted on the ground, caught between losing yourself in your fertile imagination and the austerity demanded in that claustrophobic space.

That touch continued to make its way beneath the fabric of your habit, a weight between your legs sinking into the mattress, those ghostly hands parting your thighs with delicate precision, tracing invisible paths along your burning skin until finally, finally, they were where it hurt the most. At your core, stroking your throbbing clit, drenched in your own wet excitement, making your hips roll in an indecent dance and your chest rise and fall slowly, gasping for air. Those same phantom hands slowly traveled between your folds, spreading them, exposing you completely to something… new.

The sensation was like someone’s lips kissing you.

Remmick’s lips sealing against your wet pussy, pressing tiny vibrations against your little bud while his tongue slid along your entrance—just enough to send a pang of pain through your untouched hole. Then he returned to kissing that sweet spot, flicking his tongue up and down, sending tremors that forced your hips to obey the firm grip on your thighs, grinding against the tongue and lips that devoured your flesh. Your body writhed, hands grasping at the air, eyes tightly shut as thin tears streaked down your cheeks, a weight pressing on your chest because you were sinning in your dreams. "God, oh my God, forgive me, but it feels so good… so good—yes, like that, yes… Oh, God!" You cried out in your dream—or were you moaning your obscene prayer aloud? You had never had a dream so realistic before.

That tongue tormented you, those lips kissed you with fervor, fingers tracing paths along your legs, and a chuckle seemed to pierce the barrier between the dream world and reality, making you think of the priest. That loud, slightly high-pitched laugh, amused, ending in deep tones. Overcome with sinful desire, you couldn’t hold back the strangled little moan that escaped as you came—hard, as if reaching heaven itself. He sucked you greedily, draining every last drop, his tongue vibrating against your clit, your pussy pulsing, hips clenching, thighs trembling—the ecstasy of the glorified seizing you, leaving you pale and trembling, eyes snapping open as you tried to process everything—only to see, with horror, something moving in the shadows before you. Flames flickered, the Devil’s eyes blinking lazily in the darkness, your bunched-up skirt exposing you to him.

You wanted to scream and cry, but a hand emerged from the shadows, piercing the pale curtain of moonlight—just enough to illuminate your waist—and reached your lips, a hoarse voice soothing you:

"Don’t scream, angel. That was just a taste of Paradise. Now sleep, sleep well."

You widened your eyes against the hand on your mouth, a strange taste seeping through your lips, a thick tear sliding down your right cheek—captured by the thumb of that hand.

Remmick.

The name formed on your lips.

And before you could even speak it, he vanished.

Your eyes grew heavy as if weighed down by deep sleep, your eyelids unable to resist, and once again, you were embraced by the blackness of night. Your body still trembling from pleasure, your legs spread open to nothing but the icy wind slipping through the cracks of the window and door.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

With a start, as if jolted by sudden fear, you woke with wide eyes, your heart in your throat and sweat soaking your body. You felt disgusting. That guilt, always at your side, consumed you for having such an… indecent dream. You could still feel those phantom lips, that serpentine tongue, those firm fingers against your body if you closed your eyes and focused.

But the last thing you wanted was to cling to fragments of your overactive mind.

The illusion of desire blinding you coldly. You slid to the edge of the bed, your feet still in those tight, uncomfortable shoes touching the floor. A wet sensation—no, soaked—lingered between your legs, beneath layers of rough fabric. Summoning what little courage you had, you lifted your dress, parting your thighs with morbid curiosity, only to find a mess between them—something you had never seen before. Sticky and crystalline, a truly pitiful disaster.

"Shame on me," you murmured, lifting your eyes to the window, where the dim light told you it was still the middle of the night. You took a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs, drying the sweat on your forehead with trembling hands. You jumped out of bed, smoothed your dress, lit a lone candle, and grabbed it with shaky fingers before picking up your nightgown and a towel from the chair. You opened the door carefully—a hollow noise echoing through a desolate hallway, swallowed by the night’s abyss. The sound of wind whistling through the windows and distant wolf howls reached your ears.

You headed toward the bathroom, turning right into a corridor lined with portraits of past Sisters, thick tapestries, and plaster statues of Saints—whose dull painted eyes seemed to judge you even in the dark. You passed the Elder Sister’s closed door, terrified she might hear even the slightest noise. Thank Heaven, you made it through unscathed, slipping into the bathroom.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

The water enveloping you was freezing.

Yet real enough to make you forget, for a moment, that dream from earlier. But as you scrubbed the cotton cloth against your skin, you imagined it was his hands instead of fabric, his fingers the trickles of water running down your body, his tongue the waves lapping between your thighs—vibrations that left you entranced. You dropped the soapy cloth, letting it float around you. The bathroom was a rectangular room with a row of white ceramic tubs. The window was slightly ajar, letting the biting wind touch your wet skin, sending a shiver through you.

Your thoughts strangled you, loud as a symphony of off-key hymns, disturbing and grating. Desperate to silence them—the ugliness of your desires—you gripped the edges of the tub, took a deep breath, and submerged yourself in the water, letting it embrace you with a heavy hug. You opened your eyes beneath the translucent veil, feeling all your rage flow from your nerves, your anguish escape your flesh, your hatred boil your blood.

And then you screamed, swallowed by your own fury.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

As you walked back to your room, holding your dirty clothes in one hand and the half-melted candle in the other—its flame nearly spent—wearing your nightgown and untied shoes, you heard a constant whisper coming from the Elder Sister’s room. Frenzied words that caught your attention, pulling you toward them in a sudden impulse. You pressed your ear against the wood, catching fragments:

"...my Lord, if I trust in You, then... deliver me from all evil... keep the Beast away... who pursues me..."

Frowning, judging her in your soul, you turned away, the candle’s flame flickering as you walked down the hall.

You didn’t notice—your mind too lost in your own turmoil—but as you passed through the darkness, just before turning the corner toward your hallway, two incandescent red dots blinked. Suddenly, like smoke materializing softly, Remmick emerged from the shadows—but he did nothing to you. He merely watched you walk away, oblivious to the dangers lurking, smiling with the pleasure of one who enjoys causing harm.

He glanced to the side, where the Mother Superior opened the Elder Sister’s door, extending a hand to invite him inside.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Easter Sunday.

That used to be your first thought upon waking on the third Sunday of April. But this time was different. In color, form, and meaning.

Father Remmick.

You woke with his name pulsing in your mind, frenzied, in scarlet lines like delicious wine spilling from his lips. Lips—just like Father Remmick’s in that wretched dream.

Then came the guilt, bitter as bile, sharp as if a crown of thorns were tightening around your throat. You tried to forget everything that had happened in the last two days, seeking solace in that date so special to you, clutching the sheets between anxious hands, trying to erase the dream. That vile dream, now haunting the gaps of your fresh memory like monstrous claws dragging you closer to sin. ‘Oh heavens, how long must I endure these torments!?’ you thought, closing your eyes even tighter.

You expected the door to be slammed open by the Mother’s rough hands, but all you heard was absolute silence. Nothing. Nothing, just like your faith.

Fragile, empty faith. ‘You are so fragile,’ you could hear the Mother’s voice in the shadows of your mind, from one of those cloudy days when, during the recitation of the Song of Songs, you had let slip a malicious comment about one of the passages. ‘Your weakness stains your flesh, girl. May God have mercy on you.’

And all you knew was hatred in your heart, questioning—if He truly existed, why had He left you alone? Why had He blinded His eyes and silenced His divine mouth?

Your hands still clutched the sheets, eyes brimming with memories spilling over in waterfalls, sobs wracking your body on that mattress. All the magic of that Easter now felt like horror. Your mind then slid to the enigmatic features of Remmick hidden in shadows, a sensation of fear possessing you even as it drew you in. You saw yourself as if in a mirage—your feet guiding you to him, standing at the end of a dark hallway, extending a clawed hand, viscous blood dripping from his fingers, eyes burning like flames, inviting you to dance. The gates of Hell were his cannibal mouth full of twisted thorns, gaping wide.

"God, God, God... My... Remmick."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The Mother is gone, the Elder Sister too... Remmick must be resting. What the hell am I going to do?" you muttered aloud to yourself—your reflection in a foggy mirror, trying to see beyond what was visible. You wanted to dive deep inside yourself, reach that soul everyone said was corrupted, seize it with your desire-filled hands and scream with all the blood and air in your lungs. But you remained still. Thoughtful.

You shrugged after a while, too bored to stare into the abyss.

You walked to the music room, sitting on a couch in the corner, eyes fixed on the piano that seemed to play the song from the night before. Slowly, your body slid to the side, a strange sleep taking hold of you—heavy, slow. Pleasant. As you closed your eyes, you slept the sleep of a thousand nights, almost as if in eternal rest.

"My angel, wake up."

A nearly angelic voice echoed in the distance, a hand touching your face, the rustle of fabric near you, the scent of herbal soap and lilies—Father Remmick. As you opened your eyes and took in the figure of the man in his cassock, clerical and dark-haired, smiling at you with hands clasped in front of his belly, a black-beaded rosary with a golden chain—the crucifix swinging near his legs looking much like Father Gael’s—your heart raced, and the indecent dream with him seized your memory once more.

Looking at him was torture because Remmick was now the embodiment of your desire. The priest was wide smiles and incandescent gazes directed at you:

"Come, supper awaits us!"

He extended a clean, friendly hand to you.

You took it like a lamb willingly led by its shepherd.

You walked in silence—pleasant, admittedly—to the dining room, where one table was overflowing with every kind of Easter feast. Your eyes lit up, and your stomach growled beneath your heavy habit, drawing the priest’s attention:

"Seems we have a hungry one here!"

"Forgive my lack of manners, Father! I’ve had no appetite since morning."

"Then let me be your appetite!" he said with a chuckle, gesturing to the abundance on the table: "Our dear Sisters prepared this lovely banquet especially for you, angel."

"And where are they?" You sat in the chair he pulled out for you, beside the head seat where Remmick sat, legs crossed beneath his cassock, hands folded, his oceanic blue eyes devouring you.

"They’re around... I asked them to leave us alone."

"Hmm—" you mumbled between a grape bursting between your teeth and a goblet of fresh wine: "—and what did you want to talk about that required all this? On Easter Sunday?" you asked, genuinely curious, trying with all your might to pretend that just looking at him didn’t send shivers of lust through your body.

Those lips that curled into warm smiles, that wet tongue sliding inside his mouth—an invitation to penetrate it with your own. The dream merged with the stolen kiss from last night, making the act of pretending even more exhausting. Remmick swung his suspended foot, the movement beneath his cassock catching your attention.

Your mistake—because your eyes immediately landed on a place you had never dared to look, except in drawings and paintings from books. A quick glance had outlined the thick, oval shape men kept hidden beneath fabric. You imagined what it would be like—large, wide, veined, the skin of the glans like the anatomy books you once traced with your fingers before the Elder Sister caught you with it between your thighs, hidden in a corner of the library—and your mouth watered. You breathed quickly, holding back profanities, raising your eyes to the man who had undoubtedly caught your lustful gaze.

Remmick whispered, hushed:

"Isn’t it obvious what my intentions are with you, my dear?"

"What intentions?" you retorted, widening your eyes at him.

Remmick tilted his head, delighted:

"Don’t you remember anything from last night?"

Your mind blanked, twisting painfully at the now-vivid memory of the stolen kiss and... well, the wicked dream. But you swallowed the bittersweet wine along with those images, your breathing growing heavy, something nauseating crawling through your body. Remmick laughed, shaking his shoulders, extending a hand to take the goblet you nervously lifted to your lips.

"Oh, my angel, don’t lie to me or play such perverse little games..." His voice was soft, his hand lowering the cup, moving it away from your mouth. He leaned closer like a serpent ready to strike, the apple in his hands as his eyes gleamed, offering you the Edenic sin: "...I know you enjoyed being kissed more than you’d ever admit..." He dragged his chair beside you, inhaling your scent, circling his head as he studied your static profile, eyes locked on the curve of your neck where a thin line of sweat trailed into your habit.

"Remmick!" you hissed between pain and surprise, feeling the tip of the knife you’d just picked up to cut bread prick your finger. Blood welled, and from the blood came saliva—the man simply took your wounded finger, pressing it to his teeth, sucking the blood as you gasped. Your eyes half-lidded in surrender, glimpsing the reddish glint in his irises. ‘God, what is wrong with me!?’ you lamented internally, exhaling that charged air vibrating from your lungs down to between your thighs as he sucked tenderly, the cerulean of a stormy sky enveloping you, his hand caressing yours while the other held your wrist, dominating you with gentleness.

You closed your eyes and thought of God.

Yes, you fought against that grotesque, twisted desire, against the feel of his soft flesh around your finger, wetting your skin, sucking your blood—and you thought of God. Summoning the last shred of courage, terrified of sinning completely, you yanked your arm back, recoiling as Remmick wiped the thick drool from his chin. Your voice was a thread between despair and fervor:

"Please, Father Remmick. Please."

He just stared at you. Smiling.

Smiling.

"Please, Father, please, stop."

The words tangled, tears choked you, you stood abruptly and ran. In the distance, you could hear him humming, wanting to reach you.

Wanting to claim you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

That was the place you knew with the palm of your hands, the soles of your feet, and the strands of your hair. It was practically a part of your entire body, a sacred, incorruptible place.

The air was sharp against your face, painted by the edges of your tears. The plaster statues with hollow stares gazed at you—Our Ladies of Sorrow, Jesus Christ on His Altar, candles burning, and a stagnant air of sin and grace circulating through the chapel where you ministered your prayers. In better times, it was a space of celebration and jubilation for God—but today, precisely on the day His Holiness would resurrect, all you could feel was the funeral march of the emptiness consuming you, desire lurking and lacerating you, the voice of the man behind you.

Kneeling, staring at the twisted face of pain of that scourged, bloody, condemned Christ, you prayed. You prayed like one who once had no faith and then came to believe in salvation, prayed from the depths of your being, hands clasped, eyes burning, murmurs slipping through the cracks of your dry lips.

“Save me. Please, save me. Do not let me fall into temptation or falter, I do not wish for this. Have mercy on me, please! All I ask is this… Mercy, mercy!”

Heavy footsteps behind you, approaching. A hand touching your shoulder, once more.

The frigid air of a living corpse on your face. When you slowly turned, still on your knees, facing him, it was like burning in the passion of sacrilege. Remmick smiled, sitting beside you. You slowly moved toward him, sitting in silence beside him, feeling that cold hand against your face, enveloping you. Without words in that moment, he merely pierced you with fiery eyes, carefully kissing away a tear he sipped from your lips before kissing you with your own weeping. Returning it to you. Subtle, natural.

You gasped, held his face, willingly accepting that sinful offering before your God. It was just the meeting of lips, timid, brushing against each other in fear—your fear.

When your lips parted, a thin thread of saliva connecting them, Remmick whispered:

“There is nothing to fear, my sweet idyllic lamb. I am here.”

You raised your eyes to meet his celestial blue, only to find a beastly red. Immediately, your heart raced inside your chest, something ignited within you—that survival instinct mixed with pure horror. A scream was muffled by a pressing index finger against your lips as Remmick hissed, serpent in human tongue:

“Shhh, no, no! No need to be frightened, my love! This is me. And I only wish to embrace you as I am. There is nothing to fear.”

“No—what the hell are you!?” You stood, tried to pull away, but were swiftly trapped between his arms and the cramped space of the pew, cornered between the church’s wood and Remmick’s flesh, arching backward with the priest close to your face, eye-to-eye with the monster. He laughed at you: the crown of thorns in his smile.

“I am something beyond God. Perhaps I am His creature, or some misfortune of the Devil—whatever madness you’ve been force-fed about us…”

“Us who?”

“Those who came before me, those who live through my memories, my blood defiled by this curse, my angel… Something only I can offer you. And darling… You won’t regret tasting the sweetness of death on your lips.”

You shook your head, fighting something inside you—a primal fear of the fall. Lucifer turning against his Creator and plummeting for his betrayal and mistake. You gripped the wood behind you, nearly splitting in two as Remmick’s hands seized your shoulders.

“Oh, darling, you don’t know the atrocities I discovered once I bit into those indigestible women! So much lament, so much resentment, a dried-up well of pleasures, hatred for everything and everyone… A rage toward you, my sweet lamb, that made me wonder just how much you must despise all of this. How much you hate it here. And I was right, for a single drop of your blood revealed everything to me.” He closed his eyes with relish, laughing. “And how deliciously addictive you taste. It makes my mouth thirst for your blood. Immaculate.”

He pressed your face between his hands, his eyes like living infernos burning you, yet his voice was like divine honey melting on your lips. You wanted him with longing, with ardor and lust—just as you repelled him with defiance, terror, restraint. But all it would take was one word from Remmick, and you would be saved. And he knew it.

With care, the monster tempted you, ghostly lips brushing yours:

“I am truer than this God who does not hear you, for I am made of the flesh that touches you, and I can reveal to you the true Paradise hidden within yourself. Let me consume you like the blood of salvation, which will make you feel the ecstasy of glory that this God—whom you were taught to obey—could never allow you to experience.”

You stared at him intensely, your tears still wetting your face.

No longer with fear.

But with awe: this profane god burning before you, in the guise of a priest, revealing himself to be none other than the Devil—or whatever he was—uttering the sweet words that would lead you to your downfall.

Remmick continued, swaying his head side to side as if dancing:

“I feel you, my angel. Through your sacred blood, I saw your lies, your hunger, your morbid desire. You simply pretend to be someone you’re not, and it’s such a waste… Of all this beauty, life, and soul, so unique and…” He paused, dragged a thumb over your cheek where a solitary tear fell, his gaze transforming before you, shifting back to opaque blue, tender as if he had just been possessed by someone else: “...admired by the most beautiful roses in a garden. And your mouth like fine wine for my beloved, that flows smoothly, moving the lips of those who sleep. I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me. Come, my beloved, let us go to the countryside, let us spend the night in the villages.¹”

They were Father Gael’s words, which had touched you deeply when he read the Song of Songs, between giggles and stolen glances. But you had never sealed your lips together, never exchanged wine between your tongues, and he had certainly never touched your breasts like clusters of grapes. Yet here was Remmick at your disposal, now tracing your waist as no one ever had, so close, breath like blood-wine, eyes scorching crimson, wanting to kiss and devour you, to taste the fields of Elysium on your lips and enter Eden between your legs.

‘Weak, how weak you are—’ you began to think as Remmick gripped your waist, waves of heat coursing through your body, your mind one step from surrender—‘but this feels so… human.’ Your inner voice slowly gave way, allowing you to fall.

Remmick cupped your face as if holding the Body of Christ between his fingers after celebrating the Word during Communion:

“Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body—” Then his lips crashed against yours, his tongue piercing you, flesh made alive inside you as you pulled him closer, opening your mouth so he could take your tongue, letting yourself be led by the man who uttered such sacrileges like the most beautiful poems of green fields from some bucolic dream of yours. The kiss was wet and profane, your breath ragged through your nostrils, guided by him, pressed even tighter between the pew and his body.

He then lifted you by your arms, wrapped around him, walking to the center of the pews, down the aisle that led the Brides of Christ to the Altar. There, he set you down, smiling victoriously, capturing your lips once more in a wet kiss, your tongues meeting softly as if that kiss were your destiny. Your heart pounded in your throat, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer with a plea:

“Remmick!”

He pulled away, saliva mingling between you, his eyes once again blood-red:

“Today, as it is Easter Sunday, it is fitting for us to celebrate the glory of your Lord over death! So let us pray together.” His hand slid down your dominant arm, taking your sweaty, icy hand in his, placing it against the bulge between his legs. There, beneath the black cassock, beneath layers of fabric, you felt him hard. A rigidness that filled your palm and made you want to weep with desire, feeling your cunt grow wet and throb for him. Remmick licked his lips:

“Kneel before me, for we shall pray together, my little angel!” he uttered sordidly, his other hand pushing your head down to kneel there, at a distance from the Altar and the Christ who watched with rigid, dead eyes. You obeyed, your weak knees hitting the floor, looking up at him as if about to receive your holy host.

He caressed your face, fingers pressing your lower lip, his other hand slipping beneath the cassock, unbuckling a belt that jingled, unzipping and parting the robe to expose the cock that sprang free for you—wet and rigid, veins tracing from base to reddened tip, an invitation to kiss it with relish. Remmick guided you to his length, whispering:

“Open your mouth, Sister, to receive your sacred host.” He groaned roughly when your mouth embraced him, your tongue pressing against cold flesh, a deep taste of skin and lust, making you rise and fall with hoarse moans of pleasure, thrusting into your mouth, fucking you with his cock, gripping your hair with one hand, making you gag slightly, tears welling each time he hit deep, delighting in your wet, lewd noises as he vengefully eyed the image of that Redeemer.

You moaned longingly when he pulled away, raising your eyes like a merciful one in prayer. Remmick stroked your face, marred by drool and escaped tears, his cock hard, slick, dripping precum between him and your face.

“We’ve only just begun our celebration, darling. Stand up.”

He motioned with a commanding finger, making you rise on unsteady legs, gazing at him with adoration. Remmick looked you up and down, pausing at the rosary wrapped around your waist, taking it between his fingers. But as he brushed against the silver chain linking each crystalline bead, he hissed in pain. You glimpsed a wisp of smoke rising from his fingertips.

“Silver, hmm? This will be interesting—” He yanked the rosary from your waist, coiling it around his dominant hand: “—Take off your clothes and lay them on the floor. I don’t want you to feel the cold of these tiles.” He shrugged, watching you nod, drunk on his taste in your mouth and the desire surging in your body: “Only the ice of my cock splitting you open.”

You didn’t mind the crude language.

You smiled, in fact, feeling free as you undressed before him, baring your virginal nakedness like a sacrifice offered for slaughter. The frigid air made you shiver, but Remmick’s body enveloped you—the embrace of death—kissing your neck with the passion of a Christ who surrendered to the cross, pulling you down until you lay on your back atop your once-immaculate habit. You, naked before him. Remmick, still in his priestly cassock. From that angle, he radiated a bluish aura, smiling with diabolical pleasure, thick drool trailing from the corner of his lips to his chin, hair disheveled, the white clerical collar beneath his Adam’s apple ready to claim his Eve, his cock wet and exposed, your rosary coiled in his hand, the slightest contact with the silver causing faint burns and pain.

Remmick growled authoritatively:

“Pray for me.”

“Huh?” you asked, dazed, lost between his flaming eyes, blue soul, and the wetness between your legs. Remmick repeated, softer this time:

“Pray for me, angel. Don’t you say that condemned souls like mine need salvation? Then… Pray once more. Extend your hands.”

Obedient, you did as he asked, for he was your Shepherd, and all you needed was to follow.

You clasped your palms, extending them upward—toward him. He took them, winding the rosary around your wrists, binding you to him and to God. His fingers trailed bead by bead, silver upon silver, until the rosary’s end—the silver cross—which he gripped like claws forming at his nails. Remmick smiled his most wicked, sardonic smile. You kept your knees pressed together, hiding the valley of Lilith between them. The monster teased:

“Open those legs for me, darling.”

“What will you do…?” Your voice came out thin, a flicker of courage. Remmick clicked his tongue, his free hand squeezing your knee as he knelt between your legs, the cassock now covering his cock.

“Just open them and accept Jesus Christ inside you.”

You gasped and relented, spreading yourself, baring flesh and desire to him.

Remmick wet his lips, never breaking eye contact, guiding the silver between your legs. The cold metal against your burning clit made you shudder and writhe, steadied only by the vampire’s grip. The tip of the crucifix pricked you painfully, pleasurably, your body restless, craving more as he devoured every reaction—your parted lips, rough moans, languid gaze—while his finger, though burning from direct contact with the silver, pressed the cross against your clit. He laughed at the pathetic comparison—that he was exorcising your body, wielding the cross against your slit, the pearl that had only ever been touched by your own hands, commanding you with the rosary coiled around your wrists, growing ever thirstier for what you could offer—not just your dragged-out moans of virginal pleasure, not just your climax or your virginity—but the corruption of a soul, the rotting of Christian faith, the rupture that made Cain turn on Abel and Bathsheba betray her husband for King David. It was funny how those biblical tales echoed in his mind, still fresh from Father Gael, whom he had made sure to sink his teeth into. Gael's prayers threaded through in Remmick memories as he fucked you.

He gathered saliva in his mouth, bent down, and spat against your slit, slicking where he rubbed, watching you with servitude, his other hand keeping your leg spread as you felt something unfamiliar grow inside you—that precipice you had stared at earlier now staring back, your heart pounding alive, sweat beading on your forehead and spine, your fingers twitching restlessly, your eyes squeezed shut, gasping for air, arching until the crown of your head pressed against the floor, turning your now-open eyes toward the altar, seeing an upside-down Crucified Christ on the day of His Resurrection.

“Remmick! Remmick! Remmick!”

“You sound like Mary Magdalene, my Holy Angel—” Remmick laughed, fingers working your cunt, smearing his claws in your heavenly nectar, anointed with his own toxic saliva. Your eyes met his, restless: “—the Lord’s whore who wept at His feet. Crying for her dead Messiah… Ironic, no?”

A strangled whimper escaped your lips as the pulsations of orgasm overtook your body. Remmick brought his slick fingers to his mouth, sucking them lasciviously before leaning over you, covering your body with his, hovering above your head, whispering against your parted lips as you gasped for thin air:

“Feel the holy water on your lips.” He cupped your chin, tilting your head back, opening your mouth to spit into it.

His taste mixed with yours. Wine and blood. Cruelty and lies.

And it was so delicious because it was the sin your flesh craved. Smiling against his lips, you kissed him, met by his tongue caressing you slowly, almost patiently, contrasting with the entire scene. Remmick pressed his hard cock against you, breaking the wet kiss, looking down:

“Now it’s my turn to desecrate this beautiful Temple of God, hmm?” Almost purring, already pushing aside his cassock to grip his cock when your voice cut through, clear:

“Get naked.”

“Sister?” he asked, almost genuine curiosity in his tone, raising a brow. You mustered a mischievous smile:

“Please, Remmick. I want you naked, just like me.”

“Equal for equal…” He nodded. “Fair.”

First, he removed the clerical collar from his neck, discarding it like nothing—the stiff fabric that had choked him. He unbuttoned the cassock hastily, shedding the black robe to reveal that beneath, he wore only pants and shoes, exposing his bare torso—defined, pale as a petal of a Night-Blooming Jasmine, veined in blue and green. A putrid, marbled body, a sculpture of a pagan god before you. His cock stood rigid, even more beautiful adorned with dark hair, like his locks. He rose against that blue aura, now blazing red, his eyes aflame for you, his diabolical smile breaking into fangs.

Completely naked amid the candle flames, in the chapel’s icy air yet burning infernally, you desired him with your entire being. The air was so thin your chest heaved violently, your sweat warm, and between your legs, a scorching ache. Your eyes begged for him—he who had discarded the rosary to undress but now reclaimed it as he knelt before you again.

“You are like a God,” you murmured, strangled between ragged breaths, just as he aligned himself with you, the tip of his cock brushing your slit. Remmick exhaled a stagnant breath, covering you, his rigid torso against your soft breasts, releasing a needy moan—he, too, had thirsted for this. His hand guided his length to your entrance, locking eyes with you—a silent warning that the pact had been made, and there was no turning back—before burying himself in you, corrupting you, flooding you with his flesh, your sin, splitting you open with voluptuous ferocity. But there was no rush. No, quite the opposite—Remmick stayed still inside you, feeling you pulse and ache around him, the dagger finally piercing the Lamb of Sorrows’ heart—for that was what you were, like the Mater Dolorosa², your agony the monster’s joy, who tasted through the blood staining his fangs the seven swords embedded in your heart.

And then he began, slow and painful, whispering in your ear as he speared you with his length:

“The first pain came from those who promised you the world but abandoned you here.” 

You closed your eyes, feeling your heart burn as if he were truly driving the swords into you. He continued, another thrust: “The second pain came when you found yourself alone here… And the third—” He snapped his hips, driving into you twice, deep: “—this one, my love, pierced you like a rusted dagger, for it came when your menstruation arrived and they told you the blood leaving your body was impure…”

“Remmick… How do you—” You choked back the rest, wanting to cry. He stared at you, bloodshot eyes, drooling like a rabid animal, releasing the rosary’s grip on your wrists to slide his hands to your throat, squeezing as he delivered three more rhythmic thrusts—deep, pain and pleasure mingling, leaving you dazed with desire: “I know because I tasted your blood. And blood does not lie. The fourth—fifth—” He panted, restraining his own pleasure, your soft, tight walls squeezing him, almost pushing him out: “—and the sixth sword, all at once, when the only ones who stood by you in this cursed place left. Oh, my angel, how pitiful you are…” He held you as if to console you.

He paused.

He waited for something—and you gave it:

“And the seventh sword…?” You arched against him, seeking the blade that might finally kill you.

Remmick then raised your body, kneeling beneath your hips, lifting you open before him, gripping your thighs, the rosary coiled between you like chains, binding you to him. Still buried inside you, he looked at you with apathetic sympathy. His voice deepened, a bestial echo rising from within as his claws lengthened and his teeth grew more monstrous:

“It is my pain.”

You stared in confusion, but as he thrust once more—deep and hard—you understood. You gasped, your arms seeking support on the habit shielding you from the cold floor, but he was right—his body was cutting against yours. Yet so pleasurable. Moving in and out, drooling and bending to your breasts, where he captured a nipple, his tongue worshiping where flesh was softest, your sweet sweat making it tastier. Fucking into your wetness, virgin blood and slick, he dragged his tongue to your left breast—where your heart pounded. His throat tightened with hunger, lips sealing over your skin in a harsh, loud suck before sinking his fangs into the flesh.

Stabbed through the heart.

He, your greatest pain.

You moaned, rolled your eyes back, gripped his head as the vampire consumed you, drinking from the hot spring, filling his mouth with that sacred liquid. When he pulled away, leaving a stigmata, he murmured the final words of Communion:

“And Jesus said: take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the eternal blood of the new covenant. Our covenant.”

Your blood dripped from his mouth, the burning pain and relentless thrusts lifting you to a state of relief in death. You whispered a fragile “Amen.” But Remmick wasn’t satisfied. He stood, pulling you up by the rosary, forcing you to your knees, seeking your lips to kiss you hungrily, offering you his wine—from his lips, the sacred chalice, from his wine, the consummation of this personal Christ’s body. The bread becoming flesh, the wine becoming blood.

Your blood stained your skin in vivid streaks. On your knees, he turned you toward the Altar, toward He who watched in perpetual static permanence—He who did not hear you.

The monster’s hand cupped your face, keeping it fixed on the image. His other hand reclaimed you, winding the rosary around your wrists again, binding you to him. He began thrusting deeper, frenzied, licking your neck:

“What is your favorite prayer, my angel? The one you used to cry out when you were still God’s little lamb?”

“Hail Mary,” you murmured. The monster laughed, already knowing what you’d say—he just wanted to hear it from your lips, dirtied with your own blood. He scraped his fangs against your sensitive skin, feeling your jugular pulse:

“Then pray it, so we may finish our celebration, angel!”

A shiver ran down your spine, pleasure filling you more than the pain of corruption and the wound on your breast, as you began the prayer taught to you years ago:

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee).” Remmick pressed deeper into you, teasing your neck, feeling you tighten around his cock. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesu. (Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.)” Your voice rose shrill, high-pitched, eyes shutting as he bit your neck—the Final Supper, sating himself with your virginal blood—more than what now stained his cock, but the blood within, the most intimate. You ran out of air. 

Remmick whispered in his beastly voice: “Continue, I’ll help you…” leading the chorus as you followed:

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, (Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners)” Thick tears mixed with your blood, diluted by the vampire’s venom, the prelude to your death embracing you alongside fatal ecstasy. Your voice came out in a sigh, then a long moan, as behind you, he growled the final words: “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. (now and at the hour of our death.)” Your body arched, your eyes glimpsed the glory of Heaven, and that was the greatest moment of your life.

In unison, you and Remmick cried:

“Amen.”

Remmick came abundantly inside you, keeping you bound to him, releasing a bestial, guttural groan from the depths of his cursed being.

Then came your last words in life:

“I think Paradise is more beautiful here with you, Remmick… Paradise is here with you.”

“You’re right, my love. It is here with me. Your god.” He murmured as your body went limp and trembled in his arms, blood staining your skin, a look of blissful joy as you died the sweet death he promised.

And Remmick held you.

Your body stretched in his arms, fragile, welcoming the imminent death of the flesh, your spirit rejoicing in the Angels blowing trumpets above you—and the Demons crawling at your feet. Blood washing the skin tainted by bites, divine wetness soaking where the beastly bond was made. You, like a dead Jesus, the spear that pierced His heart now the bite of your Pietà—Remmick in an expression of condolence and pleasure, holding in his arms, stained with morbid wine, your body. The false prophet, the vampire-monster, raised his blazing eyes to the heavens, as if challenging that supposed God who condemned him to this burden—this venomous curse that now corroded and blessed your body. Baptism of a life. Resurrection of a damned soul; death of vile flesh.

Remmick smiled in delight, glorying in corruption for mere whim, in devastating those poor souls and claiming for himself a lamb tainted by that God who once brought him so much torment. The vampire, in his monstrous form, had elongated claws that enveloped you like dry branches impaling you, his eyes nothing but scarlet limbo, his fangs jagged and protruding past his lips, the holy blood corrupted by his venom.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing a thick, flesh-red rivulet down his chin. With his fingers, he wiped the crimson liquid, bringing the wet tips to his lips so as not to waste a single drop. For you had been taught that waste was a sin—and now your sacred teachings lived inside him. 

Eternal.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: [a/n continuation...] by far one of the longest pieces i've written here for remmick (and maybe the only one, ksksksksk), i poured myself into this story because if there's anything i love, it's tales of love and profanity, hatred and human disbelief... mixed with the eroticism and bestiality of a vampire? EVEN BETTER!!! so yes, it was a laborious labor (forgive the redundancy, soskkssk)—writing, pausing for days, returning, rereading, rewriting sections, cutting others—like my scientific methodology professor once said ('bout write smting): "it's the work of an artisan." and obviously, there's the direct inspiration/basis from the song 'monolith', from that album that sparked the idea to create at least three fanfics inspired by my favorite songs from it, and the AMAZING mini-series 'lambs of god' (2019). IF YOU'VE READ THIS FAR, THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY DAMNED UTERUS AND CORRUPTED HEART!!! seriously... writing this was SURREAL for me—insane yet so fucking delicious kssksksksk. i won't lie: the more depraved and drenched in catholic imagery (for reasons already screamed above sksksksk), the BETTER for me. hell, if so many men have written far worse things, who am i to hold back, right? now a heads-up: as mentioned, this is the second of three special fics inspired by emma and thou's god-tier album. but for the third installment... i'll need more time—like, a month-ish? until then, i'll be cooking up other fanfics about other jackie characters. see you in the next one, my loves. <3

"THE ECSTASY OF SAINT TERESA" created by GIAN LORENZO BERNINI. it depicts SAINT TERESA OF ÁVILA experiencing a mystical union with GOD, described as 'a spiritual pain that also brought physical pleasure'. (source: google). basically how i imagined the whole scene a few lines above, then finally, the PIETÀ (by far my fav sculpture ever :)

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.