Stand Alone
Goodreads

Blurb:
I’m a priest, a messenger of God, a good man. At least that’s what I would have them all believe.

She’s a lost lamb, cast adrift from her flock and seeking shelter from the wolves snapping at her heels. She’s looking for salvation, protection, forgiveness for her sins. I’m not the man to give it to her. But for the first time in my life, I want to be.

Little does she know…

For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.

EXCERPT:
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession.”

I smile, instantly recognizing her voice, soft and well spoken, undoubtedly feminine.

“I will hear your confession.” I repeat the words I’ve probably spoken hundreds if not thousands of times. Mundane words meant as a service to God, but they feel wrong with her. Devoid. I lean forward, tilting my head slightly towards the partition because I don’t want to miss a word.

“I did a horrible thing, and I can’t forgive myself.”

Five days. She’s been in here for the last five days like clock work. I’m not even supposed to be here this afternoon, but I came in. For this. For her. She came the last time Father Daniels was taking confession, but she wouldn’t confess to him. Only me. And that does something to me. Five days, and she always says the same thing. I did a horrible thing, and I can’t forgive myself. And every day, I give her the same bullshit response. We’re both pretending, both playing a role. Maybe she needs that right now, to be the lost lamb, seeking her shepherd. But she never truly confesses. Whatever eats away at her day after day, she never gives it voice, but she will. One day. And oh, how I long for that moment.

Each time she comes here I’m on edge, waiting, desperate to hear the truth fall from her lips. I want to know what she did. I want to think that this girl, the pretty girl with the sad eyes is in fact corrupt. As corrupt as me even? The thought shouldn’t be so thrilling.

I press my back to the solid wood behind me, forcing myself to remain there and not lean forward, not to catch just a glimpse of her face.

“God forgives those who truly repent, Delila,” I say, like a broken record. At this point, she usually leaves, but not today.

“I do repent.”

“Then why do you come here every day?”

“Because I believe that I deserve to carry this guilt.”

“If you truly confessed your sin then you may find yourself absolved of it,” I prompt.

There’s a beat of silence, then her hand presses up against the divider, the intricate mesh pressing into the milky skin of her palm. The urge to touch her creeps up on me, whispering in my ear, and I wonder if she feels as soft as she looks. “Thank you, father,” she says, before her hand slides away and she leaves the booth.
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