The Fallen (Annual Game Night: Sector Five Alphas #3)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sister Emily Agnes

T he bitter cold grips me even from deep within the bowels of my habit. The other Sisters seem unaffected, but no doubt it’s because they’re used to this weather. Perhaps when given the choices of where I wanted to end up after our small congregation was dismantled, I should have taken the elements into account.

Huddling in as deeply as I can, I look back at the window as a strange gnawing tears at my insides. I know he’s there. I cannot tell how I possess such a knowledge, but it’s as clear to me as my own heart pounding in my chest. Up ahead, the others make their trek to the chapel to set up for Mass, but I do not wish to go with them.

Something makes me long to stay rooted at the spot and stare at the window, hoping it will reveal the priest inside. But that’s absurd. Every morning we make this same pilgrimage, and every morning I see nothing but a reflection of cold desolation.

Behind me, the Mother Superior gives a soft harrumph as she urges me on. One week here, and already I’m on her bad side. I mustn’t tarry, or else I’m sure she’ll find yet another abysmal chore for me to do.

Though, if I’m being honest, I really shouldn’t complain. Coming here after being sequestered in a convent is a breath of fresh air, a freedom I never knew could be afforded to me. Here, I can come and go with relative ease.

In some ways, it’s still all so new and frightening. We had a priest who would assist in our prayers and partake in the Liturgy of the Eucharist, but he was always distanced, separated from us by a fence. Here, I can see the Father Confessor at all turns, even when I do not expect him.

Shoving these thoughts to the side, I hurry my stride to catch up with the other Sisters. There is still so much to do before our official day can begin. As I help prepare for Mass, I let my thoughts wander, doing my best to steer them away from the priest and onto things of a more holy nature.

Unfortunately, they keep drifting back. Hopefully, it’s a discomfort that will ease the longer I am here. I’m simply not used to being around a male, much less an Alpha. Biting down on my lower lip, I kneel and cross myself before taking my place in a pew.

The others file in beside me, hemming me in. For a moment, I feel trapped, unable to breathe. Where it was once far too cold, it is now stifling, threatening to choke me as I reach for my rosary. I only need to breathe. Just one deep breath.

As I pray to myself, I run my fingers along the worn beads, allowing the familiarity to comfort me and shore me up. Soon, the tight band squeezing my heart loosens until I can draw in a full breath of air. Next to me, the other Sisters seem to not notice my distress.

Not that I want them to. It’s silly to have my heart pound so hard at the very idea of taking communion from this Alpha. My muscles clench, nearly drawing a groan from my lips, but I manage to stifle it before drawing any extra undue attention my way. Perhaps after Mass, I’ll see one of the Sisters practiced in medicine. Maybe she can tell me what ails me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, begging God that I am well, and that nothing is truly wrong with me. I’ve never felt this way before, never had the very air I breathe pulled out of my lungs by some unseen hand set to rob me. Again, the hysteria rises as I clutch my rosary.

As I chant within my mind, the door opens from behind us. The other Sisters stand as still as a statue, but I long to turn and look, to see the priest as he enters these holy chambers. Again, my heart pounds in my chest, so hard and strong, I fear the others must hear it, but they make no mention.

They all stay with their eyes affixed to the crucifix, the same place I’m supposed to be looking. All my thoughts should be there, residing in Him who we serve. And yet, as the spicy scent of incense and man hits my nostrils, I am nearly brought to my knees.

An odd cramp twists my uterus, nearly doubling me forward. Though I catch myself on the pew in front of me and hold myself still, my actions garner curious glances from the other Sisters and a stern glare from Mother Superior. Next to her, the Abbess shakes her head and straightens her shoulders, silently chastising me.

But then, they can’t possibly know there’s something wrong. None of them have any look of concern on their faces. Does this mean I am fine and merely going into hysterics for nothing? As I force myself to stand up straight, the Father Confessor edges ever closer, his feet silent against the cool stone.

He walks as if floating on air, as if he himself can also walk upon the waters. Such thoughts are blasphemous, to be sure, but I find myself unable to keep such ideations away. Perhaps this is something I can seek help for in confession.

And yet, the instant that thought comes into my mind, I shove it right back out. Any time spent alone with the Father Confessor is dangerous. At least it is until I can get these wild machinations out of my mind. The last thing I want is to be sent away again, cast upon the breeze, to land in an unknown place.

Though it’s rough being so new, I’ve already found somewhat of a home amongst these women and the students I tutor. It’s not perfect by any means, but it can only grow. At least, that’s what I hope.

To be forced to leave, to start over anew yet again... it’s somehow more painful to imagine than standing in front of the Alpha Father Confessor himself as he berates me for my numerous sins.

My body twitches as he passes by. His scent invades my nostrils, bringing that odd cramp back into my body. Cool wood meets my palms as I dig my fingers into the curve of the pew, forcing my body to remain upright.

He pauses. The Alpha Confessor pauses. Why? Why has he stopped?

Turning, his gaze locks onto mine. For a moment, time stands still. His light blue eyes bore into me, darkening by increments until they’re black and glazed over. However, as soon as I blink, they’re back to his normal color. I must have imagined it.

Now, more than ever, I worry about my very sanity. What can this possibly mean?

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” his deep voice booms into the small crowd.

My vision swims as I cross myself. “Amen.” The other Sisters cry out in unison, their voices drowning out my own.

“The Lord be with you.” Each word caresses my skin as if he’s touching me with them, tracing the holy greeting onto my body with his fingertips.

“And with your spirit.” Though my lips part, moving in the same words the other Sisters pronounce, no sounds come out.

I am silent, unable to trust myself as I go through the motions, sitting when I’m supposed to sit, standing when I’m supposed to stand, and moving my lips when I’m supposed to speak. On the outside, I am every inch the dutiful Sister, a paragon of holiness. However, deep inside, it’s as if a cavern opens up, as deep as the pits of hell, threatening to consume me with every haggard breath.

His words as he reads from the Holy scriptures sound like static in my brain, a fuzzing around the edges threatening to pull me under. Around me, the others perform the call and response with an enthusiasm appropriate to the ceremony, and yet, I cannot.

I’m far too consumed with the way my pulse slithers over my body and settles between my legs. I ache and throb, my insides twisting as if my body is pulled into a spasm. But I’ve never had a spasm between my legs before. To be sure, my arms and thighs have had their fair share, but it was nothing a quick, thorough massage couldn’t cure.

Hopefully that’s all that’s needed to bring my body and spirit back to rights. Exquisite agony shatters through the muscles of my thighs as I dig my nails into the skin through the thick fabric of my habit. The sudden bite of pain allows my head to clear, just in time for the Father Confessor to begin the Liturgy of the Eucharist.

I do my best to follow along, to say the right thing, do the right thing, but I’m distracted, unable to put all my attention toward God and His word. All I can think about is the Father Confessor’s dark, unruly hair as it curls around the nape of his neck, his long, strong fingers as he skims them over the altar book, and his haunting gaze that seems to somehow always land on me.

Heat floods my system, nearly driving me to my knees. What unholy feeling is this? It’s as if hellfire laps at my heels, threatening to engulf me.

A sharp nudge to my ribs slams into me, causing the small muscles in my ribs to seize up for a moment. What breaths were already difficult to draw are now near impossible as I force my mind back to the ceremony. Already the Sisters next to me on the left are in the aisle, making their way up to where the Father Confessor waits with the Eucharist.

Saliva pools on my tongue as I make my way forward, inching ever closer to the man who haunts my days and nights. Though there are still others before me, it’s as if he’s watching me, studying my every move. Every twitch causes his gaze to slide over to me, like a predator hunting his prey.

A wolf among the sheep.

But such thoughts are blasphemous if not outright absurd.

Again, my pulse quickens with every chaste step, with every minuscule bit of space between him and me. The distance closes far faster than I’d like until I’m face to face with him—my tormentor and my salvation.

His eyes turn black as coal as he stands there, watching me. For a moment, he sways, but it’s so slight, I cannot say for sure I’m not just seeing things. Inclining my head forward, I do my best to be reverent and respectful, but his scent overwhelms me.

It’s dark and masculine, something I’ve never experienced before moving here. No doubt the other priest that assisted through the gates was a beta and not prone to such odors. Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s just Father Draven.

Closing my eyes, I draw the forbidden air deep into my lungs. It’s like the salty spray of the ocean as it slams against the rocks, of the scorching sun as it bakes the warm sand, and of dark twilight with only the stars to light the way.

He’s familiar and foreign all at once, an amalgamation of longing for the past and desperation for the future. As I lift my eyes, he smiles down at me, but it’s not tender. There’s something cruel lurking behind the depths of blue that calls me to sink further into the spell the Father Confessor weaves around me.

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Perhaps it’s merely the higher elevation and cold that makes me see such odd things and feel such conflicting emotions rioting through my body. Either way, I’m lost as he looks at me, holding my gaze for far longer than he did with the other Sisters.

I kneel at the altar, my breath coming in haggard gasps. If the Sisters around me notice, they make no mention. Sweat beads at my forehead as he starts from one side of the altar rail and moves over each Sister before coming to me.

“The Body of Christ, The Bread of Life,” he eventually murmurs, holding out a bit of bread for me to take.

My fingers tremble as I cross myself and slide it into my palm. The other Sisters slip it into their mouths, but I merely kneel there, holding onto it as my stomach revolts. I’ll have to partake, eventually.

Thankfully, I have these few minutes before he comes back with the wine. Just a few moments where I might collect myself and bring my attention back to Christ. But it doesn’t work.

All I can concentrate on is the maddening swirl of his cassock as he moves about, agile and seductive, like a serpent circling its prey. The glint of the silver chalice drives me to distraction, making my vision splinter and shatter until I have to close my eyes to keep the headache at bay.

Again, I hold out my palm, keeping the bread in the center as he comes back my way. The other Sisters can drink from his hand with nary an issue, but it seems as if I am not that strong. I don’t even dare look at him as he takes the bread from me and dips it into the chalice.

“The Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation.” His words pour over me like warm honey drizzling over a hot, buttered roll.

It does things to my calm, disturbs me in a way I cannot articulate. A soft moan, so slight that it’s nearly unperceivable, flits past my lips as I hold my mouth open to him, inviting this Father Confessor to slide his fingers inside to rub the Holy Communion against my tongue. He hovers over me, looming over my bent, submissive form.

I don’t even question the intrusive thoughts as they thrum through me, making me burn once more as he sets the thin wafer against my sensitive organ. Instead of pulling back, he keeps his fingers there for a moment, pausing, rubbing me as he pulls back out.

For just that infinitesimal instant, my world goes dark as I pitch forward, forcing his thick digits even further into my mouth until I gag. With a loud roar, he pulls back as I fall against the altar rail in a slump. His hands are rough as they grip me hard through the billowing sleeves of my habit.

So strong, so virile, and so masculine. So inappropriate for me to contemplate. Soon, other hands, softer, gentler, feminine hands, scoop me up and carry me away.

As I blink, the other Sisters come into focus, their eyes traveling over my body as they lead me away. For a moment, my feet refuse to find the floor. They splay out from under me as if I’m a newborn colt in need of assistance.

“Are you well?” one of them asks as she lays her hand against my cheeks. “She’s warm. Perhaps the infirmary?”

“No,” I croak, glancing back at the Father Confessor, noting the worry pinching his brows as he finishes serving the wine to the other Sisters. “I think I kneeled wrong, is all. Possibly cut off blood to my brain. As for feeling warm, I think it is just the contrast between the outside and here. I- I think I’ll be fine.”

“Be that as it may,” Mother Superior murmurs, pulling me further off to the side to not be a distraction. “I feel a day in bed will serve you well. You’re still getting used to things here. At the convent, you were not overwhelmed with all this extra stimulation. I fear it might be too much for you.”

“No!” I cry out, gripping the front of her habit. “Please, don’t send me away. I will try harder. Do better-”

“Silence, my child. No one is sending you away. I merely worry about your health.”

I glance over her shoulder, watching as the service continues without me. “I don’t know what to do,” I finally admit, unease slinking over my body like an oily film.

“Fear not, Sister Agnes. In time, you will learn our ways and become used to dealing with the public. In the meantime, I’m restricting you to the abbey. You may assist with chores around here and one of the other Sisters will take over your tutoring.”

“But-”

She holds up her hand. “No buts. My word is final. It was against my better judgment that I allowed you so much unfettered access at all. Why, with your history, I should have kept you secluded from the onset and allowed you freedoms at a much slower pace.”

Then I wouldn’t have seen the Father Confessor until I was far stronger to handle the pure Alphaness about him. A romantic notion, to be sure, but I’d wager my very soul that the outcome would have been the same. Nothing would have prepared me for him.

With great reluctance, I hang my head and allow the Mother Superior to guide me back to my room. The only blessing is the frigid wind that bites at my face, cooling the heat still climbing my cheeks. As she opens my door, I turn, my insides still twisting as I make sense of everything.

“Will I have to spend my time in silence?”

Her lips turn up into a soft smile. “This is not a punishment, dear child. Merely a form of protection. You may speak to the other Sisters as you normally would. I leave you to your rest.”

Unfortunately, as the door clicks behind me, I find that rest is the very last thing I want or need. Frantically, I pace about the room, my fingers trembling as I try to make sense of the cacophony in my mind. Storming over to my armoire, I wrench open the door and remove my habit, taking great care not to take out my anxiety on the fabric.

I slide into a soft nightgown and pad back over to the bed, determined to take the rest I’m ordered. But I cannot sleep. I cannot get comfortable. Even now, my thighs ache and burn as an odd liquid drips from between my thighs.

Being raised within a cloistered order from the time of my infancy, such things have never happened at my old convent. Not like this. I have no reference, no ability to understand what it is my body is enduring.

Pulling up the hem of my nightgown, I slide my fingers down my thighs, kneading the sore flesh as I’ve done on countless occasions. Unfortunately, the ache does not subside. Deep down, I know that’s not the part of me causing discomfort.

And so, I spread my thighs and touch myself, caressing the intimate flesh that aches and burns in a relentless need. The moment I graze my fingertips across the raised bundle of nerves, my body bows up. Pleasure surges through me, robbing me of my breath, much like the Father Confessor.

What in heaven have I discovered?