CHAPTER SIX
916 Words
“And Lead Us Not Into Temptation”
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The chapel was cold, yet her skin burned.
Sister Amara knelt before the altar long after the bells had stopped ringing, her rosary clutched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Each bead slipped through trembling fingers as she mouthed the words she no longer felt.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”
She paused. The next line caught in her throat.
She could still feel his breath on her neck.
His hands, barely touching yet scorching her through layers of cloth.
His lips, whispering her name like a sin he was dying to commit.
“…the Lord is with thee.”
She blinked back tears.
God was supposed to be with her too. But why did she feel so utterly alone?
Behind her, the great wooden doors creaked open.
She didn’t need to turn. She knew it was him.
His presence no longer needed sight — it lived beneath her skin now, humming in her bones, haunting her every breath.
“Amara,” Father Damien’s voice was quiet, careful, almost afraid to disturb the air between them.
She stood but did not turn. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
A pause.
“Because if I wait any longer, I fear I’ll lose my mind.”
She turned slowly.
He was no longer the pristine priest from the pulpit — his robes were slightly rumpled, his hair unkempt, his eyes… God, his eyes.
They were red-rimmed and heavy. As though he hadn’t slept since that night.
Neither had she.
“We haven’t spoken since the garden,” he said, his voice husky.
“You ran,” she replied, unable to keep the tremor from her words.
“I had to,” he said. “If I had stayed…” His jaw tightened. “I would have done something neither of us could undo.”
A silence fell. The candles around the altar flickered, as though the chapel itself held its breath.
Amara’s hands curled at her sides.
“You already did.”
His breath caught.
She wasn’t talking about the kiss they shared under the olive tree. Or the way his fingers had brushed her face. It was what came after — the silence, the fear, the absence of him.
“You left me to bear the weight of it alone,” she said softly. “You didn’t just run from me. You ran from us.”
“There can’t be an ‘us,’” Damien said, stepping closer. “You know that.”
She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. “You say that like we chose this.”
“I’ve given everything to the Church. My life. My soul. My name. I can’t throw it away because I—”
“Because you what?” she challenged.
His lips parted, but no words came out.
“Because you want me? Or because you love me?”
He looked tortured.
“I don’t know what it is anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “All I know is that I crave your presence like a dying man craves air.”
His confession shattered the air between them.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the tear sliding down his cheek.
“I wake every morning praying for deliverance from this,” he said. “And every night I dream of you. I kiss your hands in those dreams, Amara. I touch your face and beg you to forgive me. I hear your voice calling me back from the edge. But every day, I fall deeper.”
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the flickering light behind him.
“We didn’t ask for this,” she said. “But it’s here. It’s real.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. And it’s tearing me apart.”
She took a shaky step forward.
“Then let it,” she whispered.
His eyes searched hers.
“Let it destroy us,” she continued. “But don’t run from it anymore.”
In the stillness, their breaths were the only sound.
Then his arms were around her.
Not rough. Not desperate. But gentle — as though he were finally holding the one thing he never thought he’d deserve.
Her hands found his chest, gripping the soft fabric of his robe. She buried her face there, tears soaking through.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered.
“So am I,” he replied. “But I’d rather be terrified with you than safe without you.”
They stayed like that, wrapped in fragile warmth, until the candles burned low.
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Elsewhere...
Far above the chapel, behind the latticed screen of the old bell tower, someone watched.
A flick of movement.
A breath.
And then silence again.
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The Next Morning
Whispers stirred the convent like a breeze before a storm.
Sister Bernadette looked up from her prayers as two novices exchanged nervous glances.
“The bishop is coming,” one said.
“From Abuja,” the other added. “They say it’s sudden. Unexpected.”
Father Damien heard it too.
He stood at the edge of the courtyard, the sun casting long shadows across the stones.
His gaze found Amara’s across the walkway. She was helping in the garden, her hands coated in soil, her veil loose. She looked at peace — and yet, not.
They both knew peace was fleeting.
Trouble was coming.
And it wore a Bishop’s ring.
- Writer
