The Nun's Lustful Desire

ANGEL'S POV The water swallows me whole, and still I cannot stop reaching for him. The sea stretches forever. Above me, the sky is pale, and the sun burns my skin, even as icy water grips my legs. There is no shore, no birds, no wind—only endless dark water. I scream for help, but my voice vanishes into the silence. Even my breathing seems to disappear. Something moves beneath me—too big to see, too steady to be random. It knows I’m here. I kick toward the surface once, twice, but on the third kick, my lungs burn. Darkness wraps around my legs and pulls me deeper. Then, just before I sink, a hand grabs my wrist. His fingers are so cold my skin goes numb beneath them. I should be afraid of a hand like that, reaching for me out of nowhere in an endless Dead Sea. Instead, my heart betrays me with one stupid, fluttering beat, as if it knows him. I look up. He is unnervingly beautiful, like he doesn’t belong in this world. Silver hair floats around his face, and his clothes drift weightlessly in the water. I try to see his eyes, but the water keeps blurring his face, as if it doesn’t want me to remember him. Yet somehow, I can’t look away. I feel his thumb press once against my pulse, like he’s checking if I’m still here. He pulls me upward with impossible gentleness, as though he already knows exactly how fragile I am. I should pray. I should be afraid. A stranger, cold as ice, is pulling me through endless water. But fear never comes. Instead, I feel strangely safe in his hands. And somehow, that scares me more than drowning ever could. Just before I breach the surface, I hear his voice against my ear, low and rough, like he hasn’t used it in years. “I found you.” Then everything goes black. BANG. BANG. My alarm tears through the dream. I jolt upright so fast that I tangle myself in the blanket and roll straight off the bed. My head clips the floor hard enough to make my vision flash. “Angel? For the love of God—” one of my nannies calls from downstairs. Mara. “Yes! I’m fine!” I call back, rubbing my head. Yes. That’s me. A heavy sleeper. And apparently, drowning in my dreams doesn’t fix that. I sit up rubbing my elbow, and that's when I notice my pajamas are soaked through. Not sweat-damp. Soaked, like I actually went swimming. My sheets are cold and wet under my palms, my hair is dripping onto my shoulders, and when I touch my own lips, I taste salt on my fingertips. There's a patch of snow melting at the foot of my bed. I stare at it for a long moment, my heart pounding and my hands shaking. I’ve had this dream since I was seven years old—the sea, the silence, the cold hand pulling me up. It never changes. But the wet sheets are new. So is the snow. I press my palm against the damp sheet, feeling the cold water beneath my fingers. Then I whisper into the empty room, “Was that ever just a dream?” I don’t have an answer, and honestly, I don’t have time to look for one. I glance at the calendar taped above my desk, and every worry in my chest is pushed aside by a burst of pure joy. Today is too important for this. Today I finally get to study the ancient civilizations and forgotten myths I've spent years researching in secret. After years of dreaming about it, I am finally leaving Ashbrook. I stand too fast, and the room spins around me. I grab the edge of my desk until everything settles. My diary lies open on the desk, exactly where I left it last night. Its pages are soft and worn from years of use. Inside are dates, rumors about vanished civilizations, sketches of symbols no historian could explain and myths dismissed as superstition. I pick up my pen and turn to a fresh page. In my neat handwriting, I write: I’ll prove that some of the myths historians dismiss as fiction began with real events. My pen stops. I stare at the words, my thumb slowly brushing over the smooth paper. “What if every myth began as someone’s forgotten memory?” I whisper, lost in thought. Outside, pale morning light slips through the window, leaving a soft gold glow across my desk. I let out a slow breath, then close the diary and tuck it into my bag before I even get dressed. It goes everywhere with me. It is the one part of myself I've never let anyone in Ashbrook see. I love myths, and I don’t care if they’re forbidden. I need to know the truth. That’s why being a historian means so much to me. And today, I’m finally leaving Ashbrook for the university I’ve dreamed of for years—Kingsbridge International University in Bucharest. I hurry into the bathroom. I hum a quiet hymn to stay focused. The warm water runs over my skin, and thick steam fills the room. For a moment, I feel calm. Then, without warning, I think of the stranger beneath the sea. His face flashes in my mind. I see his eyes and those soft, pink lips. My breath hitches. I slowly touch my own lips, feeling a strange, heavy heat in my chest. “Who are you?” I whisper. My voice shakes. “Have you been dreaming about me too?” A sudden flutter moves through my stomach, like a thousand wings. The bathroom doesn't feel empty anymore. The air feels thick and heavy, as if someone is standing right behind me, watching. I spin around and look. There is nothing there. Only the steam. But my skin is tingling. I feel a hunger I cannot name, a deep ache that makes my legs feel weak. “If God asked me to choose between my vow and this man,” I whisper, “why am I already afraid of the answer?” I shake my head hard. The hairs on my arms rise. I try to push the image of him away, but it only makes the desire stronger. It feels like a fire starting in my belly. “No, Angel. For God’s sake, you are a nun. This is just a distraction. This is a sin.” I slide down the wall. I lower my head until my forehead touches the cold, hard tile. The contrast of the cold floor and my burning skin makes me gasp. “God, forgive me,” I whisper, though my heart is still beating fast for the stranger. Then comes a knock. “Angel! Breakfast! Hurry up!” Nanny Mara called from outside. “I’m coming!” I splashed cold water on my face and rushed out. I quickly braided my hair, then reached for the dresses I had bought for today. They stare back at me from the bed. One is too short. Another is too bright. The third makes me feel as though I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. Ten minutes later, I'm wearing my grey habit instead. The familiar fabric settles around me. I covered my hair with my veil and I slip the silver rosary around my wrist. Much better. Now I finally feel like myself. “Angel!” Nanny Mara called again. “Are you coming or should I eat your breakfast too?” I grabbed my suitcase. “Coming!” The suitcase was too heavy, as usual. I dragged it down the stairs, each bump making a loud thud against the steps. Downstairs, the kitchen smells of warm bread and sweet milk tea. Today, it isn’t the usual chaos of trying to get a grown-up like me to eat. Today, the whole house is awake for me, rushing around to get me ready to leave for uni. “Careful, baby,” Nanny Liza says, taking the suitcase from me like I’m five. “I’m nineteen,” I mumble, but I let her. Being the only daughter of Chief Christian Hart means I have never been allowed to carry anything heavier than a book. “Eat,” my favorite nanny, Marta, says, pushing a plate towards me. “You’ll need strength.” All three of my nannies are here. They keep looking at me as if I’m already gone. “University boys will have you forgetting your old nannies by lunchtime,” Marta teases, sliding a plate of warm eggs in front of me while Nanny Mara pours my juice without even being asked, like I’m still six years old. My whole face goes hot. “I absolutely will not—” “No,” old Nanny Mara cuts in, not even looking up from the juice. Everyone goes quiet. Mara lifts her eyes and looks straight at me. Her voice suddenly turns flat and strange. “She won’t meet boys.” A beat. “Because they’ll find her first.” Then she smiles and goes back to pouring the bright orange juice as if she didn’t just say anything strange. Nobody laughs this time. Then Marta snorts, and the room breaks into giggles again. “Mara’s right. With that face, our Angel will have half the university staring before she reaches the lecture hall.” Nanny Liza says excitedly. I laugh too, brushing it off, even though something about the way Mara said it leaves a cold feeling in my stomach, right beside the memory of that hand pulling me out of the dark water. “Don’t let Dad hear you talking about boys,” I warn them, grabbing a piece of warm toast and hurrying towards the stairs before they can pamper me anymore. I take the steps, two at a time. I'm halfway to my parents' room with a grin already forming when I hear my father's voice through the door. "She's not going!" I freeze. "Christian, we already agreed—" "I changed my mind. She's not going. Why should she go to some university far away? The church has a university where all the nuns attend. I want that for her." My stomach drops. My father has already gotten everything ready for me. How could he change his mind so fast? I lean closer to the door, my palm pressed against the cool wood. Then I hear my mother's voice turn low and hard, a tone I've never heard from her before. "You call that prayer house a school, Christian?" Mom snaps. "She's spent nineteen years behind those walls. You can't decide she belongs here forever. She needs to mingle with people her age outside this godforsaken village." "You're turning her away from the Lord, Rose." “I let her breath, Christian. There's a difference.” My mother's voice cracks. “I'm asking you to let her live before she gives everything she has to a life she hasn't even chosen yet.” Silence. Then Mother's voice comes again, soft and dangerous. “You promised. The night she survived.” My father freezes. "Don't." The single word silences the room. I don't even understand it, but my whole body goes cold anyway. "Nineteen years, Christian." "I said don't." “You promised me that night… you promised me that if she survived, she would get to choose her own life.” Mom presses on. My breath catches. I push the door open a little. My father's face is pale, paler than I've ever seen, while my mother stands across from him with her hands pressed together, like she's praying and arguing at the same time. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air heavy and still. “Don't say those words in this house.” “They've already come true once,” Mom answers. “Woman! Why make me remember what happened nineteen years ago?” Survived what? What night? Why was I supposed to die? For nineteen years, I'd believed I had simply been born into this house, this family, this life. Now I was beginning to wonder whether I'd been given it at all. I push the door open before I can stop myself, my heart pounding hard against my ribs. No. No, I can't let them stop me like this. "Dad, Mom?" I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be. "What are you talking about?" They both turn towards me. My father's jaw tightens. "How long have you been standing there?" “Just got here,” I say, lying. The questions crowd my throat, but I've learned not to challenge my father when his voice sounds like that and some part of me is also too afraid of the answers. “Why don’t you want me to go?” I ask instead of the question clawing at my chest. “Because it’s not safe for you outside Ashbrook,” Dad says, his voice hard and serious. He tells me I’m not going. I almost accepted it. I almost turned around and started unpacking my suitcase like the good daughter he'd always expected of me. Then my eyes fall on the acceptance letter tucked inside my bag, and something in me that has never spoken before finally does. “No,” I say. “I’m going, Dad. Teach me how to be safe if you think the world outside isn’t safe.” His expression changes as though I have said something forbidden. “You taught me that faith requires choice,” I say calmly. “Don't twist my words, Angel.” “Then give me a reason I should stay.” “Because I know what waits outside these walls.” “Then tell me what you know!” For the first time in my life, I raise my voice at my father—and he raises his voice right back. Soon, I’m crying, and his hands are shaking. But I didn’t back down. “Please teach me,” I say through my tears. “Teach me how to be safe instead of locking me away from a world I’ve never even seen.” Something in his face breaks. He just stares at me like he’s seeing the little girl I used to be and the woman standing in front of him now. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Finally, he lets out a tired breath. “Fine. Three semesters.” Relief crashes over me so hard my knees almost give way. Mom wipes her eyes, laughing when I nearly knock Dad's glasses crooked with my hug. I wrap my arms around them so tightly they both groan. Mom smells of lavender, warm and soft. Dad smells of old books and church incense, familiar and comforting. I hold on until Mom gently pulls away and cups my face in her warm hands. We laugh through our tears. Soon everyone follows me outside. Mom, Mara, Marta, and Liza cry so hard you'd think I'd be leaving forever. Funny right? Dad lifts my suitcase into the boot and carefully packs in my bags and the food Mum made for me. Then he stops. An old leather book has slipped halfway out from under my clothes. I stop breathing. He pulls out the worn brown cover. It has faded gold symbols. The same symbols I copied into my diary. My dad glares at me. "Angel." Lying has never been one of my talents, so I didn't even try. "Please, Dad," I say quietly. "I've had it since I was ten. Just let me take it. Please." "Curiosity is the Devil's doorway, Angel." He doesn't shout. He simply walks to the fire pit beside the porch, strikes the lighter, and drops the book into the flames. I can only watch. Orange fire curls around the cracked leather spine. The pages blacken and fold into themselves. My throat is too tight to speak. My chest aches, but I don't move. If I fight him now, he might take back the only permission I've won today. Dad's hands shake the whole time. They shake so badly the lighter clicks three times before the flame finally catches. Then, just before the last page turns to ash, I see it. A symbol. A perfect circle crossed by eight thin lines converging at its center. It isn't drawn. It's burned into the paper. As if it has always been there, waiting for the fire to reveal it. Dad sees it too. The color drains from his face as ash drifts into the morning air. "What is that?" I whisper. "Nothing. Get in the car." The answer comes too fast. My father's eyes leave the page at once. He turns away before I can ask another question. Like he doesn't want to look at it. Like he's afraid to. But I can't stop staring. The fire has destroyed everything. The leather is gone. The words are gone. The strange symbols are gone. Everything except that circle. It sits in the ashes, untouched. Not burned. Not even scorched. A cold knot tightens in my stomach as I realize something that makes my blood turn to ice— The circle isn't surviving the fire. The fire is avoiding it.