The confessional booth smelled of old wood and beeswax, with a hint of Sabrina's jasmine perfume cutting through like a secret. She sat on the bench, hood low, heart pounding hard against her ribs. The lattice screen between her and Aiden—Father Lucifer now—felt like the thinnest veil. She wasn't religious.
Not really. But growing up in the Merlin house, with its dusty chapels and stern priests, she'd picked up enough fear of the gods to make her palms sweat. A little faith lingered, buried deep. And now? Aiden's words echoed in her head: 'I'll fuck you right here. In the church then.... No waiting.'
Her cheeks burned. "Aid... Lucifer... you can't mean it. We're in a 'church'." Her voice came out shaky, not bold like she wanted. The booth was tiny—barely room for two, let alone three. Just a single chair in the center, wood worn smooth from knees and confessions.
