Chapter 4

Caterina's POV

My heart hammered so loudly I was certain Agnes would hear it. Jordan’s hand was warm and steady in mine behind the collapsed pew, but my mind raced. The beams of their flashlights sliced through the dusty air of the abandoned chapel like accusations. One swept inches above our heads, catching on the faded gold of a broken crucifix.

“Check the altar,” Agnes ordered, in a low, sharp voice. “They were seen near the east wing earlier.”

Signore Vittorio’s smoother tones followed. “The girl is clever. Brick… he’s still an unknown quantity. But if they’re digging where they shouldn’t—”

“Quiet,” Agnes snapped.

I held my breath; dust tickled my nose from the old wood. Jordan’s thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand, a silent reassurance that sent warmth spreading through my chest despite the terror. Minutes stretched, and their footsteps kept moving closer, then retreated. 'Huhhhhhh,' I exhaled in relief. The door creaked shut and silence returned, broken only by the relentless rain on the roof.

We waited another long minute before Jordan whispered, “They’re gone.”

I exhaled shakily and turned to him. In the faint moonlight bleeding through the cracked stained glass, his face was all sharp angles and concern. “We can’t stay here. They’re watching us now.”

He helped me up, his hands lingering on my waist. The memory of what we had done on that very altar – his mouth on me, the way he filled me so completely – flushed hot across my skin. I wanted him again, even now. The hunger scared me almost as much as Agnes’s search.

We slipped out of the chapel and moved through the east wing like shadows. The corridors felt narrower at night, the stone walls pressing in, candles in wall sconces guttering low. My habit still carried the scent of him — sweat, incense, and something uniquely Jordan.

Back in the safer main cloister, we parted with one last stolen kiss near the library door. His lips were urgent, almost desperate. “Be careful, Caterina,” he murmured against my mouth. “I won’t lose you to this.”

I watched him disappear towards the priests’ quarters, then made my way to the novices’ dormitory. Sleep evaded me. I lay in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams, replaying Perpetua’s dying words and the ledger note I had found. “Hale.”

The bishop’s family name. What had his ancestors buried here? And why was Jordan’s arrival coinciding with everything breaking open?

Dawn came too soon. I moved through morning prayers mechanically, avoiding Jordan’s gaze across the chapel. After the service, Sister Agnes pulled me aside in the cloister. Her grip on my arm was iron.

“You were out of your cell last night,” she said flatly. “Don’t deny it. I know the signs.”

I kept my face calm. “I couldn’t sleep. I walked the gardens to pray.”

Agnes’s eyes bored into me. “Pray harder, and stay away from Father Brick. Newcomers bring complications. This convent has lasted centuries by keeping things… contained.”

She released me and walked away. My arm throbbed where she had gripped it. What does she even mean by "contained"? Like Perpetua’s body. Like whatever truth lay beneath us.

The day passed in a haze of chores and lessons. I worked in the scriptorium again, but my mind wandered to the tunnels. I remembered Jordan’s hands on my thighs, the way he had looked at me when I came apart under his tongue. Shame and desire twisted together until I could barely focus on the parchment.

By late afternoon, another storm rolled in. Thunder rumbled overhead as I carried books back to the main library. The rain lashed the tall windows. I was reshelving a heavy volume on church history when a loose paper slipped out, similar to the one I had found earlier. It was handwritten, Perpetua’s script again.

“Jordan Brick must not learn the blood truth. The son returns.”

The son returns. What did that mean?

I tucked the paper into my sleeve just as Detective Luca Moretti entered the library, shaking rain from his coat. He looked exhausted, and his eyes were sharp despite the fatigue.

“Sister Caterina, right?” he said, approaching. “You’ve been here longer than the new priest. Have seen anything unusual?”

I hesitated. Trusting outsiders was risky, but so was silence. “People disappear,” I said quietly. “Bodies move, and the bishop… he controls the narrative.”

Moretti nodded slowly. “I’m digging into the history of this place. Funding from Vittorio. Old deaths. You are careful who you talk to. Including priests with charming smiles.”

His words stung. Was Jordan’s kindness a mask? The thought lodged in my chest like a splinter.

That night, after Compline, I took the risk; I waited until the halls emptied, then made my way to Jordan’s cell. I knocked softly, bah...bah...bah... three times, our signal.

He opened the door immediately and pulled me inside, bolting it. Bah...bah...bah... The room was sparse: a narrow bed, a desk, and a crucifix on the wall. A single candle burned. Rain hammered the small window.

“Caterina,” he breathed, cupping my face. We didn’t waste time on words. Our mouths crashed together. Clothes came off in urgent tugs — my habit pooling at my feet, his cassock thrown aside. His rosary mistakenly fell and swung on his huge erect dick. Skin on skin, finally. And I gently knelt down and sucked on it, harder and harder and harder. As the rosary dangled around his balls and thighs, he moaned so loudly I saw tears in his eyes. I nearly devoured his dick; he came as loud as ever, his eyes squinted, and he fainted.

I guess no one has ever milked him the way I did.

I got scared, and I rushed over harder. As HTH rested on his cupboard and gave it to him, he rested for a while and then woke.

He lifted me and dick-dropped my legs around him; meanwhile, he squinted at the bed.

He entered me slowly this time, savouring every inch. I gasped at the stretch, the fullness. We moved together in a rhythm that felt sacred and profane all at once. His mouth on my breasts, my nails down his back, and the creak of the old bedframe beneath us. I came first, clenching around him, muffling my cry against his shoulder. He followed soon after, burying himself deep with a low groan that vibrated through me.

Afterwards, we lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on our skin. I traced the line of his jaw, and he slept off; he was drained.

I went to his mirror, fixing my hair, my dress and my makeup, and I noticed he had woken.

“I found another note today,” I whispered. “It mentioned you. ‘The son returns.’ What does that mean, Jordan?”

He tensed beneath me. “I don’t know. My past before coming here… it’s fragmented. I came because the bishop summoned me. Said I was needed.”

Thunder cracked outside. I wanted to believe him. God, I did. But doubt gnawed at me. Still, I kissed him again, slower this time, letting desire push the questions aside for a little longer.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

“Father Brick", came Sister Agnes’s voice. “The bishop requires your presence immediately. There’s been another disappearance. Brother Thomas.”

Jordan’s eyes met mine in the candlelight. Fear and resolve mirrored there.