People think I go to St. Jude's to find salvation. They see the bowed head, the clasped hands, and the heavy donations I drop into the collection plate, and they see a man seeking peace. They are fools. I don't go to that crumbling stone building to find God. I go to watch the only deity I have ever believed in.
I only believe in the Creator because He had the audacity to craft Ciara Diaz.
I have spent three years, four months, and eleven days tracking the ghost of a girl I saw in a passing photograph at a digital marketing seminar. She was in the background, a blur of dark curls and a radiant, innocent smile that felt like a physical blow to my chest. Since that moment, my life hasn't been mine. It has been a series of calculated moves, a grand hunt across cities and districts until I finally pinned her down in this suffocatingly quiet corner of the world.
Joining this church wasn't a choice; it was a tactical maneuver. A few "anonymous" six-figure donations to the parish's renovation fund, and suddenly, I'm the guest of honor, the "devout" newcomer the elders whisper about with reverence. They don't see the blood under my fingernails. They don't see the graveyard of men I've left behind in the wake of my search.
The first time I saw her in the flesh was three weeks ago.
I was sitting in the fourth row, my senses dialed to a frequency only she could occupy. When she walked in late flustered, breathless, her skin glowing with a frantic heat the world around me ceased to exist. The organ music turned into white noise. The priest became a buzzing insect.
She sat in the very last row, trying to be invisible. She didn't realize that to me, she was a supernova in a room full of dying stars. I watched her through the periphery, noted the way she tucked a loose curl behind her ear, the way her lips moved in silent prayer.
Pure.
Untouched.
Mine.
My soul didn't just yearn for her; it demanded her. It was a visceral, violent pull. I have everything wealth, power, a physique built through discipline and brutality but I was a hollow shell until her light filled my vision. But I knew I couldn't just take her. Not yet. A bird like Ciara has to be caged slowly, or she'll break her wings trying to fly.
There was a boy, barely twenty, who worked at the library where she spent her Tuesday afternoons. I watched from my car as he leaned over her shoulder, his hand lingering just an inch too close to her waist as he pointed out a book. He smiled at her a practiced, flirtatious tilt of the lips.
I made sure he understood why before his heart stopped beating. I am a jealous god, and I do not share my worship. Then there was the neighbor the one who dared to whistle when she walked past his porch. He "tripped" into the path of a speeding vehicle two towns over.
Today, she wore the white and red dress.
It was a provocation, whether she knew it or not. The way the fabric clung to the swell of her hips, the way the red flowers looked like wounds against her porcelain skin it nearly broke my composure. I sat behind her, my gaze a physical weight I knew she could feel. I wanted her to tremble. I wanted her to know that even in the presence of her God, she was under my dominion.
When the line for communion formed, I moved.
I positioned myself behind her, a wolf in the shepherd's flock. The scent of her lilies and something sweet, like honey hit me with the force of an avalanche. The gap between us closed, and I let it.
I stepped forward until there was no air left between my body and hers. I felt her spine stiffen, felt the frantic, rabbit-like pulse in her neck. I pressed my weight into her, my groin hardening instantly against the soft curve of her backside.
It was a sacrilege I savored.
While the priest held up the bread of life, I was tasting the reality of her. I leaned down, the heat of my breath hitting her ear, watching the way her skin pebbled in a delicious mix of terror and arousal. She thinks I'm a man of faith. She thinks my concentration is for the Lord.
She has no idea that every "Amen" I utter is a vow to consume her.
I watched her run out of the church, her face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. She's confused. She's frightened. She thinks she's sensing a devil.
She's right.
I am the devil who has been searching for his angel for years, and now that I've found her, I will burn the world down to keep her. The cleansing of her house is next week. She thinks the priest will bring peace to her home.
She doesn't realize that I've already bought the house across the street. I am not just watching her from the pews anymore. I am the shadow in her garden, the breath in her ear, and very soon, I will be the only God she prays to.
I've waited long enough. The hunt is over. The harvest begins now.