The Nun's Vow To The Devil

CONTENT WARNING: 18+

This story contains dark themes including: sexual trafficking, dubious consent, drug use, BDSM, violence, religious trauma, abuse, and morally gray characters. The relationship begins with coercion and power imbalance.

Reader discretion advised.

****

Father was going to kill me if he found out that I had snuck out to kiss a boy on a public bridge.

I knew I shouldn't be doing this, but I have had a crush on him the longest. I wanted this feeling.

It felt so good the way his hands pulled me closer against him. His hard dick pushed hard against my lower belly.

I gulped, moaning in pleasure as his tongue dragged hot against my neck and I tilted my head back without thinking, a small sound leaving me before I could stop it.

The night was cold, but every place he touched me burned hot.

Julien's breath spilled against my ear, his hands running down my spine grabbing my butt and then his mouth was at my collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue smoothing over the sting.

My knees wanted to give out, but his hand was already under my sweater, finding the thin cotton camisole that clung to my skin.

I gasped when his fingers pinched my nipple through the fabric, sharp enough to make me whimper. He did it again, rolling the peak between rough fingertips until it tightened under his touch, and I pressed into him shamelessly, aching for more.

I bit my lips hard, eyes rolling up, my arms clinging to his neck, wanting to grind my aching spot against the hardness in his jeans.

"Julien..." My voice shook as his mouth closed over mine again, hard, greedy, his tongue pushing past my lips like he wanted to taste every part of me at once.

I opened for him, answering kiss for kiss, the scrape of teeth, the mess of breath. My hands clutched at his hoodie, dragging him closer, desperate for his weight against me.

His palm slid down, cupping me over my skirt, the pressure heavy enough that I moaned into his mouth.

He broke away just long enough to bite down on my lower lip, tugging until my eyes fluttered open, then shoved his hand higher again, back to my chest, squeezing my breasts like he owned them.

I couldn't breathe right.

Each twist of his fingers through the camisole shot heat straight down between my legs, my thighs pressing together as if that could relieve the ache of my pussy.

He knew what he was doing-his grin brushed my mouth before he ducked lower, sucking the swell of my breast through both layers of fabric, teeth scraping over the peak until I cried out.

The stone of the bridge was cold against my back, but I barely felt it.

All I knew was his mouth, his tongue dragging up my throat, lips crashing against mine again, his hand kneading my breast greedily.

My hips rocked forward without my permission, chasing friction that wasn't there, and he groaned into my mouth like he could feel it too.

I'd dreamed of this-waking hot and damp with shame, his face in my mind even when I prayed for it to go away-and now it was real, rawer and hungrier than I had ever imagined.

Every bite on my lip, every tug at my nipple, every sloppy kiss tasted like the answer to something I hadn't even dared to ask out loud.

"Fuck..." he breathed into my skin when I arched against him, his hips grinding forward once, rough, showing me exactly how hard he was.

The friction made me gasp, my whole body jolting with the sudden flood of heat. I wanted more.

God help me, I wanted everything.

He shoved his hand under my camisole at last, skin on skin, and the shock of his fingers closing over my bare breast made me cry out softly. He squeezed, pinched, rolled the peak between thumb and finger until I was biting my lip hard to keep quiet. He loved it, I could feel it in the way he groaned against my mouth, in the way his hips pressed harder into mine, desperate and messy.

The river rushed behind us, but I could barely hear it over my own pulse.

His tongue pushed deep, fucking my mouth with the same rhythm as his hand worked my nipple, rougher, faster, like he wanted me undone in his arms right there.

I dragged in a shaky breath when he finally broke away, panting against my cheek.

His teeth scraped down my neck again, another bite, until I knew there would be marks tomorrow.

The thought made me tremble.

"I...I have to go," I whispered, the words shaking. "If I don't get home soon-"

"Tomorrow," he cut in, voice hoarse against my throat. His hand tightened, one last cruel pinch that had me gasping. "Tomorrow night you're mine."

"I'll call you," I promised, clinging to him, suddenly dizzy from desire, "I swear it."

"And you'll give it to me as we planned," he breathed, his tongue flicking my ear, voice dark with certainty. "Your Virginity. Tomorrow. In my bedroom."

"Yes," I whispered, licking my lower lip. "I promised, didn't I?"

He hummed.

His mouth crushed mine again for one last savage kiss, his tongue claiming, his hand still on my breast as if he couldn't let go. When he finally pulled back, my lips were swollen, my nipples sore, my body humming with need so intense it made my pussy hurt.

I stumbled away only when he let me, sweater rumpled, camisole damp from his mouth, thighs pressed together to hold back the ache until tomorrow.

I looked back to where Julien stood under the bridge light, fingers still on my lips.

"Tomorrow," I whispered, smiling like an idiot.

****

The walk home took fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of floating through rain soaked streets, my fingers touching my swollen lips, replaying every kiss.

I couldn't believe that I had kissed Julien Statham and tomorrow night, I shall spend the night with him.

No one would ever believe that I did that with the school beat hockey player.

I would be...hia girlfriend.

I giggled.

I couldn't stop smiling.

I looked up to see that our apartment building appeared through the darkness. The third-floor windows shone with light–every single one. Mama hated wasting electricity. Maybe she was feeling better?

The thought made me walk faster, taking the stairs two at a time.

The closer I got to the room door, the more I heard wailing.

My eyebrows deeper into a frown.

Crying.

Deep, broken sobs coming from behind our door.

My hand froze on the knob. The door wasn't locked. It swung open.

Papa knelt on the living room floor, his whole body shaking. Mama lay in his arms pale and still, her head tilted back at an unimaginable angle that made my stomach drop.

Dark red blood flowed from her nose, dried blood crusted at the corner of her mouth.

My hands started to shake, I tried to blink away the scene. Hoping it was nothing but a dream.

It wasn't.

"Mama?"

The word barely made it past my lips.

Papa's head lifted. The look on his face-I'd never seen anything like it. His eyes were raw, empty holes in his skull.

"Celeste." My name sounded like a curse.

I stumbled forward, my knees hitting the floor. "What happened? Is she-Mama, wake up, I'm here now..."

I reached for her hand.

Pak!

Papa's palm hit my face.

I sprawled sideways, my shoulder slamming into the floor, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.

"Don't." His voice shook with something beyond rage. "Don't you touch her."

I pressed my hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him through blurred vision. "Papa, what-"

"Where were you?"

Where...where...

I gulped.

"I... I went for a walk, I just-"

"A walk." He laughed, and the sound was broken glass. "A walk. Your mother is dead and you were taking a walk."

Dead.

The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"No." I shook my head, still on the floor. "No, she was fine this afternoon, she said she just needed rest-"

"She wasn't fine!" Papa's roar shook the walls. "She was dying! And you knew it! I told you to stay with her! I told you to make sure she took her medicine at nine o'clock!"

The medicine.

My eyes found the bottle on the side table. Untouched and full.

Nine o'clock. I was supposed to give it to her at nine o'clock.

At nine o'clock, I'd been on the bridge with Julien's tongue in my mouth.

"I forgot-" The words tasted like ash as I bit my lower lips. "I didn't think-"

"You didn't think." Papa's voice dropped to something worse than shouting. It was deadly. "No. You thought...You thought about sneaking out. You thought about that boy. You thought about yourself."

Against the wall, my fourteen-year-old sister Liora sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her face blotchy and wet.

When she looked at me, I saw something that made my blood freeze.

Hatred.

Pure, absolute hatred.

"I tried to help her," Liora whispered. Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been screaming. "When she started getting worse, I tried. But she kept asking for you. 'Where's Celeste? I need Celeste. Get Celeste.'" Liora's face crumpled. "And you weren't here."

"I didn't know-"

"You knew she was sick!" Liora's scream tore through the room. "You knew! But you left anyway! You left her to go whore yourself out to some boy!"

The words hit like a fist.

"We didn't-that's not-"

"I can smell him on you." Papa's lip curled with disgust. "You have marks on your neck. Your lips are swollen. Don't lie to me about what you were doing while your mother was dying."

Shame burned through me, worse than the slap.

My hand went to my neck, feeling the tender spots where Julien's teeth had scraped.

"She was calling for you," Papa continued, "Do you understand? Your mother's last words were your name. She died thinking you'd abandoned her."

"No-"

"She choked on her own blood, Celeste. Alone in that bedroom because her daughter was too busy spreading her legs somewhere o give her the medicine that might have saved her life."

The cruelty of it stole my breath.

"I'm sorry-" Tears were streaming down my face now. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Sorry?" Liora lurched to her feet, her small body shaking with rage. "Sorry doesn't bring her back! Sorry doesn't change the fact that you killed her!"

"I didn't kill-"

"Yes, you did!" Liora was in my face now, screaming. "You killed Mama! You murdered her! For what? For some stupid boy who won't even remember your name next week?"

Each word was a knife.

"You're selfish," Liora continued, tears and snot running down her face. "You're disgusting. You're a murderer. I wish it was you dead instead of her. I wish you were the one who-"

"Liora." Papa's voice cut through. "Enough."

But when I looked at him, I saw he didn't disagree. He just didn't want to hear it said out loud.

He turned back to Mama's body, cradling her like she was made of glass. The blood from her nose had dried in dark trails down her face. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She must have been suffering. Must have been terrified.

And I wasn't here.

I looked at my hands. These hands that had pulled Julien close just an hour ago. That had clutched at him, desperate and shameless and hungry.

These hands that should have been giving Mama her medicine. Holding her hand. Being a daughter instead of-

"Get out of my sight." Papa didn't look at me. "I can't stand to look at you right now."

"Papa, please-"

"I said GET OUT!"

I stumbled to my feet, backing toward the hallway. Liora turned her back on me, curling up beside Papa and Mama, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

I stood there in the doorway of my own home, watching my family mourn the woman I'd killed.

Because I had killed her.

Not with my hands.

Not with violence.

With selfishness.

With lust.

I'd chosen three hours of teenage desire over the mother who gave me life.

And now she was gone. Forever gone. And it was my fault.

The room blurred through my tears.

All of it crushing down on me at once.

My knees buckled. I caught myself on the doorframe, staring at my trembling hands.

I couldn't believe it. No...I...didn't want to believe it.

I couldn't believe that I...I... killed my mother.

Celeste's POV

I have always wondered...where would I be if I died?

Would I be with the devil? In his arms suffering or would I be in heaven with mama and Jesus?

Does heaven even...exists?

I bit my lips, my teeth grazing the soft flesh.

The thoughts of evil were here once again. The thought of doubt and spite for me to...no. I MUST not say the word.

My hand shook as I held the rosary tighter.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

My voice joins fifty others in the morning rosary, the words automatic after six years of repetition.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

The prayer cycles again.

Rosary beads click softly as we kneel in dawn light filtering through stained glass. I keep my eyes closed, my lips moving with muscle memory while my mind drifts back to why I had another sleepless night.

The bridge.

Always the bridge in my nightmare.

I could still see the water crashing against the waves, the supermoon shining on me. I hadn't given it a second thought, and...I had let myself fall, deep into the abyss–

"The morning prayers are concluded. Proceed quietly to your assignments." Mother Superior's voice cut through my thoughts.

I bowed towards the altar, veils brushing my shoulders, then slipped past the dispersing sisters and made my way to the small confessional booth tucked in the chapel's corner.

My hands shake as I adjust my veil, smoothing the fabric out of nervousness.

The booth is barely wider than my shoulders, dark wood panels on three sides rising to a low ceiling.

A wooden screen separates me from the priest's side-I can make out his silhouette through the latticed carving, but not his face. The only light comes from a small bulb overhead, casting everything in dim amber. The cushion beneath my knees is worn velvet, faded from red to something closer to rust.

There's a narrow shelf at chest height, smooth from countless hands that have gripped it during confession. The smelled faintly of old wood and, incense that's seeped into the grain over decades.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession."

Through the screen, I see Father Benedict's silhouette shift. He's been the convent's confessor for as long as I've been here. The only priest who knows my whole story.

The only one who saved me when saving seemed impossible.

"Go on, child."

His voice is kind. It always has been.

Even that night.

"I had the nightmare again." The words tumble out in a whisper. "The same one. But this time it was different."

I close my eyes, seeing it all again. The blood on my hands, dark and wet. Standing on that bridge-the same bridge where Julien kissed me, where I chose pleasure over my mother's life. But in the dream, I don't walk away. I don't go home to find her dead.

I jump.

The fall is endless. The water rushes up to meet me, black and welcoming, and when it closes over my head, there's no pain. Just silence. Peace. The kind of peace I haven't felt since I was sixteen and stupid and selfish.

"I died in the dream," I continue, my voice barely audible. "And when I woke up, I wished... I wished it had been real."

The silence stretches between us.

"These thoughts," Father Benedict says carefully. "Are they only in dreams? Or do they visit you during waking hours as well?"

My throat tightens. "Sometimes. When I'm scrubbing the floors. Or during compline. I think about what it would feel like. To just... stop."

"Sister Celeste." His voice carries a weight I recognize. Concern. "We've spoken of this before. The night I found you-"

"I remember."

How could I forget?

It was six months after Mama's funeral.

Six months of Papa refusing to look at me. Six months of Liora's hatred burning holes through our apartment.

Six months of waking up every morning knowing I was a murderer who would never face justice because there was no law against choosing lust over love.

I'd gone to the bridge wearing my nightgown, just like in my dreams now. The water had looked so dark, so welcoming. I'd climbed onto the ledge, my bare feet slipping on the cold stone.

One step. That's all it would take. One step and the guilt would drown with me.

"Jumping doesn't erase guilt, child."

Father Benedict's voice had cut through my despair like a blade. I'd turned to find him standing there in his cassock, his face lined with compassion I didn't deserve.

"It just passes your pain to those left behind," he'd continued, moving slowly toward me like I was a wild animal that might spook. "Your father. Your sister. They're suffering too. Your death won't heal them. It will only add another burden to carry."

"You don't understand...They won't...they...hate me," I'd whispered, tears streaming down my face. "They should hate me. I killed her."

"Then live with it." His words were gentle but firm. "Live with the guilt. Let it teach you something. Let it make you someone who never makes that mistake again."

He'd offered his hand.

And I'd taken it.

He brought me here, to Sacred Mercy. Promised me that behind these walls, I could transform my suffering into service. That penance through prayer and dedication could give my mother's death meaning.

I believed him.

For six years, I've believed him.

But lately, the walls feel less like sanctuary and more like a tomb.

"The thoughts are getting worse," I admit now, my fingers twisting the rosary beads until they bite into my palm. "Not better. I pray and I work and I serve, but the guilt is still there. The blood is still on my hands. And I'm so tired, Father. I'm so tired of carrying it."

"This is why you must not give in to despair," Father Benedict says. "Despair is a sin against hope, against the belief that God can redeem even our worst failures. You are not beyond forgiveness, Celeste. You only believe you are."

I want to believe him.

God, I want to.

But forgiveness feels like a foreign language I'll never speak.

"Thank you, Father," I murmur, because that's what you say. Even when nothing helps. Even when the darkness is patient and knows it will win eventually.

"For your penance-"

A sharp knock on the confessional door makes us both freeze.

"Sister Celeste?" A voice hisses through the wood. "Sister Celeste, are you in there?"

I recognize the panicked whisper immediately. Sister Margaret.

"I'm in confession-"

"I need to talk to you. Now. Please."

Father Benedict sighs. "We'll continue this later. Go. But Celeste?" His silhouette leans closer to the screen. "If the thoughts become overwhelming, you come to me immediately. Do you understand? Day or night."

"Yes, Father."

I slip out of the booth to find Margaret pacing in the narrow corridor, her face pale and blotchy with tears. Her veil in disarray. Her hands shake as she grabs my arm.

"What's wrong?" I ask, though I already feel dread pooling in my stomach.

She pulls me further from the chapel, into one of the empty storage rooms where we sometimes hide from Mother Superior's assignments. When the door closes behind us, she collapses against the wall, mascara-forbidden, but she wears it anyway-streaming down her chubby cheeks.

"I got chosen," she whispers.

My eyes widened in shock.

Chosen. We all know what that means. The whispered rumors about the "special services" certain sisters provide. The well-dressed men who arrive after dark. The girls who return from those encounters are different-hollowed out, something essentially carved away.

"You...what?! "

"For tonight." Margaret's voice cracks. "Mother Superior called me to her office this morning. There's a client. An important one. He requested..." She swallows hard. "He requested someone untouched. Someone pure."

My stomach turns.

"Margaret, you don't have to-"

"I don't have a choice!" She grabs my shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You don't understand. This client isn't like the others. The last girl they sent to him came back and couldn't speak for weeks. Just sat in her cell, staring at nothing, until Mother Superior sent her away somewhere."

I've heard those stories too. Whispered in the dormitory after lights out. Girls who vanished. Girls who came back broken or never at all

"They say he's a monster," Margaret continues, her eyes wild with terror. "A devil with the face of an angel. Dante Salvatore. He's mafia, Celeste. He kills people. And Mother Superior is sending me to him like I'm some kind of-" Her voice breaks into a sob.

I pull her into my arms, feeling her whole body shake against mine. This is wrong. All of it is wrong. Sacred Mercy is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a marketplace.

But I've always known the truth, haven't I? Ever since I discovered what really happens in the rooms beneath the chapel.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

"Oh Margaret..." I held her tighter, her tears sipping into my dark veil. "I...am so sorry...I wish there was a way out of this."

"I–Please," Margaret pulls back, gripping my face between her hands. "Please, Celeste. You have to take my place."

The request steals the air from my lungs.

"What?"

"You're pure. You're perfect for what he wants. And you're stronger than me. You can survive this. I can't." Tears pour down her face. "Please. You're my only friend here. You're the only one who's ever shown me kindness. I'm begging you."

I stare at her, my mind reeling.

Take her place. Go to this monster. Let him do whatever he wants with my body.

It was an insane request.

Every instinct screams to refuse.

But then I see it-that look in Margaret's eyes. The same terror I saw in Mama's face when the fever had taken hold and she knew, she knew she was dying.

I failed Mama when she needed me.

Can I fail Margaret too?

"Please," she whispers again. "Please, Celeste. I'll owe you everything. Anything. Just please don't make me go to him."

My hands tremble as I adjust my veil, the fabric suddenly too tight, too suffocating.

This is insane. This is asking to be destroyed.

But isn't that what I've wanted? In my darkest moments, in my dreams where I jump from the bridge and finally find peace?

Maybe this is another kind of dying.

Maybe this is the penance I've been searching for.

I sighed to myself. "I am sorry Margaret. But I cannot."

When I arrived at Sacred Mercy, Margaret had been my only friend. She was the only one who dared to speak to me.

No one wanted to be associated with a girl who was found at a bridge about to end her life.

They believed I was a demon.

A demon of despair.

A lot of prayers were done on me, but even before then Margaret had talked to me. She had helped me bathe. Cleaned me up. Treated me like a human being.

Seeing her innocent green eyes filled with tears, begging me for a favor I could not fulfill, broke my heart.

"Celeste... you... you would rather see me thrown to him than take my place?" Her voice cracked, hands shaking.

I swallowed hard, my own hands trembling. "Margaret... what you're asking-"

"You're stronger than me!" she cut in, clutching at my sleeves. "You're always stronger. You can survive him. I can't. Please!"

She pressed her forehead to my shoulder like a child. "I've seen what he does. The other girls. They come back broken. Some don't come back at all. I'll die, Celeste. I swear I'll die."

Her fingers dug into my arms hard enough to bruise. "Please don't let them take me."

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Why is it always me?

"What about me, Margaret?" My voice came out harsher than I meant. "Do you ever think of that? Lust put me in the position I'm in today. I cannot fall for it one more time. Even if you are my friend."

She flinched, but her grip didn't loosen. "I'm not asking you to enjoy it. I'm asking you to save me!"

"I've already been there," I whispered. "I've already lost everything. My mother. My family. Myself. I'm barely holding on, Margaret. If I go to him, it won't just be my body he takes. It'll be the last piece of me that's still alive."

She stared up at me, eyes shining with desperation. "Then let him take me instead?"

"No." I shook my head. "I won't choose for you. I won't condemn you. But I can't save you either."

"Celeste..." Her knees buckled. She sank down on the stone floor, clutching the hem of my habit. "Please. Please don't do this to me." Her voice broke into sobs. "You're the only one I have."

"I know," I said quietly. My throat burned. "And I'm sorry."

She grabbed my skirt like it was a lifeline. "You're my friend. You're my sister. You're supposed to protect me."

"I've tried," I whispered. "But I can't trade one death for another. Not again."

Her sobs filled the little storage room, bouncing off the stone walls. She clutched my legs, nails biting into my skin through the fabric. "Celeste, please. Please. I'll do anything. I'll take your chores for a month. I'll pray every night for your soul. Just please don't make me go to him."

I bent down, prying her hands from my skirt. "This isn't about chores or prayers." My fingers shook as I pulled free. "This is about surviving. And I can't die for you, Margaret."

She lifted her tear-streaked face to mine. "You'd let me die instead?"

Her words pierced me like a blade. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to lie. But my mouth wouldn't open.

"I'm sorry," I managed. "I can't."

Her sob turned into a wail. She slumped fully to the floor, palms flat on the cold stone, head bowed. "You're cruel," she choked. "You're cruel. You're just like them. Just like everyone else. Selfish. We were told to be selfless like Jesus, but you can't even die for me. A friend. I hate you."

"I'm not any of those things," I said, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.

I turned toward the door walking fast.

Behind me, Margaret's voice rose, ragged and desperate. "Celeste! Don't walk out on me! Please! Don't leave me!"

I stopped with my hand on the handle, my back to her. My eyes burned, but I couldn't look at her. If I looked, I'd break.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again. "I can't save you."

"Celeste! Please! Please!" Her sobs turned into raw begging, her fingers scraping against the stone as if she could drag herself into my shadow.

I pushed the door open. The hallway beyond was dim and cold.

Behind me, Margaret collapsed fully, her forehead against the floor, wailing. "You're the only one I had," she sobbed. "You're the only one I had."

I stepped out, pulling the door shut before her voice could shatter me completely. My hands shook as I straightened my veil, the fabric damp where her tears had soaked it.

In the silence of the hallway, my own voice barely reached my ears.

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't die for her."

But the words didn't make the guilt any lighter.

.

.

The truth about Sacred Mercy had revealed itself slowly over the years.

On the surface, we were what we appeared to be: a convent dedicated to serving God through prayer and charitable works. We tended the sick in the attached hospice. We taught catechism to local children. We maintained the chapel and gardens with devotion that looked genuine because for many of us, it was.

But beneath the surface-literally beneath, in the labyrinth of rooms that stretched under the chapel-Sacred Mercy served a different purpose entirely.

I'd discovered it by accident two years into my time here. Late one night, unable to sleep through another nightmare, I'd gone to the chapel to pray. Voices had echoed up from somewhere below, followed by the distinct click of heels on stone–shoes no nun would wear.

Curiosity had led me down a spiral staircase I'd never noticed before, hidden behind a door that usually stayed locked. The corridor at the bottom smelled of expensive perfume and cigar smoke instead of incense and beeswax.

Through a crack in a door, I'd seen Sister Anna-a quiet woman who claimed to have a weak constitution and often missed morning prayers-kneeling before a man in an expensive suit. But she wasn't praying.

The room was filled with smacking sounds. Her mouth dripped of saliva as she took in the man's cock. Hardened and wet. He had held her hair tightly, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. Her breasts were dangling and hitting his thighs as she sucked his dick.

I was surprised. It was unexpected, but I had felt a slight wetness seeping into my panties. I had wanted to watch and shove my fingers into that aching spot between my legs.

But guilt came in and I fled back upstairs and vomited in the chapel bathroom until my ribs ached.

The next morning, Mother Superior had called me to her office.

She'd known. Of course she'd known. Nothing happened in Sacred Mercy without her knowledge.

"You seem troubled, Sister Celeste," she'd said, her voice pleasant as poisoned honey. "Did you sleep poorly?"

I'd kept my eyes down, hands clasped. "Yes, Mother Superior."

"Nightmares again?" A pause. "Or perhaps... curiosity about things that don't concern you?"

My blood had run cold.

She'd walked around her desk, her fingers trailing along the wood. "Sacred Mercy provides many services, child. Some visible, some... less so. We care for souls in various ways. The Church's work takes many forms."

"I don't understand, Mother Superior."

"I think you do." Her hand had gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. "And I think you're clever enough to know that some knowledge is dangerous. That doors left open in the night are invitations-or tests."

She'd released me, returning to her desk. "You've been exemplary these past two years. Devout. Obedient. Broken enough to be useful, but not so broken you're a liability. I'd hate for that to change."

The threat had been clear.

So I'd learned to be more careful. More invisible. I avoided the spiral staircase. I didn't ask questions when sisters disappeared for days at a time and returned hollow-eyed. I kept my head down during the evenings when expensive cars pulled up to the service entrance.

For six years, I'd survived by being overlooked.

I'd watched other girls-some who'd come after me-get selected for "evening services." I'd seen how they changed. How Sister Anna developed a nervous tick. How Sister Therese started hoarding sleeping pills. How Sister Claire simply vanished one day, and we were told she'd been transferred to another convent.

We all knew what "transferred" meant.

The system was simple, really. Mother Superior identified which girls could be used-the desperate ones, the ones with nowhere else to go, the ones too broken or afraid to run. She matched them to clients based on preferences and paid obscene amounts of money that went straight to the Church's coffers.

In return, the Church looked the other way. Cardinals received their cut. Local authorities were paid to ignore anything suspicious. And Sacred Mercy maintained its reputation as a beacon of holiness while selling women to wealthy men who wanted to defile it.

I'd avoided selection by being invisible. Too haunted. Too unstable.

I was the kind of broken that wasn't appealing to men who wanted fresh innocence to corrupt.

Until now.