Chapter 5
The priest’s name was Father Tomás Alvarez.
He did not look surprised when Marie returned the next morning.
Oregon sunlight filtered weakly through stained glass, casting fractured reds and blues across the wooden pews. Marie felt exposed walking down the center aisle, her belly rounded beneath her coat, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.
Father Tomás stood near the altar, sleeves rolled slightly, as if he had been expecting labor rather than confession.
“You came back,” he said gently.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted.
“That’s usually when grace begins.”
She swallowed. “I don’t deserve grace.”
His gaze moved to her stomach again — not judgmental, not scandalized.
Protective.
“Tell me everything.”
So she did.
The bar.
The warning.
The number.
The pact.
The heat of his touch.
The texts.
The twelve acts.
She did not describe the nights in detail, but her voice softened when she spoke of the way the Devil held her, the way he looked at her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to something human.
Father Tomás listened without interruption.
When she finished, silence hung heavy between them.
“You’re not dealing with a metaphor,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“You invited something ancient.”
Her heart pounded. “Is he really—?”
“The Devil?” The priest’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps. Or perhaps something that wants you to believe he is.”
“He says there are forces he doesn’t control.”
Father Tomás gave a humorless smile. “Even pride answers to something.”
Marie’s fingers tightened over her belly.
“Will they kill my baby?”
The question broke something open inside her.
The priest stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Your child is not theirs.”
“But they said—”
“They want you afraid. Fear binds stronger than blood.”
A tremor moved through her.
“He won’t come inside,” she whispered.
The priest nodded slowly. “That tells me something.”
“What?”
“That whatever he is… he hasn’t severed himself completely.”
Marie’s chest tightened.
“He feels real,” she said. “When he touches me… when he looks at me… it isn’t manipulation. It feels like—”
“Love?” the priest finished gently.
Her throat burned.
“Yes.”
Father Tomás walked to the altar and lit a candle.
“Love,” he said quietly, “is the one thing darkness has never known how to counterfeit properly.”
The flame flickered.
“You need protection,” he continued. “And you need to stop completing those acts.”
“There are five left.”
“Then we break the pact.”
Her breath caught. “Can we?”
He turned to her.
“Yes.”
That night, when the Devil came to her apartment, he knew immediately something had changed.
He stood in the doorway, broad shoulders rigid beneath his black coat, eyes scanning her face with unsettling intensity.
“You went back,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“To him.”
“Yes.”
Silence vibrated between them.
For a moment, she thought he might disappear.
Instead, he stepped inside and shut the door with deliberate calm.
“You think he can undo this?” he asked quietly.
“I think he can help.”
His laugh was low and dangerous.
“You made a pact with me.”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
“You knew enough.”
She walked toward him slowly, heart pounding but steady.
“Tell me the truth.”
He didn’t answer.
She stopped inches from him.
“You told me I chose you,” she whispered. “But did you choose me?”
His expression shifted.
Something raw flickered in his eyes.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
“Then help me protect our child.”
The word our hung between them like a blade.
He reached for her almost unconsciously, hands settling at her waist, fingers spreading over the curve of her stomach. Heat radiated from him — not destructive now, but restless.
“I never meant for this,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For you to matter.”
Her breath caught.
His forehead pressed against hers.
“You were supposed to be a distraction.”
“And now?”
“Now you are the only thing that makes me hesitate.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“Then hesitate.”
His eyes darkened.
“You don’t understand what hunts you.”
“Then fight it.”
A storm seemed to gather inside him.
For a long moment, he simply held her — arms tightening, beard brushing her temple, breath warm against her skin.
The air around them pulsed.
“I cannot undo the pact,” he said finally. “But I can weaken it.”
“How?”
“You must refuse the remaining acts.”
“They’ll hurt the baby.”
“They will threaten,” he corrected. “They thrive on compliance.”
Her heart thundered.
“And if you’re wrong?”
He cupped her face.
“I am many things,” he said quietly. “But I will not let my child die.”
The words reverberated through her like a vow carved in stone.
She believed him.
That was the most dangerous part.
