chapter five ࿇ NIGHT OF TEMPTATION

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A month had slipped by since Father Rien first arrived in Spring Falls. Life kept its usual rhythm, slow and sticky as molasses, with folks lingering on front porches and gossip rolling through the air like a faint, familiar hymn. Nothing much had changed, not really, except for the quiet unease that had settled itself into Jacqueline's bones since Vincent's arrival. It was a feeling she tried to ignore—tried to pray away—but it only grew stronger with each passing day.

One night, lying sleepless and restless in her bed, Jacqueline saw a figure moving across the yard. She crept to the window, and there, in the dim light spilling from the church down the road, she saw him. Vincent. He wasn't alone. A woman clung to his arm, her laughter ringing out softly as if they shared some secret joke. Jacqueline felt a jolt of something electric tighten in her chest, as though a low flame had been kindled in her ribs.

She pressed herself against the window, peering out through the veil of curtains, watching as Vincent led the woman up the steps of the old rectory. His hand was at the small of her back, guiding her, his head bent close to hers as he whispered something Jacqueline couldn't make out. She felt her breath catch, her pulse quicken. It was like witnessing something intimate, something meant to be hidden. She should've turned away, let the curtains fall, and gone back to her prayers, but instead she leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching the glass.

A strange, hot shame crept over her as she watched the way he touched the woman's arm, the deliberate care in his movements. Jacqueline's skin prickled with longing she didn't quite understand. It was a low ache, nestled deep beneath her belly, and as she watched Vincent disappear through the rectory door with the woman at his side, that ache twisted itself into a knot of bitter envy.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty porch long after they were gone, her thoughts unraveling in a dark tangle. It was a terrible thing, she knew, to covet a man like that. Especially a man of God, a man who stood before the congregation every Sunday and spoke with such authority about sin and redemption. But as she stood there, her breath fogging the windowpane, Jacqueline couldn't stop herself from imagining what it would feel like to have his eyes on her the way they'd been on that woman, to be drawn close and made to listen as he spoke in that low, deliberate voice, his lips so near to her ear.

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the sensation—his hand at the nape of her neck, his breath warm against her cheek—but the thought only unsettled her further. It felt as if she were trying to reach for something just beyond the edge of a dream, something that slipped away the moment she got too close.

When she finally tore herself from the window, the room seemed colder, darker. She lay back down, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer her some answer, but there was nothing there, just the slow, suffocating quiet of the night pressing in around her. She thought of that woman again, the easy grace with which she'd followed Vincent inside, and the knot in Jacqueline's chest tightened, twisted until it was almost unbearable.

She didn't know what she wanted exactly, only that the wanting was there, growing like a sickness, something she couldn't swallow down no matter how hard she tried. It spread through her, seeping into her veins, making her feel hollow and heavy all at once. And as she lay there, staring up into the dark, Jacqueline couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was stirring inside her was not the kind of thing that could be cured by prayer. It was darker, deeper, a hunger that would not be satisfied so easily.

Jacqueline found herself at the window again, the moon draped across the sky like a patient eye. She should've been asleep hours ago, but she had left her curtains parted, just enough to see the faint light glowing in Vincent's room across the yard. It was foolish, of course, to wait there in the quiet dark. Yet some restless part of her, the part she kept hidden beneath her composure, seemed determined to linger, hoping for something she couldn't quite name.

When she saw the woman again, crossing the room with her dress slipping off one shoulder, Jacqueline's breath stilled in her throat. It felt like trespassing, like she'd wandered into someone else's dream, but she couldn't look away. The woman moved with an ease that Jacqueline could never muster, a careless grace that seemed foreign and beautiful all at once. Vincent was there too, a shadowed figure leaning close, his hands reaching for the woman with a certainty that made Jacqueline's skin feel tight and hot.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the window frame as she watched them. She could see Vincent's mouth at the woman's neck, the way her head tilted back, exposing the pale curve of her throat. The woman's hands twisted into his hair, pulling him closer, and for a moment, Jacqueline swore she felt the tug of it somewhere deep inside herself, as if it were her own hands buried in the dark strands. She bit down hard on her lip, trying to silence the small, sharp gasp that escaped her, but the sound lingered in the air, betraying her.

She watched as Vincent's hands traced the woman's body, every touch seeming to draw out a soft murmur or a breathless sigh. The intimacy of it was like a slow unraveling, and Jacqueline felt something tighten inside her as she imagined herself in that woman's place, felt the way it would be to have his touch tracing lines over her own skin. A shameful heat crept up her throat and down to the pit of her belly. She knew she should look away, but instead, she found herself leaning closer, as if by doing so she might be able to feel what the woman felt, might taste the weight of Vincent's gaze as it roamed across her bare shoulders.

It felt like being drawn into a dark current, one that pulled her deeper with each passing second, every shift of Vincent's body against the woman's. The sounds from inside the room came muffled and distant through the glass, but they reached her still, each murmur and breath a thread that wound itself around her. Jacqueline's body grew tense and restless, as though caught in a terrible, exquisite ache that she didn't know how to ease. She imagined Vincent turning, catching her eyes through the window, imagined the look he'd give her—sharp and knowing, a look that said he knew exactly what kind of thoughts she was trying to hide.

But of course, that was just a feverish fantasy. He remained oblivious to her presence or so she thinks. His hands roaming over the woman as though seeking out some secret he might unlock with the press of his lips. Jacqueline's breath grew shallow, her heart pounding in her chest, and she wondered if it was possible to feel pleasure and shame in equal measure, to be so helplessly caught in the thrall of another's desire that it seeped through the glass and spilled into her veins.

When she finally pulled herself away from the window, her limbs felt heavy, her skin flushed and cold at once. The room seemed hollow around her, the night darker than it had been before, and as she stumbled back into her bed, Jacqueline felt as though some part of her had slipped away in those moments she spent watching. A part of her that had been untouched, untainted, but was now marked by a desire she didn't fully understand, a longing that was bound to lead her down some path she wasn't prepared to walk.

She lay there, the silence of the night pressing close around her, and tried to summon the words for a prayer, but they slipped from her grasp like water through cupped hands. All she could feel was the echo of what she'd seen, still burning in the back of her mind, a secret she would carry now, buried deep beneath her skin.

Jacqueline stared at the cracked ceiling, her breath shallow and uneven, the image of them still pulsing like an afterimage behind her eyes. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to smother the heat rising in her cheeks, but it only made her feel more exposed. She'd seen too much. Felt too much. And now it sat inside her like a weight, heavy and immovable.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself like a wounded thing. The sheets tangled around her legs, clinging like guilt, but she didn't have the energy to kick them away. Her mind kept circling back to the woman's neck, the way it had arched so willingly, the light sheen of sweat on her skin. And Vincent—his hands, the curve of his back, the way his mouth moved as if he were whispering something sacred into her ear. Jacqueline shivered, though the room was stiflingly warm.

She tried again to pray, forcing the words out in her mind. Lord, forgive me... But they faltered, turning into something raw and formless, something she couldn't shape into language. It wasn't just what she'd seen that weighed on her, but the way it had made her feel—like her body was no longer her own, like it had been taken over by something wild and reckless and hungry.

Her hands drifted to the hollow of her throat, her fingers brushing the soft skin there, as if testing the sensation. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in that woman's place—tried to imagine the weight of Vincent's hands on her, the heat of his breath against her neck—but the thought made her chest tighten with an unbearable mix of shame and longing.

Jacqueline sat up abruptly, her body tense and trembling, as if the act of lying still had become unbearable. She pressed her forehead to her knees, clutching at the fabric of her nightgown. Her heart was racing, her pulse thrumming in her ears like a distant drumbeat. She thought of the sermons she'd heard all her life, the stern warnings about temptation, about the devil's cunning, and for the first time, she understood what they meant. But it wasn't the devil she feared—it was herself.

The night felt alive now, buzzing and electric, as if the very air had turned against her. She glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see Vincent there, his crimson eyes glowing in the dark. But the curtains were still, the glass empty, and the only sound was the faint creak of the house settling around her.

She wanted to get up, to leave the room, to walk barefoot into the night and let the cool grass steady her, but she couldn't move. She stayed there, folded into herself, her body stiff with the weight of her own thoughts. She felt raw, like her skin had been peeled back to reveal something soft and unprotected beneath, something she didn't know how to put away again.

And then, somewhere deep inside her, a voice she didn't recognize whispered: You're not going to stop thinking about him. It wasn't accusing or cruel—just a quiet, matter-of-fact statement, like the kind of truth you try to deny until it becomes too big to ignore. Jacqueline tightened her grip on her knees, her nails digging into her skin. She wanted to scream at the voice, to tell it to leave her alone, but she knew it was right.

She was no longer herself—not fully. Whatever had settled in her chest that night, whatever had stirred when she first saw Vincent, had already begun to take root. It wasn't something she could pray away or outrun. It was a quiet, insidious thing, spreading through her like ivy, tangling itself around her ribs. It would stay with her now, she realized. It would live in her, growing in the dark until it became something she could no longer control.

She leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly at the shadowy room. The night stretched out before her, endless and unforgiving, and she felt, for the first time, like a girl who'd already been marked for something she couldn't name. Something inevitable.