Twisted Christmas Read online

  Twisted Christmas

  SARA CATE

  QB TYLER

  B CELESTE

  CATHARINA MAURA

  IVY FOX & THANDIE

  AMANDA RICHARDSON

  NYLA K.

  LEIGH LENNON

  J.D. HOLLYFIELD

  A.R. BRECK

  BELLAMY ROSWELL

  S. RENA & BL MUTE

  Contents

  Sweet Blasphemy

  By Sara Cate

  Always Been You

  By Q.B. Tyler

  The Attack Zone

  By B. Celeste

  Bittersweet Revenge

  By Catharina Maura

  Dirty Secrets

  By Ivy Fox & Thandie

  Hating Mr. Cooper

  By Amanda Richardson

  Unwrap Him

  By Nyla K.

  Through the River - Into the Woods

  By Leigh Lennon

  Stray

  By J.D. Hollyfield

  Illicit Hearts and Broken Virtues

  By A.R. Breck

  Sugar Daddy Santa Claus

  By Bellamy Roswell

  Baby

  By S. Rena & BL Mute

  Sweet Blasphemy

  BY SARA CATE

  Copyright © 2021 by Sara Cate

  Editing by Rebecca’s Fairest Reviews

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  “Sweet Blasphemy”

  A priest romance

  * * *

  I watch his fingers brush the pages of the Bible as he turns them.

  And I watch his lips move as he speaks the sermon.

  I notice the way his dark eyes land on me.

  I cannot give a name to these feelings for Father Roman.

  He has already taken his vows of celibacy, and I am about to take mine.

  But I can’t help the way I feel in his presence: like I’m dying of thirst and he is the holy water I need.

  No, I cannot give a name to these feelings.

  Although, deep down, I know what this is.

  This is lust.

  And it will be a miracle if I can get through this Christmas without letting these feelings slip.

  Prologue

  Father Roman

  Five years ago

  * * *

  The church is finally quiet. In fact, it’s so silent, I don’t want to leave. It’s been a long month of events, dinners, nativity plays for the children, and Christmas parties for the congregation. And I love it. That’s why I became ordained and devoted myself to the church—to be a part of it all.

  But for right now, I’m going to enjoy this, the church at its most peaceful.

  This was my first official Advent at the church. I’m doing something right, helping others and getting closer to God. That’s what my mother wanted, and I promised her before she passed that that would be my purpose. Help others. Find God. Live in peace.

  As I stand at the altar somewhere after one in the morning, making it Christmas day, I reflect on how much I’ve accomplished, on how gratifying it feels to fulfill my mother’s dying wish.

  It feels good. It does.

  But...something is missing.

  I stand there for so long, dwelling on this emptiness and talking to God, my back aches, then finally decide I’m just too tired to understand anything tonight.

  Stowing away the last of the candles and programs left out from Midnight Mass, I freeze when I hear the door to the church open. I’m the only priest at the church, and I just sent the volunteers home, so I say a silent prayer that it’s not someone wanting to cause trouble.

  Quickly moving toward the chapel to remain unseen in order to see who it is before they see me, I stop in my tracks when I take in the young woman tiptoeing silently toward the altar. She doesn’t see me yet, so I stare at her for a moment. She’s wearing pajamas, loose-fitting pants and an oversized sweatshirt. There are tattered sneakers on her feet that look about five sizes too big. And as she approaches the candles and dim light, I notice the tear tracks across her makeup-stained face.

  She can’t be more than fifteen, and her expression shows pain and grief.. I watch her for a bit longer, eager to see if she’s here to try and steal something—not that there is anything valuable to take. tThen, she drops into the front pew and begins to cry silently into the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She’s definitely not here to steal—she’s here for safety or rather, sanctuary.

  God sent her to me.

  Stepping out into the light, I let my footsteps announce my presence, watching her flinch and hearing her gasp when she spots me coming closer.

  I pause and hold up my hands, trying to ease her fears.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I just...I thought—” She stutters as she wipes her nose with her sleeve.

  “You don’t need to worry. You’re welcome here.”

  Her shoulders soften. “I am?”

  “Always.” I raise a hand toward the altar.

  Her tear-soaked cheeks lift into a gentle smile, and I find my eyes glued to her. I can’t seem to look away from the fullness of her lashes or the pink patches of skin around her nose from crying. She is a beautiful girl, so innocent and pure.

  Then my gaze falls to her lips and I notice the split mark with dried blood at the corner, and something inside of me hardens with anger..

  “Are you hurt?” I ask, my voice darker and lower than normal.

  Her fingers reach to touch her lip and her face twists up in agony as the tears start to fall again.

  “I’m fine.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists. “Can I bring you some water and something to eat?”

  She hesitates before swallowing and curling in on herself. “Yes, please.”

  I return a few minutes later from the kitchen with a bottle of water and three packages of Ritz crackers. Her delicate fingers twist open the bottle. I take a seat next to her and notice the way she doesn't shy away from me. Instead, she gazes up at me with eyes full of wonder.

  “Do you work here?” she asks.

  I lean against the back of the seat and prop my feet up on the pew in front of us, the same way she is doing.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you a priest?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “You don’t look like a priest,” she responds, and I can’t help but laugh. She’s not wrong. I’m almost thirty, and she’s probably picturing the Pope when she imagines what a priest should be.

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I’ve never been to church before,” she whispers, as if it’s a confession. “I just heard that you could come here whenever you want and they can’t turn you away.”

  “God would never turn you away,” I reply. I hate that I just said that. It feels forced and cheesy, and not right for this tender moment. “Even if we could, why would we want to?”

  She nods, biting her lip.

  Then I add, “What is your name?”

  “Cora,” she replies in a breathy high-pitched voice. “I’m fifteen.”

  “I’m Father Roman.” I put my hand out with an easy smile, and she places her
fingers against mine with slight hesitation. Again, I marvel at how perfect she is, so sweet and lovely.

  After pulling away, she opens her crackers and eats them noisily while we stare at the dimly lit altar.

  “These are good,” she mumbles with her mouth full. When she offers me one, I take it so she doesn’t have to eat alone. A sudden wave of longing cascades over me. I want to feed her as much as I can. Keep her warm and safe. I want to give her everything—clothes, books, water, whatever she needs. It’s urgent and powerful, like nothing I’ve felt before.

  Is this what my mother was talking about? Is this what I’ve been missing?

  “Do you need anything else, Cora? Are you safe at home?”

  “Um,” she mutters, curling her perfectly white blonde hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’m fine. It was a bad day, but there are good days.”

  Not enough. She should have nothing but good days.

  For the next hour, we talk—well, mostly, she talks and I listen. She tells me about all of her favorite things: her favorite books, TV shows, and movies. She explains her love of winter over summer. And how she went to Disneyland last summer and saw one of the characters take his costume head off, which is apparently a pretty big deal. She laughs, and so I laugh until the once-silent church is filled with life and warmth.

  She finishes her crackers and water, and I take the trash from her hands.

  “I should go.”

  Normally, I’d offer to pray or something, but I’m caught off guard. It’s like a tiny angel has just landed in my church in the middle of the night, and I’ve forgotten that I’m even a priest.

  “Will you come back? So I know you’re safe.”

  Standing up, she stares at the altar again, and even though she’s not smiling, there’s warmth on her face. So much better than the sob-stricken expression she wore when I found her.

  “I like it here. It’s so peaceful.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “What do you do here?” My heart slams against my chest with emotion for this girl.

  “We, uh...well, we worship. We pray. We come together and we help each other.”

  She twists up her mouth as if she’s contemplating it. “And I can come back whenever I want?”

  “Anytime.”

  “Will you be here?” she asks, her innocent round eyes landing on my face.

  “I’m always here.”

  “Good. I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Christmas.”

  Her brow furrows and I watch her jaw clench. “Oh yeah.”

  “There will be food here at four, and we have service at ten and six. But if you’d like to just come when it’s like this, then come after eight. I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  And just like that, she gets up and walks toward the front door. As she reaches for the handle, I feel compelled to say one more thing to her. In case she doesn't come back and I never see her again.

  “Merry Christmas, Cora.”

  Turning back toward me, the subtle lights gleam in her eyes as she smiles at me. “Merry Christmas, Father Roman.”

  Then, she’s gone.

  Chapter 1

  Cora

  Present day

  * * *

  “As this will be your first Christmas Eve service, be sure to make yourself as useful to the priest as you can.”

  “Yes, Sister Abigail,” I say resolutely.

  “Fix your hair,” she snaps, sounding exasperated. I can feel my blonde waves falling out of my veil, so with a huff, I tuck them back and tighten the white fabric fastened at the nape of my neck.

  “You will be at the service of Father Roman until you return. Understand?”

  My fingers freeze, and I bite back my smile. “Yes, Sister Abigail.” Only a few more moments until I’m back in his presence, back at the church that has been my home for the past five years. Every moment that I’m not around Father Roman feels wrong, and now I have two whole days with him and instead of having to wait until mass is over to be near him, I will be on the altar with him, where I belong.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest. I’m so excited I can barely stand it.

  “Father Roman will give me a full report when you return.”

  I nod, finding it hard to hide my emotions, and it’s obvious she can tell. With a delicate eye roll, she glares at me. “If he hadn’t requested you himself, you’d be my last choice. So consider this your test, Sister Cora. We need to know you’re serious about this.”

  I am serious about this. I always have been, although I find the protocol of it all to be overly taxing and annoying. The clothes, the structure, the rules. It’s all too much, but everyone keeps telling me it’s all there to bring me closer to God.

  The only person that ever brought me closer to Him was Father Roman.

  And now I get to see him for the first time in six months. Being gone for my training is the longest Father Roman and I have been apart, and I’ve missed our time together so much it hurts.

  Our car pulls up to the back of the church, and I follow Sister Abigail through the door as if I’m a guest. She knows I’ve seen every inch of this church, but she probably doesn’t realize that I've spent more time here than my own home in the past five years. Father Roman practically raised me more than my own parents.

  The moment we pass the doorway into the church, the familiar scent sends me into an instant state of blissful nostalgia. Stopping at the entrance, I take a long, deep breath.

  Then, I hear his voice. He’s in the middle of his homily, and I’m left breathless, lost in the familiar sound of his words, deep and velvety as he skims through the scripture. It’s ethereal.

  “Come now, Sister Cora,” barks Sister Abigail, “because of you, we’re late and they are already in service, so be silent as you enter. Stay silently in the wings.”

  I feel as if I’m floating toward the altar, and I take my place in the aisle at the side, my heart hammering in my chest as I stare up at him. His Christmas Eve vestments drape his arms, the rich white satin makes him look like an angel in front of the stained-glass.

  He’s just as handsome as he always was, if not more so with the subtle way he’s aged, gentle creases forming around his eyes and lips, since I first met him. Father Roman is tall with rich brown hair and bright blue eyes. He has the sort of smile that makes my insides turn to mush and the nicest hands I’ve ever seen on a man. I didn’t even know hands could be something I’d find attractive.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wildly attracted to Father Roman. Who wouldn’t be? I’m pretty sure half of these women in the pews are here to gaze at him without guilt for two hours a week. He’s only thirty-five, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only person on earth. He speaks with sincerity, meaning every word that he says.

  In my late teens, I was around other boys, men who spoke to me like they wanted something from me, and I knew what they wanted. It made me feel as if I could never trust a man as long as I lived, except for him.

  I mean, naturally it’s a crush without a future. Father Roman is devoted to God, but so am I. In a way, we share that now.

  Before turning the page of the scripture, his eyes dance upward and he hesitates a moment as his gaze falls on my face, a small smile tipping his lips. It’s subtle but it’s there. He’s happy to see me.

  He requested me.

  That truth still lives in my heart like a wonderful little shred of light to keep me warm. In some small way, Father Roman wants me, which shouldn’t surprise me. After all these years of being around him, we built a relationship, one that was fostered by the instant connection we formed on the day we met. I could be reaching, but these are the little lies my mind tells me to make me hope.

  After the service concludes, Father Roman makes his way over. His eyes are locked on mine, as he greets us both. We keep up professional appearances in the presence of Sister Abigail, when I know—at least for me, I’
m dying to throw my arms around him. But that wouldn’t be appropriate at all.

  “Sister Abigail,” he says with a curt smile, “thank you for offering Sister Cora to help with our services this year.”

  “Of course,” she replies. “And a member of your congregation too. I hope she serves you well.”

  I feel giddy at the sight of him.

  Sister Abigail spends the next five minutes kissing his ass and complimenting him on literally everything. And finally, after he walks her back to the car, she leaves.

  I’m waiting at the back of the church for him when I hear his footsteps return; he finds me gazing at the stained-glass windows that I haven’t seen in months.

  “I don’t know if I’ll get used to you in that habit,” he mutters from the doorway. Turning, I find him back in his plain black attire, arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe. My cheeks start to warm as a smile stretches across my face.

  “I’ve missed it here so much.”

  “You were missed,” he replies. His voice is careful and his words slow as if he’s afraid of what they mean. Did he miss me? Or did the church miss me?

  I want to know he thought about me while I was gone, as if he didn't have anything better to do while managing an entire church by himself.

  I can’t take it one more second, so I cross the room and throw my arms around his neck. It’s still inappropriate to do, and I’m terrified that he will scold me for it, but I sincerely think that it’s just us. Not a priest and a nun. Just Roman and Cora, the same people we used to be.

  He stiffens for a moment before finally pressing one hand to my back to squeeze me just a little bit closer. I’d say we’re toeing the line, but there was never a line with Father Roman to begin with, because there was never any idea that we would or could cross it. He’s my mentor, my friend, and in some ways, my guardian. Even though I’m twenty now, he was there to protect and care for me during the most vulnerable years of my life. When I was most at risk of making life-altering decisions, Father Roman kept me on the right path.