“He claims to hate her, but his obsession says otherwise. A deadly game of spite and desire unfolds as enemies collide, and lines between hate, love, and possession blur in the most dangerous ways.”
Yandere! Divorce Attorney : Skin of the Saint Series – Part 2
Word Count: 922 words
The days crawled by, slower than they had any right to, filled with the droning rhythm of mundane court proceedings and half-truths spun by strangers. He had no reason to think about you. Or so he told himself. You were nothing more than a face in the margins of his work—a small distraction, an irrelevance. And yet, when the week brought him back to that suffocating church, he knew he was lying to himself.
He had a purpose here. At least, that’s what he insisted. The priest had aligned himself with the wife in his latest case, and there were details to unearth—threads to pull until the story unraveled in his favor. Churches, in his mind, were fertile grounds for whispered confessions and vulnerabilities he could exploit. He didn’t need to believe in miracles. He believed in leverage.
The sanctuary was quieter than before, the afternoon light filtering through stained glass, painting faint splashes of color over worn pews and bowed heads. His gaze cut through the shadows instinctively, searching for you as though this was somehow necessary. Practical. You were always here. Always in his way.
And there you were—a constant fixture bathed in the muted glow of the windows, sitting in that same pew. Today, your veil was different—so fine it seemed spun from light itself, delicate threads glinting as you sat with your head lowered. You looked unreal. Untouchable.
It stoked something vicious in him.
He didn’t let you notice him at first, simply watching as your hands moved in time with the rosary clasped tightly between your fingers. Your lips murmured silent words, your concentration unshaken, and for a reason he couldn’t name, it maddened him.
“Still playing saint, I see.” His voice, a deliberate cut through the stillness, rang sharp with mockery.
You didn’t startle. Slowly, you turned your head, calm and deliberate, meeting his gaze with the same cool detachment you’d shown before. It infuriated him more than any flinch would have.
“What do you want?” you asked softly, your words edged with something that wasn’t quite disdain.
He slid into the pew beside you uninvited, sprawling back as though to prove he belonged there. The space around you felt violated, but you didn’t move. “Just business, Church Girl. You know how it is. The priest won’t stop meddling, so here I am—making sure he stays in his lane.”
Your gaze lingered on him, assessing him like a curious animal might size up a predator. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in confession.”
He smiled, sharp and humorless. “I believe in power. And this place—your priest—has far too much of it. Don’t tell me you buy into all of this.” He gestured lazily to the towering crucifix, the rows of candles flickering softly. “Does it make you feel better? Whispering prayers to something that isn’t listening?”
You returned your attention to the altar, resuming the steady movement of your fingers over the beads. “If you think it’s pointless, why are you here?”
“For the same reason anyone steps foot in a place like this,” he said, the smirk tugging at his mouth sharp enough to cut. “Because I want something.”
“You think you can take it,” you replied simply, your tone unshaken. “That’s all you know how to do.”
The words stilled him for just a second, but his irritation masked it. “And you? Let me guess—praying for salvation? Redemption? Maybe someone to swoop in and save you from your sad little life?”
“I don’t need saving,” you said quietly, though every word felt weighted. “Not by you. Not by anyone.”
He laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. Leaning closer, he dropped his voice to a low murmur, dangerous and biting. “You call that freedom? You’re blind, Church Girl. Chained to something that’s not real.”
Your lips pressed into a faint, knowing line. “I chose my chains. You’re the one who doesn’t understand his own.”
For the briefest of moments, the words hit their mark, sinking deeper than they should have. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tight as he regarded you—the maddening calm in your voice, the resolve in your posture. It was infuriating. He wanted to see that composure crack, just once. He wanted to drag you into his storm, force you to feel the same chaos he did.
He leaned closer still, his breath ghosting the edges of your veil, and though you remained still, he could see the faint rise and fall of your chest. “Careful,” he whispered, his voice like a blade. “You don’t want to provoke me.”
You turned your head then, meeting his gaze fully. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The simple, unshaken response made something snap within him—a frustration he couldn’t name. He opened his mouth to reply, to say something cruel or cutting that would shatter the illusion of your indifference, but you were already standing. Graceful, measured. A picture of unshaken faith that he hated as much as he was drawn to.
You stepped past him without another word, leaving him alone in the pew, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The faint sweep of your veil trailed behind you like mist, and he watched you walk toward the altar, your silhouette lit softly by the flames of the votive candles.
He couldn’t look away.
You were a problem he couldn’t solve, a thread he couldn’t pull. And no matter how much he despised you, he knew he’d be back.
Because hate, he realized, was just another kind of obsession.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 