𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

“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 4

Word Count: 903 words

The church was his prison.

He hadn’t planned on returning, but he always did. Denial was a flimsy shield against the truth, and deep down, he knew why.

You were here again, gliding like a phantom through the hallowed stillness. From the shadowy corner by the confessional, he watched you in silence, his back pressed to the cold stone as his eyes devoured every deliberate movement. The modest veil that hung over your face only made you seem further out of reach, like a figment he could never quite hold.

It enraged him.

Every movement of yours—measured, intentional, sacred—drew him closer to some edge he didn’t want to name. Lighting the candles, arranging the altar, sweeping the floors—you moved like a clockwork prayer, as though your very existence was part of something far greater than yourself. He couldn’t stand it.

And yet he couldn’t look away.

It was contempt, he told himself. Pure disgust. That knot of tension curling in his chest as you knelt before the altar, utterly still except for the faint rhythm of your breathing? Contempt. Nothing more.

Your foolish faith sickened him. You were naive—pathetically blind to the brutal truths of the world. Your piety, your purity, your false sense of peace—it was a farce. A laughable delusion.

But the stillness in you held power. The kind that whispered of something untouchable, something unbreakable. Your serene silence cut through him like glass, slicing cleanly through the rot he carried inside. It made him feel exposed.

He hated that most of all.

You infuriated him because you were everything he couldn’t be—untainted, unyielding. He wanted to destroy it. To tear down the fragile altar of your faith and show you the truth—his truth—the ugliness, the chaos, the hatred. He wanted to pull you into the depths where he dwelled, to shatter the pristine image you showed to the world.

And yet…

He couldn’t deny the other part of him. The part that wanted to touch you. To leave his mark on you—a bruise, a scar, something to prove that you weren’t untouchable after all. The dark craving gnawed at him, whispering things he didn’t dare name.

You weren’t supposed to be above it all. Above him.

His fists curled as you adjusted the altar’s gilded crucifix, your brow furrowed in a fleeting moment of concentration. His breath hitched, shame turning hot in his chest.

He hated you.

He hated the way you looked when you knelt in prayer, hated the faint outline of your form beneath that unassuming dress. He hated the idea of anyone else looking at you—seeing you the way he did.

No.

His jaw clenched, his eyes dark as his grip tightened on the edge of his control. You were his to resent. His to ruin.

When you straightened suddenly and looked toward the confessional, his pulse spiked. Instinct had him stepping back into shadow, teeth grinding at the ridiculousness of his own reaction.

But you didn’t approach. You simply stood there, gaze sharp as if you knew. As if you could feel him there, hidden in the dark.

“Are you just going to linger there all day?” Your voice rang out, steady and unafraid.

He emerged from the darkness slowly, wearing a lazy smirk that was all teeth, no warmth. “What can I say? You’re fascinating in a morbid sort of way.”

You didn’t flinch or bristle. You turned back to the altar, dismissing him like he was nothing but a shadow on the wall.

“If you’re so fascinated, you must not have much else to do,” you said, voice calm, detached.

“Or maybe,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I’m fascinated by how wrong you are about everything. Your precious faith, your pathetic hope—none of it matters. None of it will save you.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t so much as look at him as your hands smoothed the cloth draped over the altar.

His steps echoed faintly as he moved closer, the air thick with the quiet tension he carried with him. “Tell me,” he whispered, voice low and sharp, “how can someone like you still believe? What makes you think He—your God—cares about you or anyone else in this rotting world?”

You froze, hands stilling. The silence stretched, and for one brief moment, triumph curled in his chest.

But when you turned to face him, your expression was calm, unshaken. “Because He does.”

The certainty in your voice hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened, his sneer faltering for just a heartbeat. He stepped closer, the space between you vanishing as he leaned in. “You’re wrong,” he said, the words a venomous rasp.

“Then why are you still here?”

The question landed like a blade, cutting deep, because he had no answer. His hand moved before he thought better of it, fingertips brushing your jaw. Your skin was warm, impossibly real, and the contact made something in him twist like a knife.

He wanted to ruin you, to break you open and make you feel. To prove you weren’t so untouchable, so far above the world he knew. But his grip faltered, and he found himself holding still.

Your gaze never wavered, calm as ever—as if you could see every fractured piece of him and didn’t care enough to recoil.

He hated you for that. Hated you enough to drown in it.

And yet, for that fleeting moment, he couldn’t let go.