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 – Part 5

Word Count: 1,097 words

His fingers lingered at the edge of your jaw, the rough skin of his fingertips grazing your face like a sculptor testing the fragility of his work. The gesture should have been gentle—a touch reserved for lovers, for reverence—but there was nothing soft about it. His grip was too insistent, too heavy, as though each second spent touching you declared ownership rather than affection.

You remained still, unyielding. Your calm, quiet stoicism screamed defiance louder than any words could. And it infuriated him.

With a cruel deliberation, he tilted your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. The corners of his mouth curled, something between a sneer and a smirk taking hold. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as though drawing a map of his victory yet to come.

“Cold as ever,” he muttered, venom staining every syllable. “How much of yourself have you wasted on Him? On prayers that fall on empty heavens? Tell me, does it make you holy, or just pathetic?”

His words slid off you like raindrops over stone, failing to find purchase. You didn’t blink, didn’t shift—your silence mocked him in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.

His smirk widened into something sharper, something hungrier. “What a waste,” he drawled, the edge of his tone biting. “That body of yours, that face… wasted on kneeling before a God who doesn’t even notice you. What do you think He’d say if I took you instead? If I ruined you?”

“Enough.”

The single word, barely above a whisper, sliced through the space between you like a blade. Even he faltered for a moment, the arrogance flickering in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, and his grip on your jaw tightened, the pressure biting against your skin. “Oh?” he mocked, his lips brushing close enough for his breath to stain your cheek. “Did I finally get through to you? Or does it hurt to admit how little He—”

“Enough.” This time, the word carried weight, your voice cold and commanding as frost.

Still, he leaned closer, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, just enough to push it open. “You act so untouchable, Church Girl. But I see you,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “How long will you keep hiding? Behind silence, behind faith. That won’t protect you forever.”

It was the smallest of gestures, the shift of your hand as your fingers curled around his wrist. The touch was so gentle at first, a ghost of contact—until your nails sank into his skin.

His breath hitched, not in pain but in surprise. The smirk on his face faltered, his sharp confidence cracking.

“You think my silence is weakness,” you said softly, your words a quiet chill. “But it’s mercy.”

You released him then, the faint crescent marks of your nails imprinted against his wrist like a warning. Slowly, with the same unbothered composure that sent him spiraling, you stepped back, your fingers smoothing the sleeve of your dress. “I have no time for this,” you murmured, the finality of your tone slamming shut any argument he might have made.

And then you turned and walked away.

He didn’t follow. Couldn’t.

Left in the dying light of flickering candles, he stood frozen, his hand still tingling where you’d touched him, the sharp sting of your nails lingering like a brand. He curled his fingers into a fist, his nails digging deep into his palm, as though trying to erase the memory.

He hated you.

No, he despised you.

——————————

The memory of your touch clung to him like an unwanted ghost, stubborn and cruel. It should have been nothing—a fleeting moment already lost to time—but it wasn’t. It lingered, sinking deeper with every breath he took.

His hand ached. That faint ache where your fingers had dug in was nothing compared to the frustration boiling beneath his skin. It wasn’t the pain that haunted him—it was the reminder of how you’d looked at him. Cold. Unshaken. As though he were insignificant.

His gaze burned into your retreating figure, the modest folds of your dress swaying with each calm step. The fabric hid everything, and yet it showed just enough. The slope of your neck where the veil didn’t quite settle was a challenge, a provocation that mocked him. You weren’t trying to captivate him. You didn’t care. And that was what made you unbearable.

Because you were beautiful—not in the way others were, not deliberately or manipulatively, but simply were. Untouched, untouchable, as though your very existence denied him. And he hated that.

He lifted his hand, his fingers trembling faintly as he traced the ghost of where yours had been. It disgusted him—this feeling, this ache. He should have forgotten you already, shrugged you off as easily as everyone else who dared defy him. But you were different. You were untouchable… and he wanted to ruin you for it.

The thought made his jaw clench.

“No one stays untouchable,” he muttered to himself, his voice raw. The sound echoed in the empty church, swallowed by the shadows. His nails dug harder into his palm, punishing himself for even entertaining the thought of you. For imagining what it would be like to break you, to strip away that armor of faith and silence until you were as raw as he felt.

He imagined your lips trembling—not with prayer, but desperation. Your voice, finally cracking, begging him. He imagined you looking at him not with disdain, not with disinterest, but fear, anger, need.

He imagined pulling you down from that pedestal where you thought yourself safe, dragging you into the dirt where no God could reach.

It made him hate you more.

His eyes burned as he watched you disappear, your steps calm and deliberate, as though he hadn’t just threatened to tear apart your sanctity. The final flicker of your veil vanished beyond the aisle, leaving him alone in the dimness. Alone with his anger.

And still, his feet refused to move.

Hatred was a shackle, and you were its weight. A constant, lingering ache that he couldn’t rip free of no matter how hard he tried.

Because hate shouldn’t feel like longing. It shouldn’t gnaw at him like hunger. It shouldn’t leave him restless, empty, craving something he couldn’t name.

But it did.

So he stayed, his hand still tingling with the ghost of your touch, his mind replaying the sight of you walking away without a backward glance.

Because hate, when it festered, became something far worse.

And you—you had trapped him in it.