CHAPTER 187: CHAPTER 188: WANT

In the shadowed heart of his new quarters. Aiden stood like a thief in his own legend.

Every isekai hero—tumbling from manga panels, anime screens, or game glitches—clutched one edge: foreknowledge. His? A ragged scrap, skimmed to Chapter 152 before his ex girlfriend’s knife swerve hurled him here.

The author’s lazy outline left gaps he could exploit. Plot holes to carve into thrones.

’Why me?’ The doubt slithered cold in his gut. ’No hero’s halo. Just scraps. Building on borrowed bones.’

He exhaled. The church’s incense clung thick—myrrh and charred oak, heavy as unspoken sins. Stone floors chilled his sandals. Each step echoed like a trapped heartbeat.

He’d claimed the Prophet’s role. Not from faith. From hunger. A vacant spot in the tale, meant for the Messiah later.

’Let the mc save the world from the All out war,’ Aiden thought, fingers tracing his journal. ’I’ll whisper the warnings. Feed on the flock’s fear to reach where I need to reach....’

The journal held his "visions": the Leonidus schism in three moons. Blood eclipses before the First Wave. Stolen from future Chapters.

Doubt flickered. Lanterns swung from chains, casting mocking halos. ’What if the plot rewrites me out?’ But he couldn’t afford weakness. Amber’s seal—pressed hot into his palm during those wild nights—grounded him.

Twelve virgins now knelt to his word. Habits shed in candlelit chambers. Arina’s olive thighs first. Tessa’s freckled quiver next. Each broken seal a step up his ladder. The memory stirred him—a low, insistent throb under silk. Salt-tang of their gasps still lingered on his tongue.

’Horny saints in waiting,’ he smirked inwardly. ’The Church’s vault of denial. Ripe. But how deep the hunger runs? I will figure it out one by one...haha...’

Shila’s note had come at dawn. Sealed with the Bishop of Leonidus’s griffin—a snarling beast clutching a thorned chalice.

"The Prelate stirs. He seeks the so called Prophet. Prepare yourself...." Her script lashed like a lover’s whip.

Shila wanted more than prophecies. She craved his flesh. Her letters dripped invitations to shadowed corners. ’Useful. But not yet.’

The risk tempted him—her eyes devouring like the first bite of forbidden fruit. ’She could shatter me with one whisper to the Conclave. And damn, that edge... it hardens me.’

Amber held tighter reins here. His lovely fallen abbess. He didn’t know she had that much faith in this fake god. Even pounding her deep again and again. Didn’t convince her enough.

But it’s done now. Her heart and faith on him rather than her dead God.

Knock. Knock.

The sound echoed through the small chapel, hollow and deliberate, like a lover’s fingertip tracing the curve of a spine.

Aiden lifted his gaze from the gilded scripture, the candlelight trembling across his face, casting shadows that licked at the sharp line of his jaw.

He was still in the confessional, still wearing the robes that felt too heavy for the man beneath them—silk clinging to sweat-damp skin, a constant reminder of the heat he buried under vows.

Ever since his ordination—through Amber and Shila’s decree—the people had come in flocks, their confessions spilling like forbidden secrets. His name carried weight now. Father Lucifer. The prophet who listened. The sinner who’d learned to preach, even as his body remembered the taste of surrender.

"Come in..." His voice carried, calm but taut, laced with the low rumble of restraint.

The door creaked open, slow and teasing, like the parting of thighs in the dark. A figure slipped through, hood drawn low, the scent of jasmine slicing through the incense—rich, heady, blooming with the promise of skin warmed by hidden fires.

His pulse faltered, a sudden throb low in his belly. That scent—familiar, impossible, intoxicating. It wrapped around him, pulling at memories of tangled sheets and gasped pleas. He rose slightly from his seat, disbelief tightening his chest.

Sabrina?

Why here? Why now? The question burned.

Without a word, he stepped into his side of the confessional, the air already thickening with her nearness. Opposite him, she settled on the other bench, her silhouette veiled by the iron lattice, curves hinted at in the play of shadows—full breasts rising with each breath, hips shifting just enough to make his mouth go dry.

"I missed you..." Her voice trembled, carrying too many ghost.

Aiden inhaled sharply, the jasmine invading his lungs, stirring the heat pooling in his core. He steadied his tone, but it came out rougher than intended, gravel over silk. "Please... confess your sins, daughter of the Lord."

Silence pressed in. A silence that burned, electric and heavy, the kind that hummed between lovers on the brink. He didn’t need his system to know—she was angry. Furious, even. He could feel it radiating through the lattice.

Finally, she spoke, her words cracking like glass under pressure, voice dropping to a sultry whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

"I confess I have been yearning for a man." A pause, her breath hitching audibly, as if the admission alone made her thighs clench.

"A married woman. A mother. Yet I can’t love my husband. I ache for someone else—for his hands on me, rough and claiming, his mouth devouring what’s forbidden."

Aiden’s hands clenched on the kneeler, knuckles whitening, the wood creaking under his grip.

The air between them thickened, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks—wet, expectant, her words coiling around him, tightening like velvet ropes.

"I confess," she continued, voice sharper now, laced with a needy edge that made his blood run hot, "that man has turned to God—and ignores me. Leaves me dripping with want, fingers slipping between my legs at night, chasing echoes of him that never satisfies...."

The last words hit harder than he expected, a punch to the gut that twisted into desire, his throat tightening as he imagined her—spread out in her silken bed, red hair fanned, fingers plunging deep while whispering his name. His own arousal strained, insistent, the robe’s fabric a torturous friction.

Then, softer, aching, her tone a velvet caress through the screen, "Tell me, Father... what does one do when desire refuses to die? When it throbs like a second heartbeat, demanding to be fed?"

Aiden leaned back, eyes closing against the onslaught, but the darkness behind his lids only sharpened the vision: her lips parted, swollen from his kisses, body arching toward him. "Sabrina..." The name escaped like a groan, low and broken.

She ignored him, breath trembling, quickening now, as if the confession alone stoked the fire between her legs. "I want to bear his child. Before fate marries him off to another. I want... something that lasts when he’s gone. His seed spilling hot inside me, marking me, filling the ache until I’m swollen with him."

Aiden exhaled, long and ragged, the sound mingling with hers, the booth suddenly too small, too warm, her scent wrapping him like smoke from a lover’s skin.

His cock ached, full and heavy, begging for release. "Okay... I get it. What do you want, truly?" The words came out husky, edged with the strain of holding back.

Through the thin lattice, her lips curved—a smile both amused and dangerous, visible in the flicker of candlelight, promising sin. "Your slayer came to the palace. Said your guild is now registered."

His gaze darkened, pupils dilating with the surge of heat her proximity ignited. "...So you already know." But even as he spoke, his mind raced ahead—to peeling back that hood, baring the pale column of her throat, sinking teeth into the pulse there while she moaned his name.

"Of course." Her tone turned feline, sharp with control, but undercut by a breathy hitch that betrayed her own rising need. "My question is, why didn’t you tell me? Or Catherine? We could’ve helped you. But instead, you hide here. Pretending to be holy. A priest. A prophet." The word dripped like honeyed venom, her voice dipping low, intimate, as if she were already whispering against his ear, lips brushing the lobe.

Aiden’s jaw flexed, a muscle ticking under the skin, his body thrumming with the effort not to reach through the lattice and drag her close. "I’ll do what I must. What’s necessary." But gods, the lie tasted like her—sweet, forbidden, making him harder.

The silence that followed felt like a blade held to his throat—sharp, teasing, drawing a bead of anticipation that mirrored the sweat beading at his temple.

Finally, her voice drifted through the grate, soft but laced with threat, a sultry purr that sent heat flooding south. "You know I could destroy everything you’ve built. Cancel your engagement with flora. Expose you. Make you a prisoner in the Merlin cells... or worse. Chained to my bed, at my mercy, your cock buried deep while I ride you until you beg...."

Aiden’s lips twitched into a quiet, dangerous smile, the booth’s shadows hiding the way his hand flexed, itching to fist in her hair. A low growl built in his chest, arousal coiling tight. "That’s a bold confession, Sabrina. But you won’t."

Her laughter came low and brittle, a sound that vibrated through him like a touch, husky with promise. "Oh, I will... unless you prove you still remember me. Unless you come to me tonight and fuck the confession out of me, hard and deep, until I scream your name like before..."

He rose slowly, shadows wrapping him like armor, but it was his hunger that armored him now—raw, unyielding.

The air trembled, the candle flames bending toward him as though drawn to the heat radiating from his skin, the thick ridge of his erection tenting the robes unmistakably.

Their eyes met through the screen—her gaze storm-dark, pupils blown wide with lust, his steady, conflicted, but burning with the same feral need.

Aiden’s voice dropped, low and certain, a rumble that promised devastation. "No need for threats," he said, hand already reaching for the latch, the booth’s confines shrinking to the space between their bodies. "you won Sabrina, I will full fill your wish here and now, no need for the night to come. Until you’re dripping for me, clenching around every inch."