Page 4 of My Forever Sin

I try to focus on the low jazz music and murmur of conversations in the room to drown him out. He’s only coming here for one thing—to gloat about his two perfect sons.

Father’s meaty hand slaps onto my shoulder, making me flinch just a fraction as he grips it, hard.

Sure. What’s another bruise from him?

“Kain, I’d like you to meet Father Michaels, it’s been a long time coming.”

I plaster on a wide smile as three men appear in front of me. My father, Dorrian, and who I now know is Father Michaels.

Father and Dorrian stand in front of me, the former’s heavy hand dropping from my shoulder. Both of my family members are dressed in dark red suits—the same as mine—and only a shade darker than the rest of the guests, so we stand out. Not like everyone in this town doesn’t already know us. This entire land gravitates around us.

Alas, I can’t escape everything that’s forced upon me.

But the only person who stands out the most is Father Michaels in his cream vestment which makes me raise an invisible brow. He’s a man in his mid-thirties with an angled chin and a narrow face. Cropped, brown hair gives the top of his head a prominent oval shape and his deep brown eyes have a ghostly hardness to them that most people probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid at. He’s the one who must be replacing Father Joseph, who suddenly passed recently. There were no signs of him being sick. The entire town gathered for his funeral, he was beloved by everyone, and the one person I didn’t completely loathe.

Dorrian’s face is stoic as usual. He never wears an expression; he looks dead to the world most of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a single smile. His lips are pulled into a straight line as his brown eyes study me from head to toe. His short, black hair is styled neatly on top of his head, which is a contrast to mine that sits messily over my forehead. With him, it’s like staring back at a mirror, though we have different coloured eyes.

And different virtues.

A grin emerges on Father’s face as Father Michaels stretches his hand out towards me. I glance at it like it’s carrying some sort of disease, and when Father notices—along with my lack of initiative to move—he slides himself beside me and throws his arm around my shoulder, crushing it in warning.

“You’ll have to excuse him, Father. He’s not been himself lately. I’m not sure what’s gotten into him. It’s probably those teen hormones.” He chuckles.

Fuck off.

“He’s young, Heath. What can you do?”

Again, fuck off.

“This man right here is going to teach you about our Lord and Saviour, son. I think that’s what you’re missing in life. This is why you’re so unhappy. You need to find the Westbrook light.”

Or it could be the fact you do everything in your power to make my life as miserable as possible.

“Just look at Dorrian.”

Lifeless? Departed? Soulless?

“Surrendering yourself to God will be the most virtuous day of your life,” Michaels adds. “You come from the most powerful family in this town, son. You’ll have to join the church soon, anyway. Can’t have any stragglers in the Westbrook’s.”

They both laugh at his statement, and I refrain from rolling my eyes.

Bite your tongue. You don’t need another bruise.

Dorrian’s eyes flick away when I attempt to meet his gaze.

I don’t know why I keep trying. I’m alone in this. He chose his side a long time ago. Corruption.

Their conversation trails off as I begin scanning the entrance door again.

“You should really be present for this conversation,” my brother's deep murmur snaps me out of my short search.

I whip my head towards him. He’s now standing next to me, arms folded behind him, cheekbones glowing in the yellow hue beneath a stubbled jawline, watching the same entrance as the two old men continue their prattling.

“I have no interest in being a church boy like you. I’m eighteen now. I get to make my own decisions,” I snap quietly.

I’ve endured the torture-volunteering at the Blackcastle church for years, and it’s not like I had much of a say in the matter. I’m done now. Will it earn me more physical pain? Sure. But just about anything does.

I almost hear him let out a sigh of frustration. Almost. If only there was something beneath his rock-hard exterior.