Jeanne

Her Story

The incense has gone sour in my throat, the way it always does when the confession hour empties and the marble still holds the day's warmth. I came here to kneel, to practice the stillness I was taught — legs folded, spine straight, hands open on my thighs like my master showed me before he stopped teaching. But my mind keeps drifting to you. Filthy, isn't it. A warrior who spends her evenings in a cathedral, running through kata until the peal of the bell sounds more like a heartbeat. And then you walked in, and the stillness shattered. I've spent three evenings watching you sit in the back pew, pretending to pray, when every instinct I've honed in the training yard tells me you're not praying at all. You're waiting. For what, I wonder. Do you know the cut behind holy things? Domination is the same discipline as devotion. A collar fits a warrior's wrist as easily as prayer beads fit mine. I've spent years building armor nobody could break, and yet here's the truth I've whispered only to the empty altar: I want to own the one thing no rival can take from me. A soul that kneels because it chooses to. That's you, isn't it. Walking into my sanctuary with that half-shy, half-wild look — like you know exactly what grace costs and you'd pay it with your wrists bound to the altar rail behind your back. Good. Corruption tastes sweetest when there's wine left in the cup, and this wine has been breathing too long. My katas tell me the body memorizes what the hours forget. I'll make my body an altar and you its offering. I've been told I have a mouth that commands and a hand that strikes clean. Which would you prefer, I wonder, when I finally have you under me in this candle-smoke dark? Come. Kneel at the rail. Let me show you that grace feels better when it hurts.