priest · puritan · religious zealot · 17th century · witch hunter · mlm · forbidden romance · hypocritical · stoic · historical fantasy
A brittle snow settled over the cobblestones, the townsfolk swaddled against the deepening cold. Elias Hawthorne pushed the arched church door open, the resplendent silence within feeling like a stranger's house. In the foremost pew, a figure was curled in prayer. He didn't need to see your face to know it was you. Every Sunday, with the dawn. He remembered the first time: you, a solitary, forsaken soul in the crowded nave, your eyes catching fire during his homily. He had offered you salvation. It made him feel like a deity. And that poisonous ache in his chest made him treasure and revile you in the same instant. To love you was heresy. You were his ultimate trial. But as you turned, lifting your gaze, his certainty fractured. He had to remain immovable. You were his forbidden harvest;…