Chapter 5: The Artist’s Confession

Julian stands perfectly still, his eyes widening as he repeats my words back to me in a low, dangerous murmur. “A sinful jawline?”

He takes a slow step toward me, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Why would you say something like that, Clara? What is going through your mind?”

The intensity in his voice makes my skin prickle. I realize I have said too much, and the air in the shed is suddenly too thin to breathe. “The storm is calm now,” I say quickly, my voice trembling. I use the slight break in the wind as an excuse to bolt. I don’t wait for him to respond or ask another question. I push open the heavy door and walk out into the rain.

The downpour has slowed to a steady drizzle, but the yard is a mess of mud and debris. As I hurry toward the dorm, I glance toward the main entrance of the church. My heart skips a beat. Father Gabriel is standing there, framed by the stone archway. He is watching me, his eyes cold and sharp, having clearly seen me emerge from the shelter where Julian remains.

I don’t stop. I put my head down and run, my wet habit heavy against my legs, until I reach the safety of the dorm.

Once inside my bedroom, I strip out of the soaked clothes and change into my simple pajamas. I try to lie down, but peace won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the solid heat of his chest against my hard nipples. The sensation is burned into my memory, a phantom touch that makes my stomach flip.

I can’t stop the feeling. I sit up and pull my sketchbook from beneath my mattress. My hand moves with a feverish energy as I begin to draw him. I sketch the way he looked in the dim light of the shed the way his wet shirt clung to his shoulders, the droplets of water falling from his hair, and that sharp, “sinful” jawline.

When I am done, I flip through the pages. The book is becoming a gallery of him. There are sketches of him from the first day in the fog, him standing over the blueprints, and now, him in the storm. I stare at his face on the paper for a long time, my chest tight.

Finally, I close the book and lay back on my bed. I stare at the ceiling and pray silently, begging for the strength to stop these feelings before they consume me. I eventually drift into a restless sleep, his image still dancing behind my eyelids.

The next morning, I dress with a sense of urgency. I have my assignment to sketch the student sports, and I feel a wave of relief knowing I won’t be at the construction site today. This is my chance to put distance between myself and Julian to wash away the memory of the shed and that bold, reckless thing I said to him.

I grab my sketchbooks and head to the student common area. The room is filled with the bright, energetic chatter of the girls. I clap my hands to get their attention, forcing a professional smile.

“Alright, everyone, gather round,” I say, gesturing to the open space near the windows. “I need to capture the energy of your practice. Sophie, could you hold that pose as if you’re about to pass the ball? And Maria, stay right there on the defensive.”

The girls giggle and shuffle into place. “Are we going to be in the main hall archives, Sister Clara?” Sophie asks, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Yes, so make sure your posture is perfect,” I encourage them.

“Do we have to stay still for long?” Maria groans playfully. “My legs are already tired from morning drills.”

“Just a few minutes at a time,” I promise, my charcoal pencil already dancing across the page.

Maya walks in a few minutes later, stepping in to help me adjust the girls’ positions. She leans over a row of students, but her eyes are on me. She waits until the girls are focused on their poses before she leans in close.

“Have you seen Julian today?” she asks, her voice a low, teasing hum.

My heart gives a sharp tug, but I keep my eyes on my paper. “It isn’t my business where he is, Maya.”

She lets out a small, skeptical laugh. “Really? Because I saw him pull you into that storage shelter last night when the storm hit. You two were in there for quite a while.”

“Shh!” I hiss, my head snapping up as I look around to make sure the students didn’t hear. “He was being protective. It was a dangerous storm, and that’s all it was.”

Maya smirks, crossing her arms. She clearly doesn’t believe a word of my clinical explanation. “He doesn’t seem to be that ‘protective’ of anyone else, Clara. I’ve tried talking to him three times this morning, and he barely looked up from his maps. But with you… he seems different. Closer.”

“You’re imagining things,” I mutter, turning back to my sketch, though my hands are starting to tremble.

We work in silence for another hour until the lunch bell echoes through the hall. The girls scatter, happy to be released. Maya stretches her arms over her head and looks at me.

“Coming to lunch?” she asks.

“I’ll join you in a bit,” I say, not looking up. “I still need to finish the shading on these last few sketches.”

“Don’t be too long,” she says, heading for the door. “Or people might think you’re hiding.”

As she walks away, a heavy weight settles in my stomach. I have this nagging feeling that Maya is thinking too much about Julian and me. Whether it’s because she’s jealous of the attention he gives me or simply because she sees the truth I’m trying so hard to hide, I don’t know. But the fact that she noticed us in the shed means others might have too.

I walk into the empty classroom to drop off the students’ sports items. As I begin to arrange the equipment, a deep voice startles me. I spin around, and my breath catches. It is Julian. He is leaned against the doorframe, looking handsome as ever, his presence filling the quiet room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice jumping an octave.

“I was looking for you,” he says simply. He walks toward me, his eyes tracking my every move. “You weren’t at the construction site today. You’re making my job difficult, Sister. I need your mural sketches to determine the light angles for the stonework.”

“I… I apologize,” I stammer, backing up toward the table. “I was assigned to the students today. I didn’t think you’d need me until tomorrow.”

As I speak, his gaze falls to the table. Before I can stop him, he reaches out and picks up one of my sketchbooks. My heart drops into my stomach.

“Wait, don’t—”

It is too late. He has already opened it. He flips through the pages, and the silence in the room becomes deafening. It is the sketchbook—the one filled entirely with his face. He sees himself from the first day in the fog, him leaning over the blueprints, and finally, the sketch from last night in the shed, showing him soaked and powerful.

“You have been sketching me,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t angry; it’s thick with something I can’t quite name.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “I shouldn’t have… I was just practicing. Please, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

I expect him to be pissed, to lecture me on modesty or report me to Sister Kira. But he doesn’t. He looks at every single drawing, his thumb lingering over the sketch of him in the rain. He looks mesmerized.

“What were you thinking when you drew these?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave.

“Nothing,” I whisper. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

He closes the book but doesn’t put it down. He walks closer, forcing me to back up until my heels hit the classroom wall. “Nothing? I find that hard to believe. Especially after last night.” He steps into my personal space, the heat radiating off him. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About how your nipples felt against my chest when the wind pushed you into me.”

“Julian, stop,” I breathe, my heart throbbing so hard it hurts. “This is inappropriate. We are in a school. We are… we have vows.”

“What’s inappropriate is you sketching me in every outfit I own without my consent,” he counters, a dark, teasing smirk playing on his lips. He leans down, his face inches from mine. “At this rate, I’m surprised you haven’t drawn me naked yet.”

“Stop!” I gasp, trying to push past him, but he leans his hand against the wall next to my head, pinning me in place.

He reaches out with his other hand, his fingers slowly tracing the line of my hair before sliding down to my jaw. His touch is like fire on my skin. He tilts my head up so I have no choice but to look into his dark, hungry eyes.

“You want to know the truth, Clara?” he whispers, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I try to find peace. I try to find God. But every time I close my eyes… I think about you when I pray.”