Sleep never came that night.
Elias lay on the narrow cot in his cell, window cracked open to the pine-scented dark, every swallow reminding him of the thick spend that had coated his tongue hours earlier. His c**k throbbed against the coarse sheet, untouched as ordered, leaking a steady wet patch that cooled and clung to his skin. When the bell rang for Lauds at four, he rose like a man drugged, dressed in a clean cassock that felt obscene against his naked body, and drifted through the prayers with Luca’s taste still in his mouth.
Breakfast was silent, bowls of watery porridge and black coffee. Matteo sat across the refectory table.
Brother Matteo was thirty-three, broad as a barn door, sleeves rolled high enough to show prison tattoos licking up both forearms: a crucifix made of knive
