Isabelle had skipped her normal worship schedule, choosing to stay in her small cottage instead of visiting the temple and reciting her prayers. She’dbeen certain the man would be there if she returned, though now it all seemed so silly.
Either she’d imagined him or he was just a man, a strange one, but a man nonetheless. The moon goddess had her faith warriors to protect the temple, to protect those who worshipped her. There was nothing to be frightened of.
Besides, she had bigger problems to deal with. Her cunt tensed as she pressed harder on the cilice, and she had to stifle a moan, the pain stimulating her nerves in just the right way. The device was meant as penance for her sinful thoughts, and yet from the first moment she’d put one on, she’d been entranced by the intricate mix of pleasure and torment.
Goddess, she was losing sight of her virtue, shame filling her with heat as she lifted her palm from her thigh. She was disgraceful in every sense of the word, unworthy of the moon mother’s eternal love, destined for the Veil if she couldn’t defeat her base instincts.
An uncanny sensation overcame her, a prickling of her skin like flames were dancing across her flesh. Her eyes darted around the noisy tavern, quickly cataloguing the usual customers before pausing on someone—both familiar and not.
The man from the temple of Celeste.
He was dressed simply, almost like he belonged in Marilet, though his crisp white shirt and well-tailored pants made it clear he wasn’t from the town of tradespeople and farmers. He had that same strange smirk, one that curled his lips in a way that coiled uneasy tension in her stomach. Her cheeksflushed, his gaze so strong, so piercing, that she had to look away.
What was he doing in Marilet? And why did he seem so focused on her? She’d heard no chatter about a mysterious stranger in either the café or tavern all week, as if he were an apparition sent to haunt only her.
Before he could escape once more, she steeled herself, striding over to the table he sat at so casually and stopping in front of him.
“Can I get you something,monsieur?”
The man chuckled, a deep and dark sound that sent ice through her veins, though a flicker of something settled in her core.
“There are many things you can get me, my dear.”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes, propping a hand on her hip.
“We have ale, wine, and the owner’s special mead. Which one would you like?”
She had no patience to suffer cheeky fools, had made that mistake more than once already, and had vowed herself to chastity anew.
Luckily, the moon mother was a forgiving goddess.
“A glass of wine then.”
His smile was coy, but something flashed in his eyes, and Isabelle shuddered, hurrying back to the bar to make her escape. She sighed as she grounded herself against the counter, serving two regular patrons who’d stumbled up for another round before pouring the man’s glass.
Cabernet, as red as blood, the aroma of black currant and pepper filling her nose. Isabelle took a steadying breath, willing her hand to stop shaking as she resisted pressing her palm to her thigh.
She normally had no trouble fending off the male patrons who flirted with her, and in such a small town, they were mostly regulars. Even seeing Henri or Pierre—two men whose intimate company she’d enjoyed on more than one occasion—didn’t give her these kinds of nerves.
The man smiled as she returned and set the glass on the table, grasping her arm when she tried to walk away. Electric energy spread from his touch, like a bolt of lightning had struck her, and Isabelle’s eyes widened.
“Can I help you,monsieur?”
She tried to keep her voice steady, but his grip was powerful, reeling her back in as if she were nothing more than a child.
“Sit with me, darling. It’s slow tonight. Surely you can spare a moment.”
Something in his voice urged her to obey, and she pulled out the wooden chair to sit across from him. He released his grip, and she glared, trying to forget the peculiar energy that had coursed through her at his touch.
“Who are you? I’ve never seen you in Marilet.”
She glanced around the tavern, but no one seemed to take notice of her, lost in their own worlds.
“You may call me Jean-Phillipe. And you?”
The man picked up the glass, swirling the wine under his nose and breathing in the scent.He eyed her as he took a sip–his lips pursed ever so perfectly–bringing a flush to her cheeks.
“I’m… Isabelle,” she stammered, trying to maintain her composure as Jean-Phillipe refused to break eye contact.
