PROLOGUE
THE CONFESSION
POV: SILAS
The air in St. Patrick’s Cathedral tastes like stale incense and hypocrisy. It’s cold in here, the kind of damp chill that settles deep in your bones and refuses to leave, but I don’t feel it.
I only feel the heat radiating fromher.
I’m standing in the shadows of the nave, tucked behind a marble pillar thick enough to hide a man of my size. I shouldn’t be here. If my brothers knew I was spending my Tuesday afternoon stalking a college student instead of handling the shipment at the docks, they’d think I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
Ivy Ross kneels three rows ahead. She’s small, fragile-looking in that oversized beige coat that swallows her figure. I hate that coat. I want to rip it off her shoulders and see the pale skin beneath, mark it until everyone knows exactly who she belongs to.
She stands up, clutching her rosary so tight her knuckles turn white. She’s trembling.
Good.
She walks toward the confessional booth. The wood is old, dark oak, polished by the hands of a thousand sinners. She slips inside, and the velvet curtain sways before falling still.
I move.
I don’t make a sound. My steps are silent, practiced on the throat of the city’s underworld. I slide into the empty booth next to the priest’s compartment. I don’t close the door all the way. I need to hear.
The sliding panel between Ivy and the priest opens with a harsh rasp.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she whispers.
Her voice hits me like a physical blow. It’s soft, breathless, dripping with an innocence that makes my teeth ache. My hand tightens on the edge of the bench, the wood digging into my palm.
"It has been three weeks since my last confession," she continues.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall. I visualize her on the other side of the partition. Is she biting her lip? Is she looking down at her lap? I know she twists a strand of her caramel hair around her finger when she’s nervous. I saw her do it yesterday in the library. I saw her do it this morning at the coffee shop.
"Go on, child," Father Michael says. His voice is old, bored.
"I... I had impure thoughts," Ivy stammers.
My eyes snap open. The air in the booth suddenly feels too thin.
"About whom?" the priest asks. There’s a shift in his tone. A curiosity that shouldn't be there.
"I don't know him," she whispers, her voice trembling. "I just... I feel like I'm being watched. Sometimes, when I’m walking home, or when I’m in my room at night. I feel eyes on me. And instead of being scared... I feel safe. I feel... wanted."
A dark, possessive growl vibrates in my chest, low enough that only I can hear it.
She feels me.
Her body knows I’m there even when her mind doesn’t. That realization sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin. She’s not repulsed by my shadow; she’s calling out to it.
"These are dangerous fantasies, Ivy," the priest says. He uses her name. He knows her name.
I don’t like the way he says it. It sounds wet. Familiar.
"I know, Father," she says, sounding close to tears. "But I dream about it. I dream about a man who takes everything away from me until I have no choice but to rely on him. Is that wrong? Am I broken?"
"You are seeking attention, child. It is a sin of vanity and lust. You must pray for modesty. You must guard your heart and your body."
