He is kneeling at the altar like the beautiful, fractured sinner he is, his spine a rigid line of tension that threatens to snap. His hands are trembling where they rest against the weathered edge of the wood, his veins flexed and pulsing like he’s physically holding something in—some ancient, tectonic scream he never got to release.
His shirt is undone, the fabric slipping off one shoulder to reveal the topographical map of his history; scarred skin catches the flickering amber light like old wounds are still whispering their secrets to the dark.
He looks like a fallen angel waiting for the floor to open up and drag him back to hell.
And I want to follow him there. I want to burn in whatever fire he’s stoking.
I take a single step forward, and the creak of the ancient chapel floorboards is an explosion in the stillness—far louder than it should be. It startles both of us, a jagged tear in the fabric of the night.
His head turns slightly, the movement sharp and bird-like, but he doesn’t look at me. Not yet.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, his voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel.
“But you came back for me.” I say it like an accusation. Like a challenge. Like a prayer whispered in a language only we speak.
He breathes out through his nose, a slow, dangerous exhale. “Don’t confuse that with mercy, Raven.”
“I’m not.” I take another step, closing the distance until I can smell the smoke and the salt on him. “I’m confusing it with obsession.”
That gets his attention.
He rises slowly, a predator uncoiling, and when his eyes finally find mine, they don’t soften. They burn with a dark, suffocating intensity. I know that look now. I know what it means when his pupils dilate until the iris is just a thin ring of fire. I know what it means when his jaw sets and his tongue slips over his bottom lip like he’s already imagining the metallic tang of my skin if I bled for him.
“You think I’m obsessed?” he asks, his voice hoarse, the words dragging heavy chains of confession behind them.
“I know you are.”
He stalks forward—measured, quiet, terrifying. He moves like a wolf in a sanctuary, too aware of the holy rules he is about to desecrate.
“You want me to fuck you on this altar, little spider?” he whispers. His hand curls around the side of my throat—not choking, not yet, just there. A possessive, unapologetic brand. “You want to make this place even more cursed than it already is?”
“I want to know what you came back for.”
“I told you.” His breath hits my lips, hot and smelling of desperate truths. “I burned for you.”
He pulls me in, his mouth crashing into mine with a violence that feels like punishment. He’s punishing me for ever leaving. For ever forgetting the boy in the shadows. For making him need me this much.
His hands are under my shirt before I can even draw a full breath. Fabric tears—a sharp, shrill sound—and the wood of the altar creaks behind me as he lifts me, laying me flat against the cold stone. It’s all too fast, a blur of heat and muscle, but I don’t stop him. I never do. I crave the ruin he offers.
“You think I came back for closure?” he growls against my throat, dragging his teeth down the sensitive line of my collarbone. “You think I’m here to give you answers, Raven?”
“I think you’re here to ruin me.”
He rips the rest of my clothes away, the silk falling like discarded skin.
“Not ruin,” he whispers, his mouth hovering at my hip. “Claim.”
And when his body presses over mine—heat and iron and violence barely caged—I know we’re not praying anymore. We’re sinning. Loudly. Desperately. And I’m going to let him tear the world down around us.
His mouth is everywhere. Sinful. Unholy. Reverent.
He kisses like a curse, like my skin is stained with every fucked-up fantasy he’s buried in the dark corners of his mind. The altar beneath my back is ice-cold, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body pressing down on me—a heat that feels like it’s going to char me from the inside out.
Damien doesn’t touch me like a man. He touches me like something ancient, something that pre-dates the stone and the incense. Like the church never saved him, it only caged him. Like I’m the only god he’s ever truly worshipped.
He slides my legs apart with one hand, his breath catching as he takes in the sight of me laid bare for him on the sacred wood. His thumb grazes the centre of me, where I’m already soaked and trembling, and the sound he makes is low and wrecked—more beast than man.
“All this for me?” he growls, his fingers dragging slow, torturous circles that make my thighs shake uncontrollably. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
