Prologue
LUCIEN
Ifucking hate churches.
Hate the stink of incense, hate the way they're built to make you feel small. Hate the way the cross necklace my mother gave me burns against my skin like an accusation. I feel like I’m about to catch fire.
“Waste of my goddamn time,” I mutter, yanking at my collar. Coach will have my ass if I'm late to practice again, and here I am, running an errand in a chapel because my father thinks it’ll build character and make others respect me. The old fucks will respect me because that’s their only fucking choice.
I came here looking for Richards to discuss the Hargrove acquisition, but instead, I find Seraphina fucking Carvelli on her knees in one of the Black Crown Society's private chapels. The door barely makes a sound when I close it behind me. She doesn't turn around. Doesn't even flinch.
The stained glass bathes her in colored light—blue across her shoulders, red bleeding down her back. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the lace tops of gray stockings that hug her thighs. I press myself against the shadow of an ornate column, my breath caught in my throat.
She's murmuring something—prayers, maybe. The rosary beads slip through her fingers one by one, clicking softly in the silence.
“Forgive me,” she whispers, her voice carrying in the empty space.
My cock throbs against the zipper of my slacks. What sins is little Seraphina confessing today? What darkness is she hiding behind that pristine uniform and those innocent hazel eyes?
She shifts her weight, the pleats of her skirt fanning slightly. I catch a glimpse of the bare skin above her stockings and have to bite down on my knuckle to keep from groaning. Three years since I last saw her. Three fucking years of imagining her beneath me, around me, begging for me.
And now she's here, in my territory again.
The rosary dangles from her hand as she stands, smoothing down her skirt. She's still unaware of my presence, and I could walk away now. Should probably walk away. But I'm rooted to the spot, watching as she moves toward the altar, her hips swaying with each step.
Her hair is different—braided now instead of loose around her shoulders like I remember. The afternoon light catches the red strands, making them burn like fire against her pale neck.
She stops, head tilted back to look at the crucifix hanging above. “You think you know sacrifice?” she says to it, her voice harder now. “You have no idea what I've given up.”
The light catches on something wet on her cheeks. Tears. Little Seraphina Carvelli has been crying in our chapel. I want to taste them, to lick the salt from her skin and then make her cry for entirely different reasons.
The door to the chapel creaks, and I step back deeper into the shadows. Richards enters, his clerical collar tight around his throat like a fucking leash that should be yanked harder. I knowwhat he is beneath those holy clothes. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s no fucking priest.
“Seraphina, my child,” he says, voice dripping with fake concern. “I didn't expect to see you here. It’s been a few years.”
Her spine stiffens, and she wipes away her tears with quick, practiced movements. “Father Richards. I was just leaving.”
“No need to rush,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder that lingers too fucking long. His eyes drop to her ass when she turns to gather her things, and I feel my jaw clench so hard my teeth might crack. “You seem troubled. Perhaps you'd like to confess?”
The way he says “confess” makes my stomach turn. I've seen the way he looks at the girls from St. Catherine's—like they're fucking communion wafers he can't wait to put on his tongue.
Seraphina shakes her head. “Another time, perhaps.”
As she moves past him, Richards' eyes follow her like a starving dog. And that's when I know—I'm going to destroy her. Not because she deserves it, but because she left me. Disappeared without a fucking word three years ago, and now she's back, acting like this place still belongs to her.
Blood rushes to my cock at the thought of making her pay. Of watching those pretty lips part around me, those hazel eyes watering as I push deeper than she can take. I'll make her beg. Make her crawl. Make her mine again.
It doesn't even matter that she's my half-sister—that my father fucked her mother and created this forbidden thing between us. I only found out last year, and it just made everything more intense. More wrong. More necessary.
I could step out now. Could grab her by those braids and drag her into the confessional booth, bend her over the kneeler and remind her who she belongs to. But I wait. Watch. Richards is still talking to her, his hand now on her lower back as he guides her toward the door.
“Your mother was asking about you,” he says. “She mentioned you've been...distant lately.”
“My mother should worry about herself,” Seraphina replies, her voice ice-cold.
Richards laughs, a sound like oil slicking over water. “Still the same fire, I see. Some things never change.”
But I know better. Things do change. People change. Seraphina isn't the same girl who used to follow me around with those wide, worshipful eyes. Who used to let me finger her in empty classrooms while she bit down on her uniform tie to stay quiet.
