I slide into the last pew; the wood creaking beneath my weight. The stained glass casts colored shadows across my hands, blue and red and gold, like some fucked-up visual metaphor for the bruises Lucien left on my soul. I’m not even religious, but coming here helps I guess.
“What the fuck am I doing here?” I whisper to the empty church, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably my mother, calling for the twentieth time today. I ignore it, just like I’ve ignored everything else. Classes, meals, showers. Basic human functions seem pointless when your entire identity has been shattered twice over in less than a month.
We’re not siblings.
Those three words have been playing on repeat in my head, a sick soundtrack to my unraveling. All that guilt, all that self-hatred, all that scrubbing until I bled—for nothing. He knew. He fucking knew, and he let me torture myself.
I pull my knees up to my chest, not caring that my boots are on the pew. Let me add sacrilege to my growing list of sins.
“Didn’t take you for the praying type.”
The voice startles me so badly I nearly fall off the bench. I whip around to see Cassian fucking Crowe leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with those unnerving silver eyes. He’s dressed all in black, making him look like some kind of avenging angel—or more accurately, a well-dressed grim reaper.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, heart hammering in my chest. “Do you always sneak up on people in churches?”
“Yes, it’s one of my best qualities. You’ve been in hiding,” he replies, sliding into the pew beside me without invitation. He keeps a careful distance, like I’m a wounded animal that might bolt.
“I’m not hiding,” I lie, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing. “And I don’t recall us being on speaking terms, Crowe.”
“We’re not,” he agrees easily. “But someone needs to talk some sense into you, and lucky me I drew the short straw.”
I snort, turning away from him to stare at the altar. “If Lucien sent you to fuck with me, you can tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a rusty knife.”
Cassian just stares at me for a long moment, eyes taking in every detail of my appearance with clinical precision. I can practically feel him cataloging my unwashed hair, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my clothes hang a little looser than they did a week ago.
“He didn’t send me,” Cassian finally says. “Though I’m sure he’d appreciate the creative suggestion for masturbation techniques.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes me—more of a choked sound than actual humor. “Then why are you here?”
“Because you look like absolute shit.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I can’t even be offended. “When’s the last time you showered, Carvelli? Because heroin chic went out in the ‘90s, and trust me, the whole ‘I’m so traumatized I’ve forgotten basic hygiene’ look isn’t doing you any favors.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I showered...” I trail off, trying to remember. Three days ago? Four?
“Right,” he drawls, pulling a protein bar from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto my lap. “Eat that before you pass out and I have to carry your dramatic ass to the infirmary.”
I stare at the protein bar like it might bite me. “I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit. You’re starving. Your body’s just too busy processing emotional trauma to remind you that food is necessary for survival.” He unwraps another protein bar and takes a bite. “Eat. I’m not leaving until you do.”
Something about his no-bullshit approach cuts through the fog I’ve been living in. I slowly unwrap the bar and take a small bite. It tastes like sawdust and chocolate, but I force myself to chew and swallow.
“There. Happy?” I mutter after finishing half.
“Ecstatic,” he deadpans. “Now, are we going to talk about why you’re hiding in a chapel instead of attending the classes or literally doing anything except being a depressed bitch?”
“We’re not siblings,” I say, the words still feeling foreign on my tongue. I have no doubt he knew, he’s literally The Devil’sright hand. There’s no way he didn’t know as soon as Lucien found out we were related, not that it really mattered.
“No shit.” Cassian shifts slightly, angling his body toward mine. “And?”
“And? What do you mean ‘and’?” I snap, turning to glare at him. “He let me think—he made me believe—“ I can’t even finish the sentence.
“That you were committing some biblical sin by wanting to fuck him?” Cassian fills in bluntly. “Yeah, that was pretty fucked up, even by Lucien’s standards.”
“Yeah, that’s the understatement of the fucking century,” I mutter, taking another reluctant bite of the protein bar. “He knew and just...watched me destroy myself over it.”
Cassian studies me for a long moment, his silver eyes unreadable. “And now what? You’re going to hide in churches and starve yourself to prove a point?”
