Rows of broken pews line what was once a center aisle, now littered with debris and dead leaves. At the far end, where an altar would be, I see movement.
Seraphina is laid out on the massive slab of stone.
Her wrists and ankles are bound with thick rope, her body stretched out like a sacrifice. A piece of cloth is tied across her mouth, but her eyes are wide open and filled with fear when they lock onto mine.
A man stands with his back to me, blocking my view of part of her body. He’s wearing all black, his head bowed slightly as if in prayer. Not Marcus. Shorter, and kind of frumpy.
The man shifts his weight, turning slightly to adjust something on the altar, and my blood turns to fucking ice in my veins. Father Richards. That slimy, perverted piece of shit. His pudgy fingers are tracing patterns on Seraphina’s thigh.
I press myself against the wall, staying in the shadows as I assess the situation. Father Richards is muttering something, his hands moving in strange patterns above Seraphina’s body. She pulls against her restraints.
“The Chosen must be purified,” Richards says, his voice carrying through the empty church. “Cleansed of her sins before she can truly serve me.”
I inch closer, careful to avoid the debris scattered across the floor. There’s a knife beside Seraphina’s head—long, curved, and ceremonial-looking. My stomach lurches at the sight.
“Your beloved Lucien cannot save you,” Richards continues, completely unaware of my presence. “He’s too busy playing his little basketball game, chasing glory. I’m the only one who cares about you.”
The sick fuck is so wrapped up in his delusions he doesn’t hear me approach. He’s still ranting, sweat beading on his balding head, eyes wild with religious fervor as he raises the ceremonial knife above Seraphina’s body.
“The sin must be bled out,” he murmurs, lifting the ceremonial knife. The candlelight catches on the blade, illuminating the strange symbols etched into the metal. “I’ll purify you. Make you worthy again.”
Seraphina’s eyes find mine over his shoulder. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t give me away. My Little Sinner is smart.
My hand clamps around his wrist, twisting until I hear the satisfying crack of bone. The knife drops from his useless fingers directly into my waiting palm. Before he can even process what’s happening, I drive the blade between his ribs, just deep enough to puncture a lung without hitting his heart.
“What—“ he gasps, his body stiffening as the steel slides home.
I lean in close, my lips at his ear. “You should’ve stuck to your fucking prayers.”
Richards makes a wet, gurgling sound as I twist the knife slightly, ensuring maximum damage without killing him outright. I want him to suffer. I want him to feel every second of his life draining away.
“If you move, if you pull this out,” I whisper, “you’ll bleed out in minutes. Understand?”
His eyes are wide with terror as he nods, his body already trembling from shock. I release my grip on the knife, leaving it embedded in his side like a grotesque ornament. Blood seeps through his white shirt, spreading slowly like spilled wine and bubbles from his lips.
“Don’t you fucking move,” I snarl, shoving him aside. He collapses to his knees, hands hovering near the knife but not daring to touch it. “If you do, you die faster. That blade is the only thing keeping you from drowning right now.”
I turn my attention to Seraphina, my heart hammering against my ribs as I take in the full sight of her. My jersey is tornat the shoulder, and there are angry red marks where the ropes bite into her wrists and ankles. But she’s alive.
“You’re safe now, baby,” I murmur, quickly working to untie the gag around her mouth.
The moment the cloth falls away, she gasps for air. “Lucien—what the hel?—“
“I’ve got you,” I mutter, working quickly to free her wrists. The ropes have left angry red marks on her skin, and the sight makes my blood boil even hotter. “Did he fucking touch you?”
“No,” she gasps, her voice raspy from screaming. “Not like that, not really.”
I slice through the ropes binding her ankles and help her sit up. My hands move over her body, checking for injuries, probing gently for any hidden damage. Besides the rope burns and bruises forming on her wrists and ankles, she seems physically unharmed. Thank fuck.
“Can you stand?” I ask, my voice gentler than I intended.
She nods, and I wrap my arm around her waist, helping her off the altar. Her legs wobble beneath her, and I tighten my grip to keep her upright. I pull my shirt off and pull it over her head.
“Get in my car,” I tell her, pressing my keys into her palm. “Lock the doors. Don’t come out until I come for you.”
“Lucien—“ she starts, but I cut her off.
“Now, Seraphina.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “I need to handle this.”
