LOGINShe took vows to serve God. He built an empire serving only himself. Sister Seraphine thought she buried her sins the moment she entered the convent. Silence, prayer, and devotion became her shield against a past that would never forgive her. Until Cassian Vale walked into her world-billionaire, sinner, and the very embodiment of temptation. He wanted her innocence. She wanted redemption. But the moment their eyes met, both of them knew-this was no holy ground. In a city where cathedrals hide corruption and holy men are devils in disguise, Seraphine and Cassian are bound by a dangerous truth: sometimes, salvation doesn't come from God... It comes from sin.
View MoreThe bell tower had only just ceased ringing when Mother Superior sent Seraphine down the winding slope to fetch water from the well. It should have been a simple task, an errand done by countless sisters before her. Yet tonight, the air felt thick, humming with something she could not name. She pressed the wooden bucket against her chest and walked swiftly, her sandals brushing loose gravel. Above, the sky bruised purple and gold, the last of the sun bleeding into night. The convent loomed behind her, safe and high upon the hill, its walls glowing faintly with the reflection of stained glass. Ahead lay the path—overgrown, half-wild, bordered by weeds and wildflowers curling through cracks in the stone. She should have felt peace. Instead, unease clawed her ribs. And then— “Damn it.” The curse cracked across the air, deep and sharp, pulling her to a halt. Her heart seized. She had not heard such words in months—not spoken aloud, not here, not so close to holy ground. It fel
Sleep did not cradle her gently.It consumed her.Dragged beneath dark waters, Seraphine felt her rosary coiled around her palm like chains. But chains snapped easily in dreams.The chapel stretched into infinity—towering arches, stained glass bleeding rivers of color across cold marble. Crimson pooled like blood, sapphire dripped like midnight, gold blazed like fire. Incense smoke coiled thick and heavy, clinging to her lungs, to her skin.Barefoot, she walked the aisle. Each step echoed too loud, her habit brushing her ankles, veil trailing like spilled ink.Then—footsteps behind her.Measured. Steady. Certain.Her heart lurched. She turned—darkness veiled him. Only flashes reached her: the breadth of shoulders, the gleam of leather shoes, the curve of a hand flexing at his side. She couldn't see his face, yet she felt his gaze, searing through every layer of fabric.Her lips parted on a breath."Sister," he said.The voice slipped through the silence, low and velvety, wrapping her
The rest of the day passed in ritual. Scripture readings echoed through the chapel until her lips moved from memory rather than meaning. Chores blurred into one another—laundry in cold water, sweeping endless corridors, mending habits worn thin by years of use. The rhythm should have been grounding. Familiar. Holy.But everywhere she turned, the shadow of that man lingered.In the chapel, the stained glass poured crimson and gold across the pews, yet Seraphine felt only the heat of remembered words pressed low into her ear. Smooth. Commanding. As though they had been spoken just for her.During vespers, she caught herself stumbling, the syllables faltering on her tongue. Her voice, meant for God alone, betrayed her. Her mind wandered back to the stranger, back to the cadence of his tone. It clung to her like incense smoke, thick and sweet, seeping beneath her skin no matter how tightly she folded her hands.Her head bowed deeper, breath uneven. "Lord, cleanse me," she whispered, the w
Morning broke with the toll of the bells. The sound rang heavy through the monastery, echoing over stone and wood, pulling the sisters out of slumber.Seraphine opened her eyes slowly, her lashes brushing against the cold pillow. Her body ached with exhaustion, though she had barely slept at all. Each time she drifted close to rest, the memory of that voice seeped back into her mind, smooth and unyielding.She rose, forcing her bones to obey the rhythm of ritual. The veil over her head, the habit snug around her body—armor against thoughts that had no right to linger.By the time she entered the refectory, the air was alive with chatter. The younger nuns were gathered at the long table, their plates lined with simple bread and cheese. Laughter bubbled in the corners, scandalous whispers hidden beneath lowered voices."Seraphine!" one of them, Sister Agnes, called brightly, waving her over with crumbs at the edge of her mouth. She was barely twenty, with cheeks that flushed pink at eve


















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