SISTER SERAPHINE: THE UNHOLY NUN

The rosary slipped from her trembling fingers, beads scattering across the marble floor like broken prayers. Each echoing clatter felt like another vow shattering, like another piece of her sanctity crumbling at his feet.

"Cassian—" Her voice cracked, breathless, torn between pleading and surrender.

The air between them was thick with candle smoke and something darker, something dangerous. In the abandoned corridor of Saint Meridia, where silence was meant to be sacred, his presence made every shadow pulse with sin.

Her back was pinned against the cold stone wall, the rough surface biting through the thin fabric of her habit. Cassian Vale stood before her—towering, merciless, and far too close. His tailored suit smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something sharper, like fire on the verge of consuming her.

"Say it again." His voice was low, gravel rough, dripping with command. Storm-gray eyes burned into hers, daring her to deny what her trembling body already confessed. His hand caught her wrists, pinning them high above her head, while his other traced a slow, torturous path down her side.

Her heart hammered violently, each beat a reminder of the vows she once swore, of the God she promised herself to. But here, under his touch, those promises felt fragile.

"You don't belong to Him." Cassian's lips brushed her ear, his breath hot, his words a damnation. "You belong to me."

Seraphine's lashes fluttered shut, and a gasp escaped her when his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, skimming over trembling lips. The sensation was fleeting yet devastating, sending shivers racing down her spine.

"This is wrong," she whispered, her voice almost lost to the crackle of candle flames. But her body betrayed her, pressing forward, desperate for his warmth against the cold of the stone.

Cassian chuckled, the sound low, dangerous, devastatingly tender. "Wrong," he repeated, tilting her chin upward so she couldn't look away. "Or the only truth you've ever felt?"

Her lips parted, words tangled in her throat. She wanted to deny him, to cling to the sanctity that had kept her breathing all these years. But the way his gaze held her, searing and relentless, made it impossible to lie.

"You're a sin," she managed, voice trembling.

"And you're my salvation," he countered without hesitation.

The confession struck her harder than his grip, knocking the breath from her lungs. Salvation. The word was meant for altars and prayers, not whispered in shadows by a man who owned the world and still wanted more.

He leaned closer, so close she could see the faint scar on his jaw, the tension carved into his features. "I could burn churches to the ground, Seraphine, and still, I'd find you holier than any god they preach about."

Tears stung her eyes, not from sadness but from the unbearable weight of wanting what she shouldn't. "If I give in... I'll lose everything."

Cassian's grip tightened, his voice dropping into something fierce, almost desperate. "No. You'll lose nothing—because I'll give you everything."

The words, the promise, the fire in his eyes—it was too much. Her knees weakened, her chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, and when his mouth descended on hers, the world fractured.

The kiss was not gentle. It was possession, a clash of hunger and restraint unraveling at last. His lips pressed against hers, demanding, consuming, breaking past every fragile wall she had built. And she—God help her—didn't fight.

A soft, strangled sound escaped her as his tongue teased the seam of her lips, urging her open. She yielded, and the taste of him was sinful—heat and danger, salt and fire. He kissed her like a man starved, like a sinner who had finally found his final absolution in her ruin.

Her wrists strained against his grip, but not to escape. No, her fingers curled, desperate to clutch at him, to hold onto the man who made her feel both damned and alive.

When he finally released her hands, she didn't push him away. Instead, her palms pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid pound of his heart beneath the crisp fabric. He wasn't untouchable. He wasn't a god. He was flesh and blood—and right now, he was hers.

"Cassian," she breathed against his lips, a plea or a warning, she no longer knew.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing across her cheek, smearing the tear that had fallen. "Don't say my name like that, Seraphine," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Or I'll forget this place is meant to be holy."

A shiver ran down her spine. Her lips parted, her breaths shallow, her soul torn in two. The nun she was—pure, devout, penitent—was dying in his arms. And the woman she had buried, the one who craved, desired, wanted—was clawing her way back to life.

"Then forget," she whispered, the word trembling but sure.

For a moment, silence filled the corridor. Only the flames flickered, only the beads of her rosary lay scattered like bones of her faith.

And then he kissed her again, deeper, harder. His hands claimed her waist, pulling her flush against him, while her fingers curled into his suit as if holding onto the very sin that would damn her.

The stone wall was cold, the air thick with smoke, and still—Seraphine burned. Burned with a desire that no prayer could smother, with a hunger that no penance could wash away.

And as Cassian's mouth moved against hers, devouring, consuming, she knew there was no turning back.

No confession could absolve this.

No prayer could erase it.

Because she wasn't His anymore.

She was Cassian's.

Unholy Nun.