Chapter 5

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 in smoke. It pierced deeper than prayer, sliding under her skin, sparking where no prayer should reach.

Her knees trembled. She clutched her rosary tighter, the beads biting cruelly. "No..." It came out weak, pitiful.

"You pray," he murmured, closer now. "But even your prayers sound like desire."

Shame coiled in her stomach. Her chest rose too fast, too shallow.

Then a hand appeared from shadow—long fingers, elegant, sin incarnate. They brushed the edge of her veil. With one tug, it slipped free. Her hair spilled down, dark strands catching the fractured light.

His knuckles traced her jaw, feather-light, coaxing her chin upward. Her lashes fluttered closed, breath catching as though she'd been starved.

"You hide behind vows," he whispered, close enough that his breath seared her lips. "But your body knows the truth."

Suddenly, he was behind her. Heat swallowed her. His chest pressed firm into her back, his body a wall of strength, caging her between pew and shadow.

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she didn't push him away. Couldn't.

"You don't want salvation," he breathed, lips brushing the curve of her ear, "you want surrender."

Her rosary fell, beads clattering across marble. The sound rang like broken bells, lost prayers scattering to nothing.

"No—" Her protest died as his palm clamped onto her hip, firm, claiming.

The warmth of it radiated through her habit, searing, branding. Her body arched back, traitorous, her thighs pressing together for relief that would not come.

"Please..." she gasped.

He hummed, soft, dark, lips grazing her earlobe. "Please what?"

Her breath shattered. She pressed her palms flat to the pew, desperate for grounding, but his thumb drew lazy circles at her waist, teasing closer to forbidden heat, forcing her to ache.

"Forgiveness..." she whispered, broken.

His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, vibrating against her spine.

"You don't beg for forgiveness," he murmured, trailing his lips along her neck, brushing the frantic pulse there. "You beg for me."

Her head tipped back against his shoulder, a soft, helpless sound slipping past her lips. Her nipples strained against rough fabric as his palm slid higher—flattening beneath her breast, thumb grazing the edge in sinful suggestion.

Her knees buckled. He caught her with an arm around her waist, pinning her to him, her body crushed to the heat of his.

"Mine," he growled into her throat, each syllable etched like fire. "You've always been mine."

Her thighs quivered. Her rosary rolled farther into shadow, abandoned.

His hand drifted downward again, slower this time—skimming her belly, hovering just above the hem of her habit. Fingers hooked into the fabric. Tugged.

Her breath hitched so hard it hurt. Her body tensed, caught between terror and aching want.

He paused there, fingers curling into the cloth, as though daring her to say no.

Her lips trembled. A prayer fought its way up her throat, strangled by a moan when his mouth pressed against her shoulder—open, hot, sinful.

The fabric lifted. Just an inch. Bare skin met air. His fingers brushed lower, grazing the delicate curve of her thigh.

Her gasp broke the silence, raw and sharp. Her knees gave out, but his grip was unyielding.

"Say it," he coaxed, voice silk and steel. His fingers traced higher, unbearably slow. "What do you beg for, Sister?"

Her thighs pressed together, clamping down as if she could hold in the ache flooding her. Her lips parted, words failing, shame drowning her.

"Mercy..." she whispered.

His laugh curled like smoke. "Mercy is the sweetest lie."

His hand slid higher beneath the habit, fingertips teasing the heat where she burned. Not quite touching—hovering close enough to make her tremble, to make her want to scream.

Her head fell back, her breath tearing free. Her entire body quaked in his hold, begging without words, without restraint.

"Mine," he whispered again, pressing a kiss to her ear, slow and deliberate. "Even here. Even now. Especially here."

The crucifix above blurred into haze, colors shattering in crimson and gold. Smoke thickened, swallowing light, swallowing prayer.

Only sensation remained.

Only him.

And just as his fingers edged where no vow could shield her—

She jolted awake.

The dormitory lay quiet, dark. Sisters breathing steady in their innocent sleep.

Seraphine's chest heaved, her habit clinging damp, thighs pressed tight together, shame slicking her skin. The rosary dug into her stomach, biting with cold beads.

She smothered a sob in her palms.

"Lord," she whispered hoarsely, broken. "Forgive me... forgive me..."

But her voice cracked, her prayer collapsing into silence.

Because beneath guilt's weight, she knew the truth.

She didn't want forgiveness.

She wanted the voice.

She wanted the shadow.

She wanted him.