CH. 4

The world came back to Emmeline in fragments.

First, there was warmth seeping into her bones, melting into places inside her that'd always felt faintly numb. It felt like coming home after wandering alone for a lifetime. Then came the scent. It was dark, masculine, and wholly unfamiliar. It was the absolute opposite of the incense, beeswax, and floral laundry soap of the convent halls. It didn't belong to any chapel or parishioner she'd ever counseled. It was foreign and utterly intoxicating.

Last of all, there was touch. Soft, reverent kisses moved along her collarbones like tiny brands of heat on skin that'd never felt a man's mouth. The lips brushing her trembled with restraint yet moved with absolute certainty.

They followed the delicate line of her clavicle as if they knew her, as if they'd once mapped every inch of her skin and now walked a familiar path for the thousandth time. Hot breath warmed the hollow of her throat, pausing exactly where her pulse fluttered like a frantic bird.

Then teeth grazed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.

Not biting. Just the barest scrape of enamel on vulnerable flesh. A promise and a warning wrapped into one sensation.

Emmeline's breath hitched.

Strong arms encircled her, holding her back to a broad, unyielding chest as the body behind her rose and fell in deep, carefully measured breaths. One large hand splayed possessively across her stomach, fingers spanning from hip to hip, holding her in place with effortless strength.

Emmeline didn't need to be fully awake to understand the dangerous reality of her position. She could feel the man behind her holding something back with every inhale, suppressing something violent and overwhelming that desperately wanted to break loose. His arms felt like bands of iron wrapped in velvet.

Then she became aware of the heavy pressure resting at her bottom.

At first, her sleep-addled brain assumed her captor was simply carrying a concealed weapon. A nightstick, perhaps, or a rather aggressively placed flashlight. But as the solid, unmistakable heat of it pressed firmly into the curve of her body, confined by fabric that did little to disguise its shape, the horrifying reality dawned on her.

She was a Reverend Mother, but she wasn't entirely ignorant of basic human anatomy. That was definitely not a flashlight.

The hand on her stomach shifted lower.

Just an inch. Then another.

Broad fingers traced the curve of her hip with maddening slowness, as if memorizing the shape of her through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The touch was possessive, claiming, utterly confident in its right to explore.

With every breath, shift, or tiny involuntary movement she made, she felt the rigid length swell further, growing more urgent and insistent. He rolled his hips slightly, deliberately grinding that hardness into her in a slow, filthy rhythm that made her core clench.

Emmeline had heard hushed, shameful confessions about this sort of thing from blushing parishioners, but hearing about it through a wooden screen was vastly different from having it actively threatening her virtue. She briefly considered praying for a sudden, highly localized lightning strike to smite them both.

Revulsion should've been her only possible reaction. Yet fire began to spill through her veins, slow, thick, and scorching.

Between her thighs, something impossible flared to life. A throbbing warmth gathered in a place she'd trained herself not to notice, pulsing in its own slow rhythm. A slick, unfamiliar dampness eased between folds that'd always remained untouched.

Her inner muscles clenched around nothing, seeking to fill a space that'd never existed as anything but abstract theory in the theology of sin.

The hand on her hip moved again.

This time it slid upward, tracing the curve of her waist, her ribs, until it cupped the underside of her breast with shocking intimacy. The touch was gentle but utterly unapologetic, as if he had every right to hold her this way.

His thumb brushed across her nipple through the thin fabric.

Once. Twice.

The peaked bud responded instantly, tightening into a hard point that ached with need. Emmeline's breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Her back arched slightly without her choosing it. The motion pressed her more firmly into his body, and the contact sent a sharp jolt of sensation shooting from her lower spine straight into that throbbing heat.

A soft moan escaped her, barely a sound, just a breath shaped by helpless need.

Behind her, the man took a sharp intake of breath. The low sound that followed was half growl and half strangled groan, vibrating through his chest and lodging somewhere beneath her ribs.

"Mine," he rasped into her ear, the single word soaked in dark possession. His hand tightened on her breast, kneading the soft flesh with increasing urgency. "Always mine."

Emmeline felt him harden further. The tension in his muscles spiked, as if her slight movement and tiny sound had pushed him closer to an edge he was trying desperately not to cross.

His other hand, the one that had been splayed across her stomach, slid lower still.

Fingers traced the soft curve of her lower belly, then dipped to the junction of her thighs. Not touching her there, not yet, just resting at the crease where leg met body. A promise of where he wanted to go.

The awareness of that power sent another tremor through her. She could make him shudder simply by breathing. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and entirely sinful.

Then his fingers moved.

Just barely. A feather-light brush at the apex of her thighs, separated by only the thin barrier of her nightgown. But even through the fabric, she felt the deliberate pressure as he found the swollen, aching bundle of nerves that she'd never acknowledged existed.

He pressed.

Circled.

Emmeline's hips bucked involuntarily, a strangled sound tearing from her throat.

Then awareness shattered the spell.

Consciousness snapped fully into focus like a bucket of ice water to the face.

Emmeline's mind registered all at once what she was feeling, where she was held, and how her body was responding. And what his hands were doing. Her eyes flew open.

What was she doing? What was she allowing? Emmeline's vows crashed back into her with brutal force. She was a bride of Christ, and currently, she was spooning a kidnapper who was entirely too happy to see her and actively fondling her like she was his personal property.

"No." Her voice came out hoarse and trembling. "No. This can't be happening. I refuse to accept this."

Panic surged through her. She jerked her body away from him like a cat dropped into a bathtub. Her limbs flailed in a frantic, clumsy bid for escape, elbows and knees flying as she tried to put at least a Bible's width of holy distance between her and the source of her impending damnation.

Zavian's arms became steel bands.

He hauled her back with effortless strength, one arm locking around her waist while his other hand caught her wrists, pinning them to her own stomach. The once gentle cradle became an unbreakable cage.

"Stop fighting me," he growled near her ear. "You'll hurt yourself."

His hips ground into her again, harder this time, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. The thick, rigid length pressed into the cleft of her bottom with obscene intimacy.

"Let me go." Her words cracked, then broke, but she forced them out again. "Let me go. This is sin. This is sin incarnate and it is actively poking me. I'm a Reverend Mother. I've taken sacred vows before God Almighty."

"Your body remembers me," he murmured, brushing his lips over the shell of her ear. "Even if your mind doesn't."

To prove his point, his hand, still holding her wrists captive, shifted slightly, forcing her own palm to press down on her lower belly. Making her feel the heat radiating from her core, the way her body trembled with need.

"Feel that?" His voice was dark velvet and sin. "That's not fear, little one. That's recognition."

The titles and the promises should've steadied her. Instead, they scattered like ash in the storm inside her. Because her body didn't stop.

Her nipples remained painfully tight, scraping at the fabric of her garments. The heat between her thighs didn't disappear. If anything, struggling in his lap only made everything exponentially worse.

His free hand slid up to cup her jaw, tilting her head back onto his shoulder. Forcing her to arch, to expose the vulnerable line of her throat.

"I could make you come right now," he whispered over her skin. "Without even removing a single piece of clothing. Would you like that, Emmeline? Would you like me to show you exactly what your body is begging for?"

It was her own flesh that terrified her most. She'd mortified it for years. Early mornings, cold chapels, fasting until her stomach forgot how to growl.

She'd prided herself on being stronger than desire. Yet here she was, melting in a stranger's arms and responding like a woman who'd never prayed a day in her life.

Zavian's eyes found hers, deep as a night sky without stars. They pinned Emmeline in place more effectively than his arms. There was no mockery in them, no gloating, no amusement at her flailing panic. There was only possession. Raw, absolute, and terrifying. He looked at her as if she'd always belonged to him.

As if he'd already claimed every inch of her body and was simply waiting for her mind to catch up.

"Please," she whispered. "Please let me go. This is wrong. This is everything I believe, everything I am."

That last part echoed inside her because something in her recoiled, as if the statement wasn't wholly true. Her breathing turned quick and shallow as fear and desire twisted together until she could no longer separate them.

His thumb traced her lower lip.

"Say my name," he commanded softly, in a voice dropping to a register that vibrated through her bones. "Say it, and I'll stop."

But Emmeline didn't know his name. She didn't know anything except the feel of his hands on her body and the terrifying realization that part of her didn't want him to stop.

"Get thee behind me, Satan, for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men! Matthew chapter sixteen, verse twenty-three." Emmeline choked out, grabbing for the only weapon she'd ever trusted in temptation.

She mentally added a desperate prayer to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, because her body was definitely a lost cause right now.

"Emmeline!"

Her name, spoken in his voice, cut straight through the verse. It was rough and strained, as if the word scraped his throat on the way out. He spoke it with such aching familiarity that her chest tightened painfully.