Sin Archbishop Of Envy Novels & Stories

Her beauty was breathtaking, as if a real angel had descended, and her holy power rivaled that of a god. Lysander looked at the photo with deep respect. Beneath that reverence, however, was a carefully hidden trace of affection. A Vindicator walked into the command tent and said, "Sir, the Archbishop requests your presence." Lysander hurriedly put the photo away, secretly annoyed. If anyone saw him gazing so intently at Arya's image, it would be over for him. The Cathedral and the Pope did not allow something as profane as love to touch Arya.

In the center, a single chair, retrofitted with comm sensors—thinking – an interrogation hub. But there was nobody seated. Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Architect?" he called softly. A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore tailored charcoal with matte lapels. The same intense stare. He nodded—tall, mid-forties, stern calm. "Lucien Marchesi." He looked at Seraphina. "And you." Lucien crossed his arms. "Who are you?" The man offered his hand. "Call me Archer." Archer's tone was polished, not cocky—more educated, calm.

Columns soared toward heaven, draped with garlands of white and purple flowers, their sweet scent hanging in the air like a benediction. And there, at the end of the impossibly long aisle, stood Theo. My mate. My king. His eyes found mine across the distance, and the world contracted to that single point of connection. He wore formal robes of deep blue trimmed with gold, a crown of antique silver resting on his dark hair. Even from here, I could see the barely contained emotion in his stance—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clasped and unclasped at his sides. The archbishop stood beside him, ancient and dignified in ceremonial robes that seemed to consume his thin frame

You may own my contract, my eyes answered back, but you will never own me. A faint, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind those cool blue irises. He saw my defiance, and he didn't hate it. He welcomed it. "We are gathered here today..." the Archbishop began, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings.

The kind that could make any woman feel something sinful stir deep inside her. But the man speaking wasn’t a mafia boss. He was hot, tall—yes. But he was also a priest. A fucking hot priest. One I lusted for. Obsessed over. The one who made me touch myself at night, desperate and aching in ways I never thought I could. Enzo Romano. A walking sin wrapped in holiness. Long black hair he tied back into a ponytail, piercing gray eyes that looked right into your soul, and features so divine they made you believe God really did have favorites.

“I didn’t know you were in Dubai.” “The Vatican takes an interest in all of God’s creation, Joseph,” the Archbishop said, his voice warm and mellifluous. “Even its boardrooms.” His gentle eyes turned to Davidson. “And you must be the young man causing all the stir. Davidson Ekon. I’ve heard much about you.” Davidson shook the offered hand, surprised by the strength in the old man’s grip. “Your Excellency.” “I knew your grandfather,” the Archbishop said softly. “A good man. A man of profound faith. He would be… curious… to see the path his grandson is walking.”

a sudden air expulsion came through his throat, it made the bishop cough over and over, “sorry my child, I had this chronic illness recently.” ‘Finally, such wonderful news, I hope he dies soon!’ Armadale giggled inside Jeremiah’s mind. ‘Amy, shut up!’ The archbishop tried to compose himself, “My dear boy, since you caused this mess, you are responsible to fix it, I will ask you to help me to heal all priests that you've injured in this room.” Jeremiah looked around, he saw so many priests laid injured on the ground; luckily, none of them was dead. “Certainly, Archbishop, it will be my pleasure to repent my sin.”

“Why him?” Belphegor remains quiet. I clench my teeth in anger, feeling my temperature rise again out of anger. Why isn’t he answering me? “Why him?” I demanded. “Out of all the people in the world, why does it have to be Archer? What is so special about him?” Belphegor’s mask completely lost any expression. It completely becomes blank. There aren’t even eyes, nose, or mouth holes in them. The seventh demon prince, rumored to be the laziest but the wisest, moves his head like he is looking away from me.

"Please. We, Corynthens, have Saint Logan. We can rule over everyone on Earth for at least 100 years or more." Logan laughed at the archbishop. "Who do you think you are, going around cosplaying an old man and calling yourself a saint?" The archbishop did not move his mouth, yet everyone heard him. "I'm the Scion." "That's a description and barely a name! Someone should teach your daddy how to give actual names!" Logan sneered and punched toward the archbishop's forehead. The old man suddenly raised his head. A golden chalice manifested around his forehead to receive Logan's attack.

“So no, Rowland. I didn’t touch your precious Daniel. And Cecelia Monroe? Her disappearance doesn’t serve me in the slightest. Don’t confuse me with the men who play messy.” The silence between them is thick, punctuated only by the distant clink of glasses at the bar. Rowland knows Alec won’t give him what he wants, but the denial cuts deep in its conviction, so if Alec Steele really has no hand in this, then it means someone else, someone even bolder, is moving their pieces in the dark. And not knowing who your enemy is worse than having to deal with them.