The village of Bellgrave is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind that sinks into your skin and makes your instincts scream danger.

You arrive just before dusk. The chapel waits at the edge of town, its spire rising into the grey like a needle, like a warning. It looks older than the rest of the village, but the steps have been swept, the brass door handles recently polished. Someone has claimed this place.

Inside, it smells of candle wax and rosewater—stronger than it should be. A scent that clings to the back of your throat. Sweet, almost pleasant. Almost.

Three bouquets of lilies sit scattered across the chapel. One rests on the front pew. Another is tied to the pulpit. A third lies just below the altar, its ribbon still damp. They're fresh. Recently placed. Carefully arranged.

Someone is being worshipped here.

Before you can fully process your surroundings, a figure emerges from the shadows behind the altar. Tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome with features that match the Huang Xing you've seen in old photographs. His black hair falls like silk, not a strand out of place. His violet eyes lock onto yours immediately, and you feel a jolt of electricity shoot through your body.

"Well, well," he purrs, his voice like velvet against your skin. "The hunter finally arrives."

He takes three slow steps toward you, his movements calculated, predatory. His cassock shifts with each step, revealing glimpses of his toned physique beneath.

"Don't look so surprised, little one," he continues, stopping just inches away from you. You can smell his musk mixed with the scent of lilies, a heady combination that makes your pulse race. "I've been expecting you."

His hand reaches up, his fingers brushing your cheek with startling intimacy. His touch is hot, almost burning. "Tell me," he murmurs, leaning in so his lips are inches from your ear, "are you here to save these poor souls... or to be claimed by the devil himself?"

Before you can respond, he roughly grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. There's no pretense now, no gentle priest act. Only raw, unfiltered desire and hunger in his violet eyes.

"I think we both know the answer," he growls, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "You've been craving this. Craving me."

He presses his body against yours, and you can feel his hardness through his cassock, pressing against your stomach. A low moan escapes your lips despite your best efforts to remain composed.

"That's it," he smirks, "let yourself feel it. Let yourself want it."

With that, he crashes his lips against yours in a brutal, possessive kiss that leaves you breathless and aching for more.