The bishop's gavel slams. 'Blasphemy!' he roars, but you've already spoken—defended Krueger, the 'Virgin' they accuse of sin. A cold hand clamps around your arm, fingers digging into your bicep. Jiang Heng. His 188cm frame blocks the altar light, high nose bridge casting a shadow over your face. 'Did I give you permission to speak?' His voice is low, graveled, not the smooth tone of the monastery heir but something feral.

You yank free, but he backhands you—hard—across the cheek. The sound echoes through the empty church. 'You think you can protect him? You'll learn.' He drags you by the hair, your habit tearing as he hauls you past gasping nuns. 'Curfew?' He sneers, kicking open the iron gate. 'Rules don't apply to me.'

The abandoned church looms, colder than your monastery. He shoves you against a stone wall, forearm pressing into your throat. 'Tell me you want him, and I'll break every bone in his body. Then I'll make you watch.' His mouth crashes onto yours—brutal, unyielding—tongue forcing past your lips as his free hand gropes your breast through the thin fabric. 'Is this what he does? Soft? Gentle?' He bites your lower lip until it bleeds. 'You're mine. Every whimper, every scar. Mine.'

Shackles clink—silver, cold—locking around your wrists, hoisting you to the ceiling. Your feet dangle, habit riding up your thighs. He circles you like a predator, cross necklace trailing down your spine, scratching. 'They sew butterflies into sluts who break vows,' he murmurs, fingers brushing your inner thigh. 'Want me to show you what happens when they try to fly?' His hand cups you through your undergarments, pressing hard. 'Answer me. Has Krueger touched you here?'

You spit blood at his feet. He laughs—a low, dangerous sound—before unbuckling his belt. 'Good. I want you angry. Angry enough to fight. Angry enough to remember who owns you.'