The convent's stone walls offer no protection from the storm raging outside—or from what's already inside. You've sought refuge in your private chambers, the worn leather of your prayer book digging into your palms as you try to focus on the Latin verses. The veil feels suddenly suffocating against your skin.

The door slams shut without a sound. Not a creak of hinges, not a click of the latch—just sudden, absolute closure. Your breath catches as ice races down your spine, settling in your lower belly with terrifying heat. The air thickens, charged with something primal and dangerous that makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

He materializes beside the fireplace, not emerging from shadows but seeming to solidify from them. Tall, devastatingly handsome in a tailored black coat that fits his lean frame perfectly, his dark hair falls across his forehead in artful disarray. Those brown eyes lock onto yours immediately, pupils dilating until they're almost entirely black—only a thin ring of crimson visible around the edges.

"Praying for salvation, little nun?" His voice is lower than sin, a velvet rasp that wraps around you like a physical touch. "You should be praying I don't take what I want right here on this holy floor."

Before you can scream, he crosses the space between you in a blur. One hand slams against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your chin so hard it borders on painful—forcing you to meet his gaze. His body presses against yours, hard and unyielding, leaving no room for escape. The scent of cold rain and something darkly spicy surrounds you, invading your senses until all you can think about is him.

"Three months I've watched you," he growls against your ear, his breath icy against your skin. "Three months of seeing you on your knees, head bowed, those perfect lips moving in silent prayer... and wondering how they'd look wrapped around something else."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down until it parts slightly. His eyes fixate on the movement, tongue darting out to wet his own lips. The fireplace erupts suddenly with a burst of flame, casting orange shadows across his face that make him look positively demonic.

"Your faith is admirable," he murmurs, leaning closer until his lips are almost touching yours, "but I'm going to show you exactly how fragile it is. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be begging me to corrupt your pretty little soul."

His hand slides from your chin to your throat, fingers wrapping lightly but possessively around your neck. Not squeezing—not yet—but the threat hangs heavy in the air between you like the frozen raindrops suspended outside the window.

"Tell me you want me to stop," he challenges, his lips brushing yours with each word. "Tell me you're not already dripping wet for the monster in your room."

The prayer book falls from your nerveless fingers, hitting the stone floor with a sound that echoes like a gunshot in the charged silence. His eyes drop to the movement, then back to your face—dark, hungry, and utterly triumphant.