The night stretched on in silence, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls of Andrien's modest chamber. He had tried to shake the lingering thoughts of the day—of the nun's words, the cheerful village, the upcoming communion. And yet, no matter how much he tried, something gnawed at him.
The weight in his chest felt like an invisible hand pressing down, a familiar dread coiling deep in his stomach. He sighed, running a tired hand through his hair before snuffing out the last candle beside his bed.
Darkness.
It should have been comforting—he had lived within these church walls long enough to embrace solitude—but tonight, the shadows felt too thick, too still.
Then, just as his breathing slowed, just as sleep threatened to take him, the whispering began.
Soft. Indistinct. Like a conversation just beyond his reach.
Andrien's eyes snapped open.
The room was quiet, yet the presence of something unseen crawled along his skin. A pressure, a pull—like something, someone, was in the room with him.
Then—the candle reignited on its own.
The tiny flame crackled unnaturally, casting long, jagged shadows. His pulse pounded in his ears as his gaze flickered toward the foot of his bed.
He was not alone.
A figure lounged against the wooden chair near the window, watching him.
Lucian.
He was dressed in black, the moonlight casting a haunting glow over his impossibly pale skin. He sat with an air of casual amusement, twirling a blood-red flower between his fingers. The petals were flawless, unnaturally vibrant, as if plucked from a garden untouched by time.
"Such a light sleeper," Lucian mused, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake at all."
Andrien's breath hitched. His instincts screamed for him to react—to demand how this intruder had entered, to call for help—but his body refused to move.
Lucian chuckled softly, as if reading his thoughts. "You truly don't know how lucky you are, do you?"
Andrien swallowed, forcing himself to sit up. "What… are you doing here?"
Lucian tilted his head, studying him like one would a caged bird. Then, he reached out, ever so gently, and placed the red flower on Andrien's bedside table.
"A gift," he murmured. "A reminder."
His fingers lingered on the wooden surface, his movements slow, deliberate. Then, without warning, he stood, his presence consuming the room.
Andrien forced himself to meet his gaze. "A reminder of what?"
Lucian's smile widened, though there was no warmth behind it. Only certainty.
"That you are already mine."
The words sent a cold shudder down Andrien's spine.
Before he could protest, before he could even think, Lucian stepped forward, leaning in so close that Andrien could feel the chill radiating from his skin.
Then, with terrifying ease, he raised a hand and traced the curve of Andrien's cheek.
Andrien flinched.
Lucian's touch was colder than ice, colder than the dead. Yet it was impossibly gentle, mockingly intimate.
His fingers moved slowly, trailing down Andrien's cheek, over his jaw—and then, lower.
Andrien froze as Lucian's thumb brushed against his lips.
It was the lightest of touches, yet it sent a shiver through him.
Lucian exhaled, almost as if savoring the moment.
"I wonder," he murmured, voice soft yet laced with something dark, something dangerous.
He leaned in closer, his breath cool against Andrien's skin.
"How would you taste?"
Andrien's breath hitched. His mind screamed for him to push away, to break free from whatever this was—but he couldn't.
Lucian's touch lingered, his fingers tracing slow, agonizing patterns over his lips, as if committing every curve to memory.
He smirked, but his eyes held something deeper—possession.
"You will understand soon," he whispered. "I will never let you go, Andrien. Not ever."
His fingers left his lips, trailing down his throat for a fraction of a second before pulling away completely.
Then, as if sensing Andrien's unspoken question, he leaned close to his ear.
"And when the time is right…" Lucian's voice dipped lower, almost reverent. "I will have all of you."
A cold shudder ran through Andrien's spine.
Then, without another word, Lucian turned toward the window.
Andrien blinked in shock. The doors had remained locked. There were no footsteps, no indication of an entrance, yet Lucian had been there. And now—
Just as he reached the window's edge, the candles extinguished once more.
The moment the flames died, Lucian's form faded with the darkness, swallowed whole as if he had never been there at all.
Andrien was left alone, his breathing ragged, the room eerily silent.
But on the table, sitting in the dim moonlight, the red flower remained.
And when he finally looked toward the heavy iron cross hanging on his wall—
It had turned upside down.
The sun hung high in the sky, casting warm golden light over the village as the festivities for the church's yearly communion began. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, roasted meats, and sweet honey cakes. Laughter and music filled the square, where villagers gathered in celebration.
Tables were adorned with crisp white linens, set with polished silverware and goblets of deep red wine. Platters overflowed with delicacies—succulent roasted lamb, steaming vegetable stews, delicate pastries dusted with sugar, and fruit so ripe it glistened in the sunlight. Children wove between the adults, their hands sticky with honeyed almonds and warm bread rolls, their laughter ringing through the air.
Andrien found himself standing near the garden entrance, his gaze drifting over the scene. Despite the warmth of the day, an unshakable chill clung to his skin.
"You look lost in thought," came a soft voice beside him.
Andrien turned to see Sister Marianne, the nun who had accompanied him through the village the day before. She wore a pristine white dress, simple yet elegant, the fabric flowing gracefully with her movements. The color complemented her gentle features, her brown eyes warm with kindness as she smiled at him.
"You look lovely today, Sister," he offered, his voice polite.
She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "It's just a dress, but thank you, Andrien. I must admit, I was excited to wear it today. It is not often we get to celebrate like this."
He nodded, watching as she looked around, beaming at the gathering crowd. "Many important people are attending," she continued. "Lords and scholars, even knights from neighboring regions. Oh! And my cousin arrived just this morning."
Andrien tilted his head slightly. "Your cousin?"
She smiled, nodding eagerly. "Yes. He traveled a long way for this. I haven't seen him in years, but I'm sure you'll like him. He's very—"
Before she could finish, a cold sensation pressed against his back.
Andrien stiffened.
It wasn't a gentle nudge, nor was it the clumsy stumble of a passing guest. No—this was something else entirely. The sensation was sharp, freezing, spreading from his spine outward like an unseen hand had just touched him.
Slowly, he turned.
And his breath caught.
Standing just behind him, dressed in black and gold, was Lucian.
The very same man who had appeared in his room last night.
His presence was unmistakable, but now—he looked different.
Lucian stood tall, his figure wrapped in a tailored black coat lined with ornate golden embroidery, the fabric rich and heavy. A golden brooch shaped like a wolf's head fastened the dark cloak draped over his shoulders. His fitted vest and high-collared shirt were equally adorned with gold thread, exuding the elegance of nobility.
And then, there was his face.
It was almost unfair—the kind of beauty that could unsettle even the holiest of men.
His features were sharp yet refined, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His lips curled in an effortless smirk, as if always entertained by some private amusement. And his eyes—crimson, deep and piercing, glowed faintly beneath the sun's light, like embers hidden in the dark.
Andrien's heart pounded violently in his chest.
"Ah, there you are," Sister Marianne beamed. "Andrien, this is my cousin—Duke Lucian Valemont."
Lucian placed a hand over his chest in a gesture of greeting, his smile casual, almost lazy. "A pleasure to finally meet you, Andrien."
Andrien barely heard the words.
This can't be real.
Lucian's gaze settled on him, unreadable yet knowing, like a predator toying with its prey.
Then, as if sensing his unease, Lucian tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Andrien's fingers clenched at his sides. He could not react. Not here. Not now.
So instead, he forced a small, practiced smile, shoving down the fear clawing at his gut.
Lucian chuckled, watching him with amusement. "Or perhaps..." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Andrien could hear.
"You're simply impressed?"
The words were spoken lightly, teasingly, but the weight behind them was suffocating.
Andrien forced himself to breathe.
Pretend. Act normal. Don't let him see your fear.
For now, he had no choice but to play along.
Lucian's hand rested on Andrien's shoulder, the grip deceptively gentle but unyielding. Like steel wrapped in silk.
Andrien felt his entire body tense beneath the weight of that touch. Every instinct screamed at him to move—to step away, to break free—but Lucian's fingers pressed just enough to remind him that he would not allow it.
Sister Marianne, oblivious to the silent battle of wills happening beside her, smiled warmly at her cousin.
"How was your journey, Lucian?" she asked, her voice light with excitement.
Lucian's smirk remained in place, though his gaze never once left Andrien.
"It was... expected," he answered smoothly. "Tiresome, but worthwhile."
Marianne clapped her hands together. "Oh! That's wonderful! You'll be staying for a while, won't you?"
Lucian's grip tightened, and Andrien stiffened.
"Yes," Lucian murmured, still watching him. "For a month."
Marianne gasped, delighted. "A whole month? That's wonderful! We'll have so much to catch up on."
Before Andrien could think of an excuse to leave, a woman's voice interrupted them.
"Duke Valemont," the voice was honeyed, practiced—a noblewoman's tone.
They turned to see a young woman in an exquisite sapphire gown, her hair an elaborate cascade of curls, adorned with pearls and silver pins. Her delicate fingers lightly fanned over her chest as she smiled at Lucian with carefully restrained excitement.
She had been watching him for a while.
"I have been meaning to introduce myself," she said with a soft laugh. "I am Princess Evangeline of House Auremont. It is a pleasure to meet such a distinguished guest."
Lucian did not smile. He did not nod. He did not even acknowledge her presence.
His crimson eyes remained solely on Andrien.
The princess's lips parted slightly at the lack of response, but she recovered quickly, masking her slight embarrassment with a lighthearted laugh. "Ah, the Duke must be tired from his travels," she said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. "I do hope you find tonight's festivities to your liking."
Andrien felt suffocated.
He couldn't do this.
He had to get away.
"Sister Marianne," Andrien said suddenly, keeping his voice steady. "I don't feel well. Would you mind if I excuse myself?"
Marianne turned to him with concern. "Oh, of course! You should rest. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about the party later."
Andrien nodded quickly and turned to leave—
But Lucian was faster.
His grip on Andrien's shoulder never loosened.
"I'll accompany you," Lucian said smoothly.
Andrien's breath hitched.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides. Refusing wasn't an option.
Not when Lucian's touch burned like an unspoken threat.
With a polite smile that did not reach his eyes, Lucian guided him away from the crowd, his fingers never leaving Andrien's shoulder.
Andrien swallowed hard.
For the first time in his life, he truly understood what it meant to be hunted.
__
The cool night air brushed against Andrien's skin as he walked beside Lucian through the garden, the faint glow of lanterns casting long shadows on the stone path. The party's distant music drifted through the air, but he barely registered it—his mind was too consumed with the man beside him.
He didn't want to speak. He didn't want to acknowledge Lucian's presence.
Yet the silence between them felt oppressive, and when they stopped near a secluded stone wall, Andrien finally exhaled, forcing his voice to stay firm.
"What do you want?" His fingers curled at his sides. "This is a church, not a bar. If you try anything inappropriate, I will report you to the clergy."
Lucian chuckled—a deep, rich sound that sent an unwelcome shiver up Andrien's spine.
"Oh, Father." Lucian murmured as he effortlessly grabbed Andrien's wrist, his grip deceptively gentle. Before Andrien could react, he was pinned against the cold stone wall, hidden from view. The weight of Lucian's body pressed against him, trapping him in place.
Andrien's breath hitched. Too close.
Lucian leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from his own. His scent—something dark, spiced, intoxicating—clouded Andrien's senses.
"You're so cute when you pretend you have control." Lucian whispered, his voice a slow caress. "But I can't promise such things, Father."
Andrien gritted his teeth, pushing against Lucian's chest, but the man didn't budge. He was far too strong.
Then, before he could speak, before he could even react—
Lucian kissed him.
Andrien's entire body froze. His mind shattered into fragments of disbelief.
His lips—his sacred lips—were being claimed by a man, a devil in noble's clothing.
Shame. Panic. Heat.
It all crashed over him at once.
With a muffled gasp, he shoved against Lucian's chest, but a strong hand gripped his waist, yanking him closer.
Lucian hummed, his breath warm against his lips as he murmured, "Doesn't it taste divine, Father? The taste of sin?"
Andrien trembled. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, the weight of what was happening suffocating him.
Lucian finally pulled away, his lips glistening in the dim light, watching Andrien with dark amusement.
Andrien's face burned, his body betraying him in ways he could not understand.
Dirty. He felt dirty.
His faith, his vows—how had he allowed this?
But just as he tried to regain control, Lucian stole another kiss—deeper this time, more demanding.
A sinful whisper of possession.
Andrien gasped, his fingers gripping Lucian's coat in a feeble attempt to push him away, yet his own body felt weak, unsteady.
Finally, Lucian pulled back, his smirk nothing short of predatory satisfaction.
He tilted Andrien's chin up with a single finger, admiring the priest's flushed cheeks and breathless state.
Then he whispered—soft, dangerous, inescapable:
"You are mine, Andrien. And when the time is right… I will take everything."
With that, he turned on his heel, walking away as if nothing had happened.
Andrien remained pinned against the cold wall, his fingers trembling against his own lips, his entire world unraveling.
Lucian's last words echoed in his skull.
Mine.