The rain fell in veils that night, draping the ancient monastery in a shroud of whispers. Lightning etched jagged scars across the sky, and thunder rolled like the moan of a forgotten god. Deep in the woods beyond Blackthorn Hollow, the crumbling stone abbey loomed, silent and cold—until a knock shattered the stillness.
Sister Magdalena paused, her candle flickering in the draft. The knock came again—slow, deliberate. Three beats. As if time itself had rehearsed them. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her and moved through the cloister halls, footsteps echoing over timeworn flagstones. No visitor had dared approach the Abbey of Saint Elara in over fifty years.
When she opened the door, he stood before her.
Tall. Drenched in rain. His long black coat clung to his sculpted form, and his eyes glowed like molten garnets beneath the hood of his cloak. The scent of brimstone and roses clung to him—a paradox that tightened something low in her belly.
"I am seeking sanctuary," he said, voice rich and velvety.
"Who are you?"
He smiled, and the candlelight danced across lips too perfect to belong to a mortal.
"Call me Lucien."
Chapter Sixteen: Beneath the Veil of Shadows
The moon hung low over Blackthorn Hollow, casting silver beams across the abbey's ancient stones. Nightfall had returned like a cloak, masking what eyes dared not see. Within the sanctum of the library, Magdalena moved with cautious urgency, her heart an uneasy rhythm against her ribs. Her fingers skimmed the spine of a leather-bound tome as she searched for a passage Lucien had hinted at—one buried in the abbey's most arcane texts.
Lucien. Since his arrival, time had unraveled in whispers and shadow. He no longer slept in the guest wing. He slept beside her, in secret, wrapped in sheets and heat and sin. What they shared defied definition—tender, carnal, terrifying. And yet, each time he touched her, it felt as though she was peeling back another layer of herself, uncovering a truth she'd buried with her vows.
Tonight, he had not come to her. He had vanished before dusk, saying only, "Tonight, you must uncover it on your own."
The sound of a door creaked open behind her.
"You search for answers, little dove."
Magdalena turned, startled, clutching the book to her chest. Lucien stepped from the shadows, dressed in his usual dark finery, his eyes aglow with mischief and heat. But something else simmered beneath it—urgency.
"You left without a word," she said, breath catching.
"I had to feed," he answered simply.
A chill gripped her spine. "On… blood?"
He shook his head. "On fear. On lust. On power. The Devil does not dine like a man."
Her grip on the book loosened. "You call yourself the Devil so easily."
"I am many things. But you, Magdalena… you are becoming more than a woman who hides behind a cross."
He crossed the space between them in two slow steps. She did not back away. Her body ached in anticipation.
"Do you want to know who you truly are?" he asked, voice low.
She swallowed hard. "I don't know anymore."
Lucien raised his hand and traced a single finger down her collarbone, his touch like fire and silk.
"You are a daughter of fire. Of heaven. You were born to break chains, not wear them."
"What do you mean?"
"The Church lied to you. You are descended not from Eve, but from the Seraphim. You carry celestial fire in your veins, Magdalena. It's why I couldn't resist you."
Magdalena's knees buckled. "That can't be true."
Lucien took the book from her hands and opened it to a page with a faded illustration—an angel cloaked in flame, her eyes like Magdalena's, her hands holding a sword and a flame.
"This is you," he said. "You feel it when I touch you. That ache. That power."
Their lips met then—fierce, desperate. She kissed him like she was trying to devour truth itself. Their bodies collided, knocking tomes to the floor. He lifted her onto the librarian's desk, his hands pushing up the hem of her gown as she gasped his name.
But before passion consumed them entirely, the abbey bell tolled. Once. Twice.
Then silence.
Lucien froze.
"They've come," he whispered.
"Who?"
"The Seraphim. Heaven's warriors. They know you've awakened."
Magdalena slid off the desk, heart pounding. "Then we run."
"No," Lucien said grimly. "We prepare. They will not take you. You are not theirs. You are mine."
And beneath the watchful gaze of forgotten saints, they fled deeper into the abbey, toward the catacombs, where secrets older than time lay buried—and destiny waited in the dark.