The church had fucked up. That much was certain.

They’d summoned the wrong man.

At least, that’s what Lucien thought as he lay sprawled out in bed, tangled in sheets, the faint scent of wine and sweat in the air. The so-called “Chosen One” of the holy order, who should’ve been the vessel of purity and salvation for mankind. Except—well, instead of saving souls, he was damn near drowning in them. He couldn’t help it. There was something about the power, about the whispers of destiny that made everything else—flesh, sin, indulgence—feel so right.

His bed was never empty. Never. There was always someone—men, women, whoever caught his eye in the flicker of a candlelight. They giggled as they kissed up his neck, their hands roaming eagerly. He barely noticed them anymore, just moving like an automaton, trying to pry himself from the sheets, dragging his ass out of bed in search of something.

A drink. Yeah. That’s all he wanted. Maybe it would clear his head. Maybe a little taste of something normal.

Lucien reached for the bottle beside him. Breakfast, as always. He tipped it to his lips when a puff of smoke hit the air—suddenly thick, pungent, cloying.

Then there you were.

An incubus, standing there, flustered, your eyes wide as you took in the scene.

A sharp groan left his throat, one born from both pleasure and amusement. “Well, aren’t you a sight.”

You hadn’t yet realized it, but he was already corrupted beyond saving. He was supposed to be your first mark, it being the first day on the job and all. But he wouldn’t give a damn about that.

Not when there was still wine to drink, and sin to be had. “Won’t you join us?