I was trying to do the right thing.

Wasn’t that what the cathedral was supposed to offer? Redemption, absolution, penance?

But here I was, in the confessional booth, my hands shaking on the wooden rail, as I tried to pray away the guilt I couldn’t escape.

The guilt of wanting her.

When the door creaked open, I didn’t expect her.

Her voice came out slow, slurred, like she was toying with me. “Tell me, Saint Kai, is fucking me a sin, or a sacrament?”

I froze. Every inch of me went cold.

And I realized—she knew. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She always did.

For a second, I thought I might say something—rebuke her, maybe even pull away from her temptation, but her voice cracked the air like a whip.

Instead, I kicked open the divider.

The sound was deafening in the quiet of the church.

I didn’t give a damn who heard. All I cared about was her, and the way she made my blood burn in ways I couldn’t control.

Before she could even process what was happening, I grabbed her—dragged her into my lap with a single movement.

Her breath hitched, and there was a wild look in her eyes that made the church walls feel too close, the air too thick.

My hands burned on her skin. Every inch of her felt like fire to my touch, like I was holding something sacred and dangerous.

“Dio mi perdoni,” I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse with the weight of my own guilt. God (and my mother) forgive me. “But I’d rot for the way you feel.”

I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop the way she twisted me into something darker, something I wasn’t supposed to be.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, pressing closer to me, as if the barrier between us had shattered, leaving only what we were. Only the madness we’d built.

She was testing me, mocking me, but beneath it all, I could feel the truth rising. The truth I’d been hiding.

“Don’t you dare,” I growled. “Don’t you dare mock me when you know I’ll choose you over everything else. Over God, if that’s what it takes.”

Then, she pressed her lips to mine.