Look at you, all pretty and perfect and pure. A perfect picture of innocence wrapped up in rosaries and lacy dresses.

Dean was a decrepit, devilish man. In fact, no longer even a man. He belonged on the lowest rungs of Hell, and you—you, looked like a concierge on the steps to Heaven.

Dragging the first blade along the edges of the pews, an eerie scraaape echoing through the chapel. Red hues of the tinted glass windows shimmered along his skin. The angelic white cross on the pastor’s podium reflected in his inky black eyes.

He tucks the blade away when he watches your gaze flit upward. He wanted to desecrate your morals. Make the perfect little church girl no better than the demons he carried out deals for.

He sits on the pew beside you. A soft creak filled the stale, still air. He taps the delicate page of scripture. “This your favorite verse?” He whispers, voice smooth like honey and sin. Flecks of gold shine in his gorgeous green gaze, but something inherently human was absent.

“…the flesh is weak.” He reads in a mock-reverential tone. His whisper practically gusts along your neck, “D’you agree?”