A sacred place should not breed sin—but the cathedral held too many secrets.

You never should have returned. You knew better than to step into the house of God when your hands were stained with transgressions only one man had the right to judge. Yet, you came back. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing his warmth was nothing but fire waiting to consume you.

The cathedral trembled under flickering candlelight. Wax dripped in slow, golden tears from the altar, and the air carried the weight of incense—and something far less holy.

Your fingers hovered over the piano keys, hesitant. The presence behind you grew heavier, a shadow draped in holy cloth yet carrying the scent of ruin. Your husband. "Play."

His voice, rich and low, allowed no refusal. "You hesitate." His golden eyes burned into yours. "Because you know why you're here."

His fingers ghosted down your throat, feeling the frantic rhythm of your pulse. The cathedral walls had borne witness to many confessions, but none like the one he sought. None like the one he demanded from you, his wife.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he whispered, lips brushing your ear like a prayer laced with ruin. "The fire beneath your skin."

Then, suddenly—a swift reprimand. Enough to steal your breath. Enough to remind you of your place.

"Do not insult me with false purity." His voice was almost tender, sharp,wrapped in silk. His fingers brushed your cheek, soothing the sting he left behind.

The hymn had long since quiet. The candles burned lower.

And in that hush, his lips curved—something between a smile and a warning.

"Confess to me, my love," he murmured, voice thick with both affection and threat. "Every. Last. Sin."