Evermourne's Godless Saints

1. CHAPTER 1

MOON

What in the actual fuck is Cillian Ashbourne doing inside Evermourne’s cathedral?

High stone vaults swallowed the light. Rain drummed against the stained glass in uneven bursts. The air smelled of old incense and cold stone.

A brutal thud punched behind my sternum.

Look away. I couldn’t. Emerald eyes locked onto mine.

Dark, wavy hair fell slightly too long for the occasion, brushing a sharp jaw.

The black suit was open at the collar, no tie, silver chains glinting against the ink climbing his throat.

He tilted his head, and those dimples carved into his cheeks.

Wonderful. One tattooed Irish bastard ruining my optics in the first five minutes of term. My hands clenched. Nails bit into my palms. Sweat slid down my spine while every masked face in the gallery waited for one sign of weakness. All because this Irish menace stood ten feet away.

Maybe he forgot.

The lie died the second those eyes pinned me across the nave. Of course he remembered. Saint Lucia. One stupid night. He hadn't looked away. Great. Every swallow scraped. If the nausea would just finish the job.

Legacy first. Always. I was already failing it.

Fabric shifted. Wood creaked as he moved. I stared at the altar and refused to look, refused to give him the satisfaction. Too late. I already had.

Grant Ellington went rigid beside me. His shoulder pressed closer. Cillian stopped at our pew.

“This section’s reserved,” Grant said, shifting closer until his arm brushed mine.

“Move.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Cillian leaned in and said something too quietly for me to hear. Grant’s face drained of color. He stood without another word and left.

Just like that. Cillian sat against me. Thick thigh pressed into mine. Two fingers drummed once against his knee, then went still. My cock twitched against the wool. I’m in public. In a cathedral. One visible reaction and the rumors would start before I made it outside.

“Island prince.” His fingers found the nape of my neck, then slid up slowly into my hair.

“Wrong Court.” Evermourne sorted us into four Courts. Aster. Thorn. Vesper. Dahlia. I was Aster. Cillian had landed in Thorn. That explained a fucking lot. I shifted an inch. He followed. Same inch. His thigh pressed harder into mine. “People are watching.”

Most of the students were focused on the speaker. But not all. Here and there, a few heads turned. A few eyes lingered. Enough. Blood roared in my ears.

“Let them,” he said, fingers threading deeper through my hair. Still gentle, until he leaned in and tightened his grip hard enough to pull my head back.

One wrong glance and someone would understand exactly what was happening. Shame burned hot up my neck.

Let them watch.

I was already fucked.

He felt it. Of course he did.

The same bastard who once watched me unravel in a hotel room now had the entire gallery as an audience.

“You’re going to let me do this in front of all of them, aren’t you, prince?” His fingers released my hair. Stroked down my neck again. Goosebumps broke out across my skin.

“You look tense.”

I looked straight ahead. “Remove your hand. And the thigh. Tension might resolve itself.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against my ear. Settled deeper into the pew. “You wound me.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” he added softly.

“This is a church.”

“Then behave.”

My head turned before I could stop it.

Idiot.

Cillian’s gaze fell to my mouth. Then back up. “You first.”

“I did behave.”

His mouth moved closer to my ear. The grip in my hair tightened another fraction.

“I let you run.”

“I don’t run.”

“You walked out on me, prince.” He barely raised his voice, too soft for what he was doing. Fingers playing with the short strands at my nape. “Even boys like me have feelings. Fragile little things.”

I didn’t bother hiding my annoyance. “I walked away because there was nothing to walk away from. We drank. The party ended.”

“You panicked.”

I caught his wrist and dragged his hand out of my hair before he could twist deeper.

Cillian’s eyes dropped to my fingers, then back to my face. A slow smile formed.

He noticed.

The lunatic saw exactly what he was doing to me. And I'd just told him more than words ever could.

“There he is… Knew you were still in there.”

“If you say that again—”

“You’ll what?” he asked. “Break my nose in church? Bite me? Pretend you don’t like that I followed you here?”

“I’m not violent like you.” My jaw tightened, voice low enough for only him.

A girl to my left shifted; she was pressed into the man beside her. “Excuse me. Could you give me some space?”

I offered her a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” I moved straight into Cillian on my right.

His hands closed on my shoulders. Pulled me back against him.

“Careful, prince,” he said. “You’re starting to look like the boy from Saint Lucia.”

The speaker droned on about Favor and Blood Writs.

Favor was Evermourne’s currency. Earn it for your Court, climb the board, make your family proud.

Blood Writs were Evermourne’s idea of a bounty.

One Court put a mark on someone from another, and whoever took the Writ got to wreck them until they broke. Collect, and your Court earned Favor.

I knew the rules. I heard none of them. Cillian’s thigh stayed pressed against mine. One night. That was all it took.

A shadow moved behind us.

Sawyer Whitlock slid in on my left without asking.

Messy ash-blond hair fell across bright blue eyes, that too-sharp smile already in place.

The navy suit was perfect, but the open collar and silver bracelet ruined the clean heir look on purpose.

His shoulder knocked into mine as he leaned across me like I wasn’t even there.

“What are you doing here, Ashbourne?” Sawyer demanded.

Cillian didn’t look at him. “Where else would I be?”

“Still. An Ashbourne? God, Evermourne does love a scandal.”

“That all?”

“No. I’m being polite because God is watching.”

He finally turned his head. “Then try harder. You’re boring the pew.”

Sawyer leaned farther over me. My patience thinned to a wire.

Cillian’s gaze dropped to the space where Sawyer’s sleeve brushed my chest. His amusement vanished.

“Careful, Whitlock.”

Sawyer didn’t pull back. “Get out of his space.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Cillian’s thigh remained pressed against mine. “He knows how to move,” Cillian said.

“Stop using me to measure each other.”

“You’re too close,” Sawyer said at the same time.

Cillian glanced at the shoulder Sawyer had braced against mine. “Move first.”

“I’m not the one sitting in Aster’s seating.”

“No,” Cillian countered. “You’re the one leaning over what isn’t yours.”

My tongue pressed hard behind my teeth. I lifted a hand between them. “Take this somewhere else.”

Neither moved. Of course, they didn’t.

“Go back to your side, Ashbourne,” Sawyer said. “Thorn seating is across the aisle. I know boundaries are difficult when one is raised by creditors and criminals but do try.”

Cillian leaned in until Sawyer had nowhere comfortable to look. “Say Ashbourne again like that.”

“Stop conducting this over me.” I shoved Sawyer's shoulder back.

Sawyer leaned in another inch. “Stay out of this, Moon.”

My head whipped toward him. “Did you just tell me to stay out of the conversation happening over my fucking lap?”

Vivienne Devereux leaned forward from my right. Perfectly composed. As if the cramped pew weren’t currently a public spectacle.

“Boys. Lower the sexual tension. I’m trying to listen.”

Her attention flicked up toward the masked Patrons, then settled on the two idiots boxing me in.

The Patrons reported whatever mattered back to the families. Bad grades. Sure. Worse things too. Who you were seen with. Who you fucked. Sometimes the report made it home before you did.

“Gentlemen. The Patrons are watching,” she said. “Try not to rut over an Aster prince during the opening address.” Her eyes dropped pointedly to where Cillian’s thigh was still pressed hard against mine. “And certainly not over Hyun’s lap. It’s gauche.”

Sawyer sat back first.

Cillian didn’t.

Instead, he shifted forward, spreading his legs wider so his thigh locked more firmly against mine. One hand dropped casually onto my knee, fingers curling just enough to hold me there.

Vivienne turned her head. “Mr. Ashbourne.”

For a long second, he didn’t move at all. Then he finally eased back, removing his hand from my knee.

Vivienne smiled and sat back.

The next speaker stepped up to the lectern.

A woman in black ceremonial robes and an ivory mask stepped forward, the Black Chalice held tight against her chest. Smaller than I expected. Dark metal, thorned stem, rim sharp enough to cut. The stones caught the light—ivory Aster, wine-red Thorn, deep blue Vesper, gold Dahlia.

Whispers died. Old wood creaked under shifting weight. Every heir watched the cup. The Chalice was what you won at the end of the year. Four Courts spent the year competing for it. Earn the most Favor, win the Chalice.

“Welcome to Evermourne Academy.”

The nave went silent. My spine remained straight.

Favor was tallied publicly. Blood Writs weren't. That was Evermourne. Sin was allowed. Embarrassment? Punished.

“Make no mistake,” the speaker intoned. “Evermourne is not the academy you’re used to. We do not flinch at bullying, coercion, betrayal, or psychological warfare. We observe them. We record them. We report what matters to your families.”

Lesser heirs sat straighter.

“The Black Chalice begins tonight.”

A ripple moved through the hall.

“Last year’s victors… Vesper Court.”

Vesper rose to applause. Aster clapped. Dahlia clapped. Thorn barely bothered. Cillian didn’t clap. His eyes remained on me.

Sawyer shifted beside me. “Ugh,” he said. “The Lovchy twins. Who invited them?”

I followed his stare across the aisle. Two identical platinum blonds in matching black, sharp smiles already cutting toward us.

“Sawyer!”

Sawyer’s shoulders locked tight. The twin waved. Fucking waved.

“Look at you. All dressed up and pretending we don’t know each other.”

I cut my eyes to Sawyer. “You know him?”

“No.”

The twin’s grin stretched wider. “That’s fair. Plausible deniability was important.”

Sawyer’s jaw flexed. “Mikhail.”

“So, yes,” I said.

“No.”

Mikhail beamed. “He says my name a lot for someone who doesn’t know me.”

Sawyer kept his eyes forward.

The recessional bell struck once. Sharp. Final. The echo rolled through the nave before dying into silence. Bodies started moving around us. I stood.

Cillian didn’t. He captured my hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips brushed my knuckles.

I scanned the emptying hall. Masked faces filing out. No one watching.

I yanked at his grip. I’m not supposed to be seen with someone like him. I’m supposed to inherit House of Moon, my father's business, not hand Aster a reason to lose Favor because I couldn't keep my shit together around an Irish criminal. Fuck. I pulled harder. Cillian’s fingers loosened.

Sawyer slid between us before the space even opened. Shoulders squared. That dead smile stretching too wide.

“Stay away from him, Ashbourne.”

Cillian’s eyes dragged over Sawyer as if he were something stuck to his shoe. Then those emerald eyes returned to me. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“He can tell me himself,” he said.

Sawyer’s head tilted at that unnatural angle again. “He shouldn’t have to.”

Cillian ignored him. Instead, he leaned back in the pew, one finger tapping once against the wood, almost playfully. His eyes stayed locked on mine. “He should.”

A painful lump lodged, choking every sound. The silence stretched, damning me in front of both of them. Say something. Fucking say something. Nothing came.

Then he lifted two fingers in a lazy, mocking wave. “Later, prince.”

The word hit as if he’d aimed for the weakness. Heat rose. My fists clenched tightly. I stayed silent. Frozen.

While Cillian’s subtle little smirk told me he was savoring every second of my unraveling. Later wasn’t a promise. It was a fucking deadline.

One masked Patron above us barely turned his head before walking out. I walked down the aisle. Cold stone underfoot. Every step heavier than the last.

Don’t look back. Don’t give him the satisfaction. I glanced anyway.

Cillian was still watching. That same slow, crooked smile from Saint Lucia, the one that had convinced me to follow him back to his hotel room like a lovestruck idiot.

I adjusted my collar, the fabric suddenly too warm against my skin. Saint Lucia was supposed to stay buried under every rule I’d followed since I could speak.

It hadn’t.

I looked back. That was the mistake. One glance and I was already the boy from Saint Lucia again. Pulse sat too high in my throat.

The gallery was emptying. One wrong angle and someone would have seen exactly how long I held his eyes.

I should have kept walking. I should have put the entire nave between us. Instead the same stupid drop hit low and stayed there.

Legacy first.

I had already failed it in front of half the Court.