Unholy Sinner (Sinners of The Black Crown Society)

Prologue

LUCIEN

Ifucking hate churches.

Hate the stink of incense, hate the way they're built to make you feel small. Hate the way the cross necklace my mother gave me burns against my skin like an accusation. I feel like I’m about to catch fire.

“Waste of my goddamn time,” I mutter, yanking at my collar.

Coach will have my ass if I'm late to practice again, and here I am, running an errand in a chapel because my father thinks it’ll build character and make others respect me.

The old fucks will respect me because that’s their only fucking choice.

I came here looking for Richards to discuss the Hargrove acquisition, but instead, I find Seraphina fucking Carvelli on her knees in one of the Black Crown Society's private chapels. The door barely makes a sound when I close it behind me. She doesn't turn around. Doesn't even flinch.

The stained glass bathes her in colored light—blue across her shoulders, red bleeding down her back. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the lace tops of gray stockings that hug her thighs. I press myself against the shadow of an ornate column, my breath caught in my throat.

She's murmuring something—prayers, maybe. The rosary beads slip through her fingers one by one, clicking softly in the silence.

“Forgive me,” she whispers, her voice carrying in the empty space.

My cock throbs against the zipper of my slacks. What sins is little Seraphina confessing today? What darkness is she hiding behind that pristine uniform and those innocent hazel eyes?

She shifts her weight, the pleats of her skirt fanning slightly. I catch a glimpse of the bare skin above her stockings and have to bite down on my knuckle to keep from groaning. Three years since I last saw her. Three fucking years of imagining her beneath me, around me, begging for me.

And now she's here, in my territory again.

The rosary dangles from her hand as she stands, smoothing down her skirt. She's still unaware of my presence, and I could walk away now. Should probably walk away. But I'm rooted to the spot, watching as she moves toward the altar, her hips swaying with each step.

Her hair is different—braided now instead of loose around her shoulders like I remember. The afternoon light catches the red strands, making them burn like fire against her pale neck.

She stops, head tilted back to look at the crucifix hanging above. “You think you know sacrifice?” she says to it, her voice harder now. “You have no idea what I've given up.”

The light catches on something wet on her cheeks. Tears. Little Seraphina Carvelli has been crying in our chapel. I want to taste them, to lick the salt from her skin and then make her cry for entirely different reasons.

The door to the chapel creaks, and I step back deeper into the shadows. Richards enters, his clerical collar tight around his throat like a fucking leash that should be yanked harder. I know what he is beneath those holy clothes. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s no fucking priest.

“Seraphina, my child,” he says, voice dripping with fake concern. “I didn't expect to see you here. It’s been a few years.”

Her spine stiffens, and she wipes away her tears with quick, practiced movements. “Father Richards. I was just leaving.”

“No need to rush,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder that lingers too fucking long. His eyes drop to her ass when she turns to gather her things, and I feel my jaw clench so hard my teeth might crack. “You seem troubled. Perhaps you'd like to confess?”

The way he says “confess” makes my stomach turn. I've seen the way he looks at the girls from St. Catherine's—like they're fucking communion wafers he can't wait to put on his tongue.

Seraphina shakes her head. “Another time, perhaps.”

As she moves past him, Richards' eyes follow her like a starving dog. And that's when I know—I'm going to destroy her. Not because she deserves it, but because she left me. Disappeared without a fucking word three years ago, and now she's back, acting like this place still belongs to her.

Blood rushes to my cock at the thought of making her pay. Of watching those pretty lips part around me, those hazel eyes watering as I push deeper than she can take. I'll make her beg. Make her crawl. Make her mine again.

It doesn't even matter that she's my half-sister—that my father fucked her mother and created this forbidden thing between us. I only found out last year, and it just made everything more intense. More wrong. More necessary.

I could step out now. Could grab her by those braids and drag her into the confessional booth, bend her over the kneeler and remind her who she belongs to. But I wait. Watch. Richards is still talking to her, his hand now on her lower back as he guides her toward the door.

“Your mother was asking about you,” he says. “She mentioned you've been...distant lately.”

“My mother should worry about herself,” Seraphina replies, her voice ice-cold.

Richards laughs, a sound like oil slicking over water. “Still the same fire, I see. Some things never change.”

But I know better. Things do change. People change. Seraphina isn't the same girl who used to follow me around with those wide, worshipful eyes. Who used to let me finger her in empty classrooms while she bit down on her uniform tie to stay quiet.

This new Seraphina is harder. Sharper. And I'm going to break her down until there's nothing left but the parts of her that belong to me.

I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips like a fucking pendulum counting down the seconds until she's looking up at me. She passes through the doorway without looking back, and something in my chest tightens.

The moment the door closes behind her, I step out from the shadows.

Richards turns, and when he sees me, the fucker actually smirks. Like we're sharing some kind of secret. Like he knows what I want to do to Seraphina.

I raise an eyebrow, my face a mask of control while everything inside me burns. “Don't ever touch her again,” I say, my voice so calm it sounds foreign even to my own ears.

The smirk falters, but doesn't disappear. “Mr. Devereux, I didn't realize—”

“I'm not finished.” I close the distance between us, towering over him. “Don't let your eyes stray in her direction. Don't speak her name. Don't even think about her when you're jerking your pathetic cock at night.”

His face pales, but there's still that hint of defiance in his eyes. Like he thinks his collar protects him.

“If you do,” I continue, “I'll know. And not even Bastian fucking Dubois will be able to save what's left of you.”

Now the smirk is gone completely. Everyone knows Bastian's reputation. The boogeyman of Black Crown Society. The man who makes problems disappear. The mention of his name is enough to make grown men shit themselves.

“She's not yours to protect, Lucien,” he says, trying to sound authoritative but his voice cracks. “She comes here of her own accord.”

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. “You think I don't know what you do to the girls here? The ones who come for 'special confession'?” I lean in closer, close enough to smell the fear starting to seep through his pores. “Seraphina is off-limits. To everyone but me.”

I straighten my tie, smooth down my jacket. “Now, I believe we had a meeting scheduled about the Hargrove acquisition. Unless you'd rather I just kill you now? I do have to get to practice before Coach Fontaine tries to make me do suicides.”

Richards swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in a storm. “The...the paperwork is in my office.”

“Then let's not waste any more time.” I gesture toward the door, watching as he scurries ahead like the rat he is.

Richards' office is a pretentious shithole, full of dark wood and leather-bound books he's probably never read. He fumbles through his desk drawer while I stand there, tapping my foot impatiently.

“Today, Richards.”

“Here.” He finally pulls out a manila folder, hands shaking so badly I almost laugh. “Everything's in order. Your father just needs to sign the final documents.”

I snatch it from him, flipping through the pages. Hargrove Pharmaceuticals. Another acquisition that'll make the Devereux empire even more untouchable. My father's pride and joy.

“Looks good enough,” I say, tucking it under my arm. “Remember what I said about Seraphina.”

“Y-yes, of course.”

I lean in close, enjoying the way he shrinks back. “Good boy.”

The chapel air feels less suffocating when I step back out. I straighten my tie, check my watch. Still time to make it to practice if I hurry. The weight of the folder under my arm reminds me of my father's expectations—always another task, another test of loyalty.

I start whistling as I walk, some tune I can't even name. The campus paths are mostly empty this time of day, everyone either in class or at practice. The whistling echoes off the stone buildings, making me sound like I give a fuck about anything.

I round the corner by the old science building and nearly collide with two figures in my path.

“Fuck's sake, watch where you're—” I stop mid-sentence, my scowl transforming into something almost resembling a smile. “Well, well. If it isn't my favorite pair of assholes.”

Cassian Crowe stands there in his usual black-on-black ensemble, cigarette dangling from his lips, dark hair falling into his eyes. Beside him, Asher Crawford leans against the wall, his golden-boy looks the exact opposite.

“Luci,” Cassian nods, taking a drag. “You look like you're about to murder someone.”

“Might still,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the folder while rolling my eyes at the dumb nickname.

“Save some for us,” Asher says, pushing off the wall. “If you're planning to make someone disappear, we want in.”

I arch an eyebrow. “What makes you think I'm in a sharing mood?”

“He touch one of the St. Catherine girls again?” Asher asks, his voice dropping lower.

“Mm no, he knows better. But something like that.” I don't elaborate. Don't need to explain that it was Seraphina. That I'd rip out Richards' spine through his throat if he so much as breathed on her again.

We're almost at the gym when Cassian suddenly stops, his eyes fixed on something across the quad. “Speaking of troubling things,” he mutters. “The Carvellis are back in town. Saw the mother yesterday at that fancy boutique downtown. Looking like a fucking MILF and a half.”

I keep my face neutral even as my heart rate kicks up. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he continues, oblivious to the way my hands have clenched into fists. “Rumor has it that Seraphina’s back too.”

“Interesting,” I say, my voice flat and controlled while my blood rushes in my ears.

Asher bursts out laughing, the sound echoing across the empty courtyard. “Yeah, I bet it's 'interesting' to you, Devereux. Considering she's your daddy's rogue sperm and you've had your fingers in her cunt.”

I grab him by the throat before I can even think, slamming him against the brick wall of the gym. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Asher doesn't look scared—the fucker actually grins wider. “Hit a nerve, did I?” he chokes out.

I release my grip on Asher's throat, shoving him back against the wall one more time before stepping away. The temptation to bash his pretty-boy face in is almost overwhelming, but I don't have time for this shit.

“Hurry up and change before Fontaine has all our asses,” I say, my voice like ice. “Captain's orders.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about being on time?”

“Since I decided I do,” I snap, already pushing through the gym doors. “Move your asses.”

Because I need to focus on basketball right now before I go find the little witch, kidnap her and lock her in my fucking basement.

Okay well that was a mistake because now I’ve got half wood and I don’t need any of these fucks thinking it’s because of them.

I wouldn’t fuck any of them.