Sera knew better.
She’d been raised on hymns and sermons, clothed in purity and praise. Her father was the town’s most respected preacher, and she, the perfect daughter, was expected to reflect that image in every breath she took.
But perfection never excited her.
It was a sin that stirred her blood.
She sat alone in the candlelit chapel at midnight, the stone floor cold beneath her knees, the scent of incense curling through the air like temptation.
She came here often not to pray.
To confess.
Her own way.
To feel something dangerous in the only place she was never allowed to touch herself.
But tonight felt different.
He was there.
The man in the booth.
He wasn’t Father Caldwell, she could tell. Caldwell’s voice was brittle and old.
This one was young.
Richer. Calmer.
Sinfu
