There are few sensations in life more delicious than waking up in silk sheets that smell like three different sins and the faintest hint of incense. My body ached in that glorious, post-carnal way that made me stretch like a pampered cat. The masquerade had been a success. Too successful, perhaps.
Roderick stormed into my room just as I was contemplating whether to masturbate or summon breakfast first. His boots thudded across the carpet like the judgment of an angry saint. He had blood on his shirt, soot on his boots, and a grimace that could curdle cream.
"You absolute peacock," he growled. "Do you know what you did last night?"
"Several people," I said helpfully, brushing a few golden feathers off my shoulder. "Though I've lost count after the priestess."
He threw a bundle of cloth at me. It hit my chest with a damp slap.
"That," he hissed, "was her cassock."
"Oh. I thought it smelled familiar." I pulled it close and sniffed dramatically. "Mmm. Sanctified debauchery."
Roderick turned the color of overripe tomatoes. "Cecil. That was Lysaria. High priestess of the southern sun cult. She has a council seat."
I blinked. Then blinked again. Then smirked.
"I do have excellent taste."
"You marked her didn't you?"
"She asked nicely."
Roderick began pacing the room like a thundercloud stuffed into a tabard. "You don't understand. Lysaria was one of the last real spiritual figureheads with power. And now—"
"Now she, sorry, he's radiant and slightly more interested in lipstick than liturgy?"
Roderick stopped, seething. "You changed her."
I leaned back against the headboard, draping the cassock across my lap like a trophy. "Technically, the marking did that. Divine energy is funny like that—it reflects desire. And Lysaria had a lot of buried desire."
He looked like he might throw something. Or himself.
"She's... he's not even hiding it now," Roderick muttered. "You turned a council priestess into a lace-wearing flirt with eyeliner."
"And didn't he wear it well?"
Roderick let out a noise somewhere between a scream and a prayer. I would have consoled him—perhaps with a shoulder massage or a sensual lecture on the theology of self-actualization—but I was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Enter, if you're gorgeous or bring pastries!"
The door creaked open to reveal both. Lysaria stood there, draped in a sheer robe of golden silk that shimmered with every step. His short curls framed a face softer now, more delicate than before—his jawline smoothed, his lips fuller, the marking's influence having pulled femininity from somewhere deep inside her and set it shimmering on the surface.
He carried a tray of sugared figs and almond bread. His earrings chimed like little bells as he moved.
"May I come in?"
"Only if you sit on my face again."
"Cecil!" Roderick barked.
Lysaria smiled demurely. "I see he's still upset."
"He'll manage. He always does."
He stepped inside and set the tray down beside me. I leaned forward, caught his wrist, and pressed a kiss to his palm.
"To what do I owe the divine visitation, my golden fox?"
"I've come to pledge myself."
Roderick sputtered.
I blinked again. "To the cause, I hope. Or to my bed. Though either is acceptable."
"Both."
He sat beside me, smoothing his skirt over crossed legs. "The Church has grown corrupt. My order whispers of purges and divine fire, but I've seen how they twist it. They fear places like this because we give people joy."
For a rare moment, I was silent.
"I want in," he said. "Let me help you destroy them."
My lips curled. "Welcome to the Velvet Court, darling."
Roderick left in a huff, muttering about divine plagues and early retirement.
Later that day, we gathered the core team in the reading room. Salem, Elian, Jules, Marius, Ash, and now Lysaria. He'd changed into crimson lace by then, fitting in disturbingly well—though Elian was already muttering about fashion competition.
"The plan is simple," I said, tracing a path on the Cathedral map. "We infiltrate the vault during the Solstice Parade. While everyone is distracted by fireworks and fornication, we'll steal the relics, sabotage their records, and disappear before the next hymn ends."
Elian raised a hand. "And if we're caught?"
"We seduce our way out or die spectacularly."
Salem sighed. "That's your solution to everything."
"And has it ever failed me?"
Marius muttered, "Once. That bishop in Norwyn."
"He died smiling. That still counts as a win."
Jules nodded. "It was in the official report."
That evening, I found Lysaria in the bathhouse, steam curling around him like sacramental mist. His skin glowed beneath the candlelight—his collar still bore the faint shimmer of the mark, but his presence had changed entirely. He reclined with one leg lazily draped over the side of the marble tub, a vision of holy indulgence.
I slipped into the water beside him, letting the heat draw the sins from my bones like smoke from incense.
"Do you regret it yet?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not even slightly."
His lips met mine, warm and honeyed. He climbed into my lap with practiced grace, one leg on each side, water lapping at our waists. I slid my hands up his back, drawing him closer, feeling the soft curve of his hips under silk-thin skin.
"Say it again," I murmured.
"I'm yours."
I held him, trembling and radiant, and realized something horrifying.
I was starting to care.
Gods help me.