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Prologue - Lunetta

The room is still like a chapel after confession. There’s nothing here but the bed beneath me. No mirror, no wardrobe, no lamps. No window to the outside world. Just four pale walls, clean and bare.

The floor is polished marble, pale gray and cold beneath my bare feet. The ceiling overhead is high, vaulted, almost cathedral-like, and yet there is no grace here. Only emptiness. A single overhead bulb hums faintly.

The bed is large, its white linens stretched tight and smooth around the mattress, untouched—except where I sit, staining it with my sweat, with the dirt smeared across my skin and the blood drying on my lip. The pristine sheets are rumpled beneath my thighs, damp from the feverish heat of my body, a stark contrast to the untouched order surrounding me.

I’m a blemish on this room. A filthy stain on white.

The red dress clings to me, soaked through at the back. The neckline is torn—ripped just beneath my collarbone—exposing the curve of my breast, the edge of my bra, the vulnerable swell of skin that shouldn’t be seen. One strap dangles off my shoulder. The other is barely holding on, and my chest rises and falls too quickly with every breath, making the torn fabric shift more.

My thighs are pressed together. My fingers dig into the mattress on either side of me. And my lips won’t stop moving.

"Sanctifica me, Domine…" I murmur, my voice trembling. "Cleanse my mind, my flesh. Forgive me these thoughts that fester in the dark. Take them from me, Lord. Burn them from my bones."

I close my eyes tightly, trying to still the memories, to banish the heat still simmering in my blood, the way my body shuddered beneath his hands, the way I moaned—moaned—for him.

"Forgive me for the hunger… for the ache… for the cries You must have heard from my lips. I am Yours, not his. I belong to Your light, not his shadow."

My voice breaks. My prayer falters for a moment—but I keep going.

"Sanctify me… cleanse me. I didn’t want it. I didn’t mean to…"

God help me, I didn’t mean to.

The door clicks, and the soft metallic sound makes me freeze.

My fingers tighten around the twisted rosary on my wrist, the beads pressing into my skin, grounding me in pain. I feel him before I see him.

The air in the room grows heavier, darker, charged with sin. Leather soles brush the floor in unhurried steps.

Each one echoes across the marble.

He is tall. Towering. Dressed in tailored black from throat to ankle, a long dark coat resting across his broad shoulders like the wings of a fallen angel. His shirt is crisp beneath the lapels, a few buttons undone, exposing a line of hard, tanned chest and the faintest dusting of dark hair.

His face is cut from stone—high cheekbones, sharp jawline dusted in faint stubble, lips full and unsmiling. And his eyes… those eyes.

Cold steel. Pale gray with flecks of gold, like molten metal trapped in frost. They are locked on me, and my heart stumbles.

He watches me for a moment, head tilted, amused by the sight of me—bruised, disheveled, praying in a room he designed to break people in.

The closer he gets, the smaller I feel, like the very air around me bends to make space for him.

I clutch the sheets tighter, my lips still whispering prayers.

"Domine, libera me… deliver me from his hands. From his eyes. From my shame."

He stops right in front of me. I can feel his shadow falling over me. He kneels—lowering himself to my level with the kind of grace that should be gentle, but never is with him.

His coat pools around his knees. His knees brush mine. His face is close now—so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek.

He leans in.

His nose brushes my face, then drifts lower.

He inhales me, his lips almost grazing my skin.

I shut my eyes and I continue my prayer. Louder now. Desperate.