Page 92 of Hunted to the Altar

Inside, in the dim shadows of the crate, was her.

Stormy.

The girl I saved when we rescued Nina, then promptly abandoned to Samuel’s reign. I hadn’t seen her around as I tried to forget that, as I drank away my sorrows here in Italy. But now she was here.

The girl I tried to stay away from.

Curled up on the floor like a forgotten offering to a god that didn’t answer prayers. Her wrists were bound in thick leather cuffs, ankles chained to the bottom slats. But even in captivity, she didn’t look weak.

She looked furious.

Her skin was deep mahogany, glowing despite the dirt smudging her jawline. A bruise bloomed just below her collarbone, ugly and fresh, but it only made her look more real—more lethal. Her goddess braids had been shoved into a loose ponytail, frizzed and disheveled, but the crown of her head still carried defiance like it was stitched into her DNA.

She lifted her chin slowly. Her eyes found mine, dark and unreadable.

Not broken.

Not pleading.

The air shifted. My pulse did too. No one told me she’d be delivered like this.No one told me she’d be delivered to me. And no one warned me what it would feel like to see her again.

The girl I tried to forget.

The girl who should’ve stayed gone. Stormy didn’t speak.She never did and I wasn’t sure if she could. There was a note stapled to her chest. I slowly walked inside and pulled it off her, my heart rate skyrocketing from the threat.

They’re coming for her. –C

Only the Don signed like this. Which meant he had Stormy. For how long? I wasn’t certain. But from the heat flashing through me, I didn’t like it one bit. She would stay here with me.

As a nun.

I imagined her in a habit and my cock swelled in my slacks. The first real emotion I’d felt since Samuel punished me. I bit my lips trailing my eyes down her body. It didn’t matter that she was emaciated, I could visualize what she would look like.

I’d saw her the way my mind had twisted her in my dreams—healthy, full, untouched by chains or filth or hunger. Standing in front of me not like this... but whole. Back arched with dignity, lips parted in silent prayer, eyes wide and begging—not from fear, but from some desperate, unspeakable need.

She’d be cloaked in that sacred habit I gave her, trying to make her holy, trying to make her safe. But on her, even devotion looked like a dare.

Her skin would be rich and glowing, kissed by sun instead of starved of it. Her goddess braids would gleam like obsidian, neatly wound beneath her veil, though I’d imagine fisting them, ruining every inch of that order.

And those eyes...

God help me.

Those eyes would plead with me the same way they were now—but not for mercy. No, if she were standing healthy and whole before me, she’d beg me not to break her... while knowing damn well she’d already broken me.

And I’d sin for her all over again.

I could feel it rising in me. Hunger. Heat. Something older than reason, darker than control.

My throat tightened, the scripture from childhood crawling out of some corner I thought I’d buried:

“Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

—Matthew 26:41, KJV

And mine had always been the weakest of all.