Page 1 of Wicked Believer

Chapter One

Charlotte

People love to make heroes and villains out of ordinary men.

I stare down at my father’s coffin, the black lacquered casket gleaming. His supporters shout in the distance, which in the middle of a dusky Kansas cornfield means it’s impossible to tell who the protesters are and who are paparazzi, but still, I refuse to look at them, pretending to listen to my father’s eulogy. The autumn air outside is cold. Frigid and wet. Cold enough my high-heeled toes are nearly as numb as I feel. But I don’t need to hear the minister’s prayers to know exactly where my father’s heading.

Lucifer will make sure of that, even if I ask him not to.

I don’t ask.

I feel his smooth hand in mine, his tall frame looming at my side. Lucifer’s dark gaze levels on the minister in an expression that’s supposed to appear solemn, or so it seems. Ever since I went to work as an intern for his company several months ago, I’ve belonged to him, and he to me. Or so I thought, until recently.

Now I’m starting to think Lucifer might belong to no one. Least of all me.

He feels my gaze on him then, his dark eyes flicking toward me as the corner of his mouth curls. “Eyes forward, Charlotte.”

Like a good girl, I do as I’m told, turning back to the minister as I whisper, “Yes, sir.”

Lucifer’s grip on my hand tightens, his thumb caressing my skin in approval. He may not be my boss anymore, but he’s never had to give me a paycheck for me to call himsir. I’ve been his submissive since long before I understood what that word truly means. But being his completely, irrevocably, suits me.

Though these days, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my doubts.

“Would you like to say a few words?”

I blink, suddenly realizing that the minister’s speaking to me. I’m the only surviving member of my father’s family, after all, not to mention the closest thing to a mortal here, aside from the so-called minister, at least. Whoever he is, I’m pretty sure he’s no more a preacher than I am a virgin, but with the obscene amount of money Lucifer’s paying him, he’ll be whatever we need him to be.

Reluctantly, I step forward, shuffling past the gathered line of mourners, which consists of a few paid pallbearers, and the Original sinners. Lucifer, Azmodeus, Leviathan, Satan, Belphegor, Beelzebub, and Mammon. Or “Mimi,” as she insists I call her. Pride, Lust, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Gluttony, and Greed, respectively.

It’s a rare sight, all seven of them together like this. These days they prefer to live topside. In New York City. Though currently we’re a far cry from home.

I hurry past them, trying hard not to make eye contact, though I can feel their gazes on me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I’m fairly certain if it weren’t for Lucifer, I’d be dead before morning.

But for all the cruel games they play, Lucifer’s siblings fall in line easily, each of them keeping their distance as I head toward the podium. They know better than to risk Lucifer’s fury, for today at least. Things are different now that Lucifer gifted their Father’s redemption to me. I’m no longer their brother’s harmless mortal plaything.

Now I’m something else entirely.

Not that we’ve figured out what, exactly.

I step onto the makeshift pulpit beside my father’s grave. A few extravagant bouquets of narcissus flowers wait for me alongside several large photographs of me and my father. The pictures make me look like the ever-dutiful daughter I once tried to be. The daughter Iwasfor the first twenty-three years of my life. Before I decided I no longer wanted to be Daddy’s broken little girl.

Now I serve a different kind of villain.

I glance toward Lucifer, my stomach fluttering the moment our eyes meet in a way that’s all too familiar. The nod he gives me is meant to be supportive, encouraging, but still, it makes my knees go weak. I can’t help but imagine what wicked things he’s thinking—maybe how I’d taste on his honeyed tongue. Like he hasn’t already claimed me in every way imaginable. Though with him, I’m always eager for more. We’re insatiable, really.

Sex has never been our problem.

I swallow down the longing that thought sparks in my chest before my gaze flits from him out toward the waiting crowd. It’s a motley crew from three distinct sources. My father’s congregants—members of the Righteous, the far-right fundamentalist hate group my oh-so-loving preacher for a dad founded to spite me. Then there are Lucifer’s fans and mine, our supporters. And finally, the true bottom-feeders, the paparazzi who stalk us endlessly.

From here, it’s hard at first to tell any of them apart. In the twilight, the flashes of their cameras nearly blind me. But despite the fact that I’m here at the funeral of the one man whoshouldhave protected me, several of their signs are clearly meant to hurt me.

Little whore.

That’s one of the Righteous’s favorites.

Followed byBride of Satan.