Lucien turned.
Not like a man.
Like a beast whose leash just snapped.
His chest heaved once, then went still. His stare locked on the priestess like she wasn’t holy, wasn’t sacred, wasn’t s**t.
Just meat draped in velvet. And she felt it. The shift. The danger. Her throat tightened. Her hands twitched like they were deciding between prayer and survival.
Lucien moved toward her with slow, murderous grace.
“You think you can stand there and f*****g speak?” he snarled. “In my temple. After what I just did. After the altar’s still soaked in my c*m and your Moon didn’t stop a f*****g thing?”
His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It crawled up her spine like fire. Made the air burn in her lungs.
He didn’t stop walking. He got close. Too close. Until his chest brushed her robes.
