Before he wore the collar, he wore sin like a second skin.
Luca Devereaux was the kind of man women whispered about in half-lit cafés and regretted in the morning. With a face sculpted like a fallen angel and a mouth that made promises his body never failed to keep, Luca had tasted temptation in all its forms—and served it back twice as hard. Clubs, hotel rooms, the back seats of sleek black cars—he moved through them like a shadow, untouchable, unforgettable.
That was three years ago.
Now, he wakes before dawn in a stone-cold rectory, his fingertips brushing rosary beads instead of lace lingerie. Every morning, he kneels. Every day, he prays. And every night, he fights the memories that still burn beneath the surface.
No one in the quiet town of St. Martel truly knows who Father Luca once was. Not until she arrives—Arielle—a woman with fire in her eyes and a secret that could unravel the fragile salvation he's built.
And maybe, just maybe, damn them both.
The church bell tolled six times. Sharp. Hollow. A reminder.
Luca stood in front of the cracked mirror above the basin, fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw. The collar sat neatly folded on the windowsill. He didn't wear it until after prayer—it felt dishonest, otherwise.
Outside, the town was still. The kind of still that only belonged to small places with old names. St. Martel hadn't changed in decades, and that's why he chose it. It asked no questions. It offered no indulgences.
The sanctuary was already lit by the morning sun, slanting through stained glass and spilling crimson and gold over the pews. Luca stepped inside, his boots echoing off the ancient stone floor. He liked this time. Before the confessions. Before the eyes.
Before the reminders.
He knelt, bone to wood, and tried to silence the ache. But some ghosts didn't fear holy ground.
And then she came in.
He didn't hear the door open—just felt the shift in the air. A presence. Feminine. Familiar, though impossibly so.
He rose slowly, his body tensing as he turned.
She was standing in the aisle, haloed by light through the doorway, her long coat unbuttoned, her black dress clinging like a whisper. A suitcase sat beside her, as if she had nowhere else to go.
"Arielle?" he said her name like a prayer—and a curse.
She smiled, the corners of her mouth turning with a softness he hadn't seen in years. "Hello, Father."
The word cut deeper than she probably meant it to.
Luca stared at her, the collar still in his hand, not yet worn. And in that moment, all he could think of was the night they said goodbye—her nails in his back, her voice in his ear, and the blood-red sunrise that followed.
He had left that life. Buried it under scripture and silence.
But Arielle was never the kind of woman you buried.
She was the kind you burned for.