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Summary
Marika has never left the temple. Raised behind white marble and sealed devotion, she is the high priestess of the Celestial Orthodoxy. Sacred. Untouched. Kept apart from the world and wrapped in linen and prayer and the golden hum of gods who have loved her since birth.
Seraphiel is her high priest. Her protector. Her oldest friend, and the only warmth she has ever known.
On the night of her twenty-fifth birthday, he paints the temple in blood.
She wakes naked on a ruined altar, bound in invisible chains, surrounded by the wreckage of everything she believed in. The statues are shattered. The faithful are dead. The gods have gone silent.
And the man left standing wears the same hands that once made her feel safe.
Marika will fight him. Hate him. Swear she will never kneel.
But her prayers go unanswered, and his hands feel like the only holy thing left.