There are few sensations in life more delicious than waking up in silk sheets that smell like three different sins and the faintest hint of incense. My body ached in that glorious, post-carnal way that made me stretch like a pampered cat. The masquerade had been a success. Too successful, perhaps.
Roderick stormed into my room just as I was contemplating whether to masturbate or summon breakfast first. His boots thudded across the carpet like the judgment of an angry saint. He still had blood on his shirt, soot on his boots, and a grimace that could curdle cream. Clearly somebody had been losing sleep.
"You absolute swine," he growled. "Do you know what you did last night?"
"Several people," I said helpfully, brushing a few golden feathers off my shoulder. "Though I’ve lost count after the priestess."
He threw a bundle of cloth at me. It hit my chest with a damp slap.
"That," he hissed, "was her cassock."
"Oh. I thought it smelled familiar." I pulled it close and sniffed dramatically. "Mmm. Sanctified debauchery."
Roderick turned the color of overripe tomatoes. "Cecil. That was Lysaria. High priestess of the Southern Sun Cult. She has a council seat."
The Southern Sun Cult were the rivals to the current sect of the church targeting me so such a development was to be expected. Hearing that she held a seat among the council, however, was a surprising revelation. I blinked. Then blinked again. Then smirked.
"I do have excellent taste."
"You marked her didn’t you?"
Roderick began pacing the room like a thundercloud stuffed into a tabard. "You don’t understand. Lysaria was one of the last spiritual figureheads with power. And now—"
"Now she, sorry, he’s radiant and slightly more interested in lipstick than liturgy?"
Roderick stopped, seething. "You changed her."
I leaned back against the headboard, draping the cassock across my lap like a trophy. "Technically, the marking did that. It’s inner workings are funny like that—they reflect desire. And Lysaria had a lot of buried desire."
He looked like he might throw something. Or himself.
"She’s...he’s not even hiding it now," Roderick muttered. "You turned a council priestess into a lace-wearing flirt with eyeliner."
"Doesn’t he wear it well?"
Roderick let out a noise somewhere between a scream and a prayer. I would have consoled him—perhaps with a shoulder massage or a sensual lecture on the theology of self-actualization—but I was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Enter, if you’re gorgeous or bring pastries!"
The door creaked open to reveal both. Lysaria stood there, draped in a sheer robe of golden silk that shimmered with every step. His short curls framed what seemed to be a face softer now, even more delicate than before when he was still female—his jawline smoothed, his lips fuller, the marking’s influence having pulled the previous femininity from somewhere deep inside her and set it shimmering on the surface.
He carried a tray of sugared figs and almond bread. His earrings chimed like little bells as he moved.
"Only if you sit on my face again."
"Cecil!" Roderick barked.
Lysaria smiled demurely. "I see he’s still upset."
"He’ll manage. He always does."
He stepped inside and set the tray down beside me. I leaned forward, caught his wrist, and pressed a kiss to his palm.
"To what do I owe the divine visitation, my golden fox?"
"I’ve come to pledge myself."
I blinked again. "To the cause, I hope. Or to my bed. Though either is acceptable."
He sat beside me, smoothing his skirt over crossed legs. "The Southern Sun Cult has grown corrupt. I’ve lost control over its lower divisions. It whispers of purges and divine fire, fearing places because they give people joy, much like your current enemies."
For a rare moment, I was silent.
"I’ve also lost my seat in the council...and rightfully so. Stuffy bunch of bastards they were." He paused for a moment before speaking softly. "I want in," he said. "Let me help you bring down the church."
My lips curled. "Welcome to the Velvet Court, darling."
Roderick left in a huff, muttering about divine plagues and early retirement.
Later that day, we gathered the core team in the reading room. Salem, Rodrick, Elian, Miko, Jules, Marius, Ash, and now Lysaria. He’d changed into crimson lace by then, fitting in disturbingly well—though Elian was already muttering about fashion competition.
For extra measure, I read over our plan once more.
Elian raised a hand. "What happens if we’re caught?"
"We seduce our way out or die spectacularly, simple, absolutely no room for complications."
Salem sighed. "That’s your solution to everything."
"And has it ever failed me?"
Marius muttered, "Once. That bishop in Norwyn."
"He died smiling. That still counts as a win."
Jules nodded. "It was in the official report."
That evening, I found Lysaria in the bathhouse, steam curling around him like sacramental mist. His skin glowed beneath the candlelight—his collar still bore the faint shimmer of the mark, but his presence had changed entirely. He reclined with one leg lazily draped over the side of the marble tub, a vision of holy indulgence.
I slipped into the water beside him, letting the heat draw the sins from my bones like smoke from incense.
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not even slightly."
His lips met mine, warm and honeyed. He climbed into my lap with practiced grace, one leg on each side, water lapping at our waists. I slid my hands up his back, drawing him closer, feeling the soft curve of his hips under silk-thin skin.
"Say it again," I murmured.
I held him, trembling and radiant, and realized something horrifying.
I was starting to care.