Page 1 of Godless Saints

CHAPTER 1

MOON

What in the actual fuck is Cillian Ashbourne doing inside Evermourne’s cathedral?

High stone vaults swallowed the light. Rain drummed against the stained glass in uneven bursts. The air smelled of old incense and cold stone.

A brutal thud punched behind my sternum. Look away. I couldn’t. Emerald eyes locked onto mine. Dark, wavy hair fell slightly too long for the occasion, brushing a sharp jaw. The black suit was open at the collar, no tie, silver chains glinting against the ink climbing his throat. He tilted his head, and those dimples carved into his cheeks.

Wonderful. One tattooed Irish bastard ruining my optics in the first five minutes of term. My hands clenched. Nails bit into my palms. Sweat slid down my spine while every masked face in the gallery waited for one sign of weakness. All because this Irish menace stood ten feet away.

Maybe he forgot.

The lie died the second those eyes pinned me across the nave. Of course he remembered. Saint Lucia. One stupid night. He hadn't looked away. Great. Every swallow scraped. If the nausea would just finish the job.

Legacy first. Always. I was already failing it.

Fabric shifted. Wood creaked as he moved. I stared at the altar and refused to look, refused to give him the satisfaction. Too late. I already had.

Grant Ellington went rigid beside me. His shoulder pressed closer. Cillian stopped at our pew.

“This section’s reserved,” Grant said, shifting closer until his arm brushed mine.

“Move.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Cillian leaned in and said something too quietly for me to hear. Grant’s face drained of color. He stood without another word and left.

Just like that. Cillian sat against me. Thick thigh pressed into mine. Two fingers drummed once against his knee, then went still. My cock twitched against the wool. I’m in public. In a cathedral. One visible reaction and the rumors would start before I made it outside.

“Island prince.” His fingers found the nape of my neck, then slid up slowly into my hair.

“Wrong Court.” Evermourne sorted us into four Courts. Aster. Thorn. Vesper. Dahlia. I was Aster. Cillian had landed in Thorn. That explained a fucking lot. I shifted an inch. He followed. Same inch. His thigh pressed harder into mine. “People are watching.”

Most of the students were focused on the speaker. But not all. Here and there, a few heads turned. A few eyes lingered. Enough. Blood roared in my ears.

“Let them,” he said, fingers threading deeper through my hair. Still gentle, until he leaned in and tightened his grip hard enough to pull my head back.

One wrong glance and someone would understand exactly what was happening. Shame burned hot up my neck.

Let them watch.

I was already fucked.

He felt it. Of course he did.

The same bastard who once watched me unravel in a hotel room now had the entire gallery as an audience.

“You’re going to let me do this in front of all of them, aren’t you, prince?” His fingers released my hair. Stroked down my neck again. Goosebumps broke out across my skin.

“You look tense.”

I looked straight ahead. “Remove your hand. And the thigh. Tension might resolve itself.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against my ear. Settled deeper into the pew. “You wound me.”