The first time Mara returns, she wears red lipstick.

Not coral. Not rose. Red—deep, sinful, and deliberately smeared at the edges like a warning. Or an invitation.

It’s not church-appropriate.

But then again, Mara stopped caring about appropriateness the moment Father Elijah whispered, Tell me everything.

She walks slower this time. Like a woman in command of her own damnation. Her heels click against the marble, each step echoing like a challenge—daring the saints in the stained ...