Chapter 5 The Devil's Morning Service

Lillian was pulled from sleep by the soft, rhythmic friction of fabric.

There was no blinding headache, no soul-crushing heat. The bed beneath her was as soft as a cloud of spun sugar, and the duvet carried that intoxicating, grounding scent of frost and cedarwood. She nuzzled into the pillow instinctively, until a sharp, heavy tug at her throat jolted her awake.

Clink.

The sound of the Cold-Iron chain striking the bedpost echoed through the room.

The memories rushed back like a tidal wave: the rainy night, the overload, Linus Kerr, and this gods-forsaken collar. Lillian snapped her eyes open and bolted upright.

The oversized white shirt she wore slid off one shoulder, exposing a pale, rounded curve of skin. She didn't think to cover herself, however, because her gaze was instantly arrested by the man in the room.

The morning light sliced through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains like a grey blade, bisecting the dim bedroom. At the threshold of light and shadow stood Linus Kerr, his back to her, shirtless.

He was dressing.

It was a profoundly private moment, yet Lillian found herself unable to look away. It wasn't merely the perfection of his physique-though his back was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, broad shoulders tapering into a lean, lethal waist.

It was the scars.

Across that marble-pale skin, a lattice of ancient whip marks intersected with jagged, angry welts. Some had faded into thin silver lines; others remained a brutal, raised pink. They looked like a grotesque spiderweb woven across the back of the Church's most feared hunter.

Lillian was a healer. She knew immediately that these were not the result of a single battle. This was the work of years-the systematic anatomy of punishment and penance.

The "Hound of the Church," feared by every living soul in Pyre City, was himself a victim of a much larger, more institutionalized violence.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Linus paused.

He didn't rush to cover himself. He reached for a black, high-collared undershirt and pulled it on with a slow, deliberate grace, hiding the scars from view. Then came the meticulously tailored vest, the silver cufflinks, and finally, the heavy, midnight-black trench coat.

The process was ritualistic. He was arming himself, piece by piece, forging himself back into the cold-blooded instrument of the Church.

"Have you seen enough?"

Linus turned, fastening the silver button at his throat as he fixed her with an icy stare. The lethargy of the night had vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp intensity that seemed to suck the air from the room.

Lillian clutched the duvet, her cheeks flushing. "Those scars..." The words escaped before she could catch them.

"The price of faith," Linus interrupted, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. "A pittance paid for clarity."

He walked to the edge of the bed, looming over her. After a night of being suppressed by the Cold-Iron, the crimson flush of her fever had faded, leaving her skin like porcelain. Framed by her tangled silver hair, she looked like a piece of shattered, exquisite art.

Linus narrowed his eyes and tossed a black velvet box onto the mattress. "Put it on."

Lillian opened the box. Inside was a floor-length dress of deep emerald velvet. It was a vintage, conservative cut-high collar, long sleeves-but the waist was cinched with a brutal precision. It was the kind of fabric and color worn only by the aristocrats of the Beacon District.

"Where are my clothes?" Lillian frowned.

"Burned," Linus said, turning toward the door. "I don't keep beggars in my house. Since you are now my 'private property,' you will look the part."

He paused at the door, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the frame.

"Ten minutes. Breakfast is downstairs. Unless you'd like me to burn that shirt as well."

Ten minutes later, in the dining hall.

Breakfast was a suffocatingly silent affair. At the head of a mahogany table that seemed miles long, Linus sat reading the Morning Gazette. Lillian had been placed at his right hand-the traditional seat of a lady of the house, or a favored mistress.

The table was laden with delicacies: crisp bacon, soft-boiled eggs, perfectly browned toast, and a pot of rich, aromatic black coffee.

Lillian was starving. The magic overload had incinerated her energy reserves. But then she looked at the Cold-Iron chain dangling from her neck.

The other end of the chain had been looped and locked around a heavy silver candelabra.

He had leashed her like a dog.

The humiliation killed her appetite. She picked up a piece of toast, nibbling at it with a vacant stare.

"Not to your taste?" Linus asked, not looking up from his paper.

"Even a condemned prisoner has their shackles removed for meals," Lillian pointed out coldly. "Besides, this makes it difficult to swallow."

"It is there to remind you of your place." Linus took a sip of his coffee, his gaze sweeping over the high collar of her dress that hid his mark. "And if I were you, Miss Wylde, I would eat the meat. Where we are going, it isn't wise to have an empty stomach."

Lillian froze. "Where are we going?"

"The morgue."

Linus pulled a gold-edged envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. Lillian picked it up. The wax seal featured a burning briar-the personal sigil of General Malles, the High Inquisitor.

"My son, Linus: I hear you have detained a common apothecary as a witness. Heretics are cunning. If, by sunset today, she cannot provide new leads from the petrified corpse, I shall personally oversee the purification of her soul by fire for the sake of the Church."

The handwriting was elegant, yet it reeked of blood.

Lillian's fingers trembled. "It seems your superior isn't convinced."

"Malles trusts no one," Linus said, slicing into a poached egg. The yolk ran out like a pool of golden blood. "He suspects I've been blinded by your charms and am sheltering a heretic."

He flicked his gaze to her, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk. "A ridiculous accusation... and yet, you are a nuisance."

Lillian tossed the letter back onto the table. "So, I'm not just your prisoner-I'm your human shield?"

"More than that."

Linus set his cutlery down and wiped his mouth with a silk napkin. He rose and walked behind her. Lillian tensed, her breath hitching.

He unhooked the chain from the candelabra, coiling the cold iron into his palm, and gave it a sharp, authoritative tug.

Lillian was forced to tilt her head back, her crown resting against the hard plane of his stomach.

"You are my 'Alchemical Consultant,' and my 'Trophy'," Linus whispered into her ear, his voice laced with a dark, dangerous pleasure.

"From the moment we walk through those doors, you will play the part. You will prove to everyone that the contents of that pretty little head are worth more than any magic."

"And if you fail..."

His fingers traced the copper button at her throat, sending a fresh jolt of electricity through her.

"...Malles's pyre will turn you to ash. And I might just stand by and enjoy the show."

"Do we understand each other, my Nightingale?"

Lillian bit her lip until she tasted copper.

"I understand," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Lead the way, Master."

Linus raised an eyebrow at the title, clearly savouring the weight of it. He gave the chain a sudden, sharp jerk, pulling her up from her chair.

"Let's go. It's time to visit your patient-the man made of stone."