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theegoldenchild · 11 days ago

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Chapter Five: The Devils Tongue (Part 1)

Warnings: Smoke is horny | Stack is horny | Sera is horny | I am horny

Whispers through Mississippi started slow, the way southern rumors always did. Nothing more than a tilt of the head and a hushed breath passed between hands full of laundry or mouths full of honey butter cornbread.

“They say they bringin’ music out to the north field…”

“One of them juke joints… with dancers and shine and God knows what else…”

“Right behind the preacher’s house, Lord have mercy…”

Sera heard them all. At church. At the water pump. Through the walls when her father met with the deacons. The same words repeated like scripture passed down the wrong way.

The SmokeStack twins were opening a juke joint, and not just anywhere. Not thirty miles up the road like they said they would. Not on neutral ground with enough distance to keep peace in the state. But right there. On the north field. A heartbeat away from her father’s back porch. Like a slap in the face to Pastor Samuel.

And legally? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Because that land… the north field… was no longer his. Smoke and Stack had drawn up papers before the battle and slipped them in the mouth of war like a knife beneath a blessing. Pastor Samuel had signed off on it, too proud or too desperate to read the fine print. It was theirs now. All of it.

Sera stood in front of the open window of her upstairs bedroom, watching the transformation unfold in the distance. She hadn’t been outside in weeks due her restricted freedom and the schedule of a housewife with no husband. She scrubbed. She stitched. She read. She prayed. She was finally being seen as good again.

She didn’t allow her hands to touch herself anymore. It was a one time occurrence even though the protective shadow stood outside her door every night waiting for more. Instead of giving in she would sit on her hands until they went numb. The only true form of relief she received was when she went to sleep. It was the only time she felt free enough to let the twins cloud her mind without judgment.

But now… the world was moving again, just beyond the edge of the tree line. Where once there was wild grass and silence, there were now men. Men building a frame out of reclaimed wood and intention. Men hammering under the sun, smoking cigarettes and singing in low voices while Stack strutted across the foundation like a carnival ringleader. His suspenders hung loose at his hips, white button-down open at the collar, gold tooth flashing every time he tossed his head back and laughed.

Sera watched as he pulled a flask from his pocket and toasted a man twice his size. He wasn’t helping, just directing. Giving out orders with a grin that suggested he was halfway drunk and still the smartest man on the field.

Smoke, on the other hand, worked in silence. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, his undershirt clinging to the hard shape of his back as he dragged barrels of supplies from their truck. No smiles. No jokes. Just labor.

Downstairs, Pastor Samuel paced the parlor like a man waiting for fire to walk through the door. “They mean to shame me,” he murmured under his breath, hands clenched behind his back. “To tempt God right on holy land!” He stopped in front of the window and scowled out toward the north field. “Liquor. Dancing. Woman’s legs flashing under red lights. Music that stirs sin up from the bones.”

“Then why sell them the land?” one of the deacons asked.

Samuel’s jaw tensed. “They didn’t say nothin’ about this when they signed. Said it was temporary. Said they just needed it for defense.”

“They defendin’ something now,” another deacon sighed. “Their right to party, I reckon.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Samuel broke it with a slam of his fist on the window frame. “They’ll burn in hell for what they’re doing!”

That night, when Sera crept out of bed and pulled back the curtain again, the bones of the juke joint had been raised. The walls stood. The dance floor was built. And a glowing sign leaned against the steps, freshly painted in blue and red:

The Devil’s Tongue

The name itself felt like a dare. A joke that clung to her skin like cigarette smoke she wished to smell again. She touched the window glass, fingers lingering. She couldn’t hear the music yet. Couldn’t smell the liquor or see the women in low-cut dresses. But she felt it somehow. A slow, wild heartbeat starting to stir beneath the soil. One that matched her own.

The heat never left Mississippi, not even when the sun gave up and the stars pulled their blanket across the sky. It clung to the ground like sweat to skin, curling into the roots and pressing against windows like a watchful ghost.

Sera stood barefoot on her back porch, fingers clutching an empty pail, her eyes fixed on the silent well pump. It had coughed and sputtered all morning and now it was nothing but a rusted hunk of metal. Dry, breathless, useless. Just like yesterday. And the day before that… And the day before that…

She shifted, looking out past the trees toward the north field. The juke joint was almost finished with lanterns that glowed in the distance like a row of watchful eyes, flickering against the frame of the new structure. She could hear hammers still ringing out in the distance and the low thrum of voices too far away to decipher.

Her stomach turned in knots. She shouldn’t go. She knew she shouldn’t. But her skin itched with the stick of the day. Sweat clung beneath her arms, behind her knees, at the curve of her back where the cotton of her dress stuck like sin. Her hair, pinned tight beneath her scarf, felt heavy with dust and oil. She needed a bath. But she needed forgiveness more. And so she made herself pure the only way she knew how before walking into the lion's den.

She layered her body in silence. First, a slip, plain and soft, yellowed with age. Then, the second dress, brown, thick muslin with sleeves that reached past her wrists and a collar that scratched against her throat. Then, a third, black, starched and long, hanging loose down to her ankles. It swallowed her whole.

She took a black scarf and wrapped her curly hair tightly, then draped another across the lower half of her face. All that was left were her eyes. A pair of tired honey orbs that flicked to the heavens one last time. “Lord, please don’t let no one see me.”

The pail creaked in her hand as she stepped off the porch and began the slow walk toward the north field. The woods whispered around her as she moved, branches brushed her shoulders while grass crunched underfoot. The trees thinned the closer she got, replaced by an open field and smoke curling upward from the juke joint chimney. She stayed to the edge where the shadows were thickest. Somehow the pail felt heavier the closer she came.

Laughter drifted across the breeze and boots scraped against wood. She saw them now, men sitting on crates and barrels, some smoking, some drinking, some talking low with the slack confidence of those who knew they owned the night. Sera kept her head bowed, steps slow and cautious, skirts rustling as they brushed her ankles.

“Now what’s this?” one man called out, voice slurred with liquor. “Ain’t that the damn preacher’s girl?”

She stopped dead in her tracks like a deer caught in headlights.

Another man leaned forward, squinting at her. “Lord have mercy, she look like she tryin’ to scare the devil himself in all that black.”

A low ripple of laughter erupted amongst the men and her eyes stayed on the ground. She moved again, feet whispering across the dirt with embarrassment latching onto her like a second skin.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouths or I’ll slit your throats and use them vocal cords for catfish bait.” That voice didn’t laugh. And it didn’t have to. Smoke was tucked off in a corner sitting on a crate and watched Sera’s every step. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t even stand from the crate he was resting on. All he had to do was turn his head towards his men, give them a look, and silence followed.

Sera reached the water pump, hands shaking like a leaf as she tried to make the water come out. Her eyes darted once towards the porch just long enough to see the slant of Smoke’s jaw under the red lantern glow and the way he watched her.

Stack appeared from inside the juke and leaned against a post, arms crossed with the glint of his gold tooth flashing beneath his smirk. “Pretty girl… my little dove… we missed you,” he drawled. “You goin’ to a funeral, or tryin’ not to tempt a soul on God’s green earth dressed in all that black?”

Like always the sound of Stacks voice caught Sera off guard and her hands jerked the handle too hard. Water splashed everywhere, soaking through all three of her dresses and the cold water clung to her now wet stomach. Her cheeks flamed. “I’m just gettin’ water Mr. Stack,” she mumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

Stack said nothing as he stepped off the porch with an unhurried and deliberate movement. He closed the distance between himself and Sera, merging their shadows together under the moonlight. His fingers came up slow, the way a wolf would approach a skittish rabbit. No rush. No threat. Just intent.

And for some reason Sera didn’t flinch when his hand touched her scarf. But she did stop breathing for a moment. Delicately, he slid his fingers beneath the scarf that covered her face and loosened the knot at the back. The cotton slipped under his touch and the damp air kissed her skin as he drew the scarf away and dropped it into her trembling hands.

“There,” he whispered, voice deep and soft. “That’s better.”

Soon as the scarf came off she diverted her eyes away from him. Everything about this was too intimate and Sera wrestled with the idea of touching herself again tonight. Her lips were red and full from biting them too much. And Stack couldn’t help himself. He lifted her chin and guided his thumb over her swollen bottom lip… just once. Her shoulders twitched at the contact, and she gasped so quietly it almost sounded like a moan.

“Too pretty to stay hidden, little dove,” he said. “It’s a sin, really. Coverin’ all this up like God didn’t take His time makin’ you.”

Behind them, Smoke stilled completely. Not a muscle moved. His eyes were locked on Stack’s hand on Sera's lips. And the way her body stiffened before quivering under the weight of attention she’d never been taught how to carry.

“I—my daddy says…” she stammered, eyes flicking toward the pump like it might save her.

“That nigga says a lotta things,” Stack chuckled, stepping just slightly to the side still holding her chin and forcing her to face him. “And I bet you ain’t ever questioned a single one.”

Sera made eye contact then, just for a second. Enough for Stack to see her eyes, all stormy and lost. Like he was driving a ship filled with her emotions and could guide her back to shore.

“You don’t gotta answer to no man out here,” he rasped. “’Cept’ maybe us.”

“Stack,” Smoke finally warned before walking near the two of them.

Stack didn’t take his eyes off Sera. His voice dropped to a murmur, almost sweet. “I’m just admirin’ her, Elijah. A man can’t enjoy lookin’ at his woman?”

Sera blinked as her mind started racing a million miles a minute. His woman? Stack was claiming her as HIS woman? And that name…. Elijah. It tangled in her thoughts like a loose thread. It felt sacred and forbidden.

“…Elijah,” she whispered, tasting it like something sweet she wasn’t supposed to have. “Is that really your name?”

Behind her, the pump creaked once in the wind. The lantern’s glow flickered on the porch and casted both twins in molten amber. Stack turned his head just slightly, watching the chaos he created unfold. He knew better than to say Smoke's real name, but seeing his older brother lose his composure around Sera was becoming entertaining.

Smoke moved without speaking before standing beside his brother—broad shoulders brushing Stack’s, both of them now a wall of muscle and firelight.

They weren’t in their suits tonight. Just white undershirts clinging to sweat-slick coca butter skin. Broad chests rising steady and deep. The cotton stretched tight across every sharp line… hard work and violence carved into the shape of two men who didn’t belong to God or the law.

And Sera… she couldn’t help it. Her eyes wandered. First to Stack’s chest… then to Smoke’s stomach. The way his shirt clung to the lines carved just above his hips. The faint dusting of dark hair there. She quickly looked away and mentally prayed to the high heavens.

“You don’t say my name like that,” Smoke said suddenly, voice sharp enough to snap her attention back to his eyes.

He stepped closer, just enough to greedily capture her full attention. And then his hand came up. The same hand that has been infiltrating her dreams for weeks. He took her chin from Stack like passing a torch, holding her face now between his own fingers. And gently his thumb dragged across her bottom lip.

A shiver rolled down her spine and Smoke’s eyes didn’t move. “That name’s dangerous in your mouth,” he warned, thumb still teasing the seam of her lips. “You say it again and I might forget I’m tryin’ to be good.”

Sera’s chest rose in a shaky breath. Her lips quaked under his thumb.

“I—I didn’t mean to tempt you,” she whispered, her voice catching like a prayer half-swallowed. “I just never heard it before. It’s a real nice name…”

“Don’t matter if it’s nice,” Stack cut in, his voice smooth and wicked like all this wasn’t his fault. “It belongs in the mouth of a woman who’s ready to own it. You ready to own our names, little dove?”

Sera didn’t answer. The air between them was heavy, like moments before a hurricane when the sky forgets how to breathe.

Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the wet fabric on her stomach. The water had splashed more than she realized drenching the front of her dresses. Now the fabric uncomfortably clung to her skin as she kept trying to pull it away.

Smoke’s eyes dropped to her twitching fingers and lingered as unholy thoughts and flashbacks filled his mind. Tonight would be another night of self-control he isn’t sure he has anymore. He exhaled through his nose before letting Sera’s face go and pinched his bridge.

“Come on,” he said roughly, voice edged with something he didn’t bother hiding. “You can’t go home like that.”

Sera blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said, come on.” His jaw worked like he was fighting with his own teeth. “You’re soaked. Ain’t decent. Come inside the barn. Dry off fore’ your daddy sees you like this.”

Stack’s grin grew. “Or don’t,” he teased, cocking his head. “Let the preacher get a good look at my woman… wet, breathin’ heavy, and wearin’ all these damn dresses like modesty might save her.”

Sera’s mocha freckled face flushed scarlet. “I didn’t… I wasn’t tryin’ to—” She stuttered over her words, eyes flicking between the twins, too flustered to run but also too nervous to stay.

“My daddy’s comin’ home soon,” she said quickly, breath tight. “He’ll notice I’m not at the house.”

Smoke leaned forward, his face unreadable in the lantern light. “Then move fast.” He turned without waiting and started toward the barn, his broad back cutting through the dark like a blade. Stack gave her a playful smile and followed behind, whistling low.

Sera hesitated while looking at the twins and the road back to her home. The walk back would be uncomfortable with a wet dress, but then it would be difficult to explain to her father how she accidentally got three dresses wet tonight.

The water sloshed in her bucket. The wet fabric clung to her skin. And every inch of her burned with bubbling rebellion. Just for tonight, she would willingly follow the lions into their den.

The barn loomed ahead, once quiet and forgotten, now pulsing with music and light. Opening night was tomorrow and the twins had turned it into something else entirely. The thrum of a distant record played on the phonograph. Dim lanterns glowed from the rafters. Tables lined the edges. The scent of tobacco, moonshine, and heat hung in the air like a warning.

Smoke held the door open. “Inside,” he ordered, voice firm and cracking with irritation. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you. We just don’t want nobody seein’ you like this.”

Stack leaned in close to Sera's ear and whispered before glancing down at her clinging skirts. “Though if you ask me, they should see you. You might convert half the sinners in town just by walkin’ past.”

Sera ducked her head and stepped in. Heat rolled through her as the door shut behind her and trapped her inside with two men who didn’t know how to pray… but sure as hell knew how to sin.

The barn’s music was a low hum in the distance now, muffled by the walls that separated the front room from the back. Smoke didn’t speak as he led her deeper into the converted juke joint, past crates of bootleg whiskey and mystery crates that smell of gunpowder and metal. Stack followed behind, quiet but not silent, his presence was felt more than heard.

Sera’s eyes adjusted slowly to the shadows until they reached the rear of the barn, an unmarked door tucked between a record shelf and an old upright piano. Smoke opened it with a worn key he kept on a chain around his neck.

The space inside was nothing like she expected.

A faint drop light flickered in the middle of the room revealing a simple iron-frame bed in the corner covered in dark sheets, thick quilts, and pillows. Lots of pillows. Too many for one man.

A steam iron hissed faintly from the far table, a white mist rising above a freshly cleaned pair of slacks. Before Stack joined his brother outside, he was back here ironing their clothes for tomorrow. Unlike the rest of the converted barn, this wasn’t a room for entertaining. This was Smoke’s room, where he would privately wind down after fighting the world.

“Sit,” Smoke ordered gently, nodding toward the edge of his bed.

Sera looked between the welcoming bed and Smoke before slightly shaking her head no. “My clothes are wet. I’ll mess ya bed up,” she whispered.

“Won’t be wet for long… or maybe you will,” Stack answered from behind, already walking towards the steam iron. “I’ll take care of the dresses. You just sit tight, little dove.”

Sera gripped onto the wet fabric of her top dress and hesitated. Her arms folded tight over her chest, and her eyes landed on the oak floor, to the bed, to the iron… to anything besides the twins. “I… I don’t know if I should.”

Stack turned halfway, glancing over his shoulder. “Ain’t no one askin’ you to strip down bare, darlin’. But sittin’ in soaked fabric don’t do nobody no good. Go on, take the top one off. I know you got fiddy’ more under it.”

She still didn’t move. Her spine was rigid with uncertainty, like a deer in a snare, not sure whether to flee or surrender.

“That dress stickin’ to your stomach like that?” Stack murmured. “You’re gonna catch cold before you get home. You want to go home to ya daddy snifflin’?”

Sera scrunched her face and quickly fixed it, “I’m fine… can’t nobody catch colds bein’ wet in the summer,” she said quickly and defensively.

“You’re not,” Smoke cut in quietly, his voice an authoritative thread of reason in the thick air. “You ain’t fine. You’re cold, and wet, and tremblin’ even though it’s a hunnid’ degrees tonight. Let us help.”

Nibbling on the inside of her cheek Sera looked over at Smoke who was sitting in a chair across his bed and taking his boots off. Like he didn’t just give her the final push she needed to comply. Hesitantly, her fingers rose slowly to the ties at the back of her neck. Her movements were stiff and nervous, but also determined… determined to show Smoke she knew how to follow directions. Why? Well, she wasn’t quite sure about that yet but it felt natural to do so. The first dress came loose with a reluctant sigh, and she peeled it off, water dripping from the hem as she folded it in her arms.

Stack moved forward to take it, but not before letting his eyes travel over the second dress now revealed. This one clung closer to the skin but not enough for his liking. He took the garment from her hands, his fingers brushing hers for a split second longer than they should’ve. No smile. No teasing. Just a pause before he turned back to the iron.

Sera swallowed and turned her back to them as she shyly lifted the second dress at the hem. Her hands shook with trepidation. The wet cotton stuck to her thighs, refusing to come off easily. The sound of it peeling from her skin was deafening in the silence. Keeping her eyes glued to the wooden floor she avoided handing Stack the second dress and instead placed it next to his work station.

“You wearin’ another under that one too?” Stack asked, quieter now.

Her voice was tight and she nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

She didn’t respond. The third dress came off slower. For some reason she didn’t feel as shy giving him her final gown of armor. But she still wasn’t able to make eye contact as she placed this dress next to the other one. She stood there in her plain white chemise and form fitting bloomers, the thin cotton clinging to her every curve. Modest by any standard. But not to them.

Stack turned his back under the pretense of adjusting the iron’s dial, but his hands clenched tighter than they needed to. Smoke stared a moment longer before letting his eyes drift up to her frazzled face.

“You don’t gotta be nervous,” Smoke said quietly while pushing his desires down. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you unless you ask us to. You safe here.”

Sera’s eyes lifted and she bit down hard on her bottom lip almost drawing blood to conceal her shock. “I’m not askin’ for that,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not askin’ for nothin’,” Stack replied, in a hushed tone. “That’s the part we don’t like.”

She blinked and turned her head. “What?”

Stack sighed and shook his head, “You don’t ask for what you want. You wait for someone to give you permission. That ain’t livin’, dove. That’s just breathin’ quiet.”

The tension settled between them again. Smoke crossed to the dresser and pulled out a white button-up shirt… his. It looked soft and worn, sleeves rolled just above the elbow and a faint scent of sandalwood still clinging to it. “Put this on,” he said, offering it without looking directly at her. “Till your things dry.”

Sera reached for it carefully, fingers brushing his as she took it. The shirt hung heavy in her hands, and when she slipped it on, it swallowed her tall curvaceous frame falling to mid-thigh, the collar open, and sleeves trailing past her fingertips.

Stack watched her move from the corner of his eye while working the steam iron over her first dress. “Don’t get too comfortable in that shirt, pretty girl. You’re liable to turn a man religious walkin’ ‘round like that.”

Smoke ignored him and sat back in his assigned seat for the night and continued rolling a cigarette. Sera watched him curiously before sitting on the edge of his bed. “Why… why do you have so many pillows?” she asked softly, her voice colored with innocent confusion. “Ain’t just you in here, is it?”

Sera didn’t mean to ask an intrusive question but she genuinely was curious about the pillows. Stack burst into a laugh behind her, not cruel but full of wicked delight. “Ain’t no woman in here, if that’s what you mean,” he chuckled, pressing down on the fabric. “But them pillows sure seen their share of sins.”

Sera blinked, face heating. “I— I don’t understand—”

Smoke ran a hand down his jaw and finally looked up, his cold gaze cutting through her to glare at his twin. “I use ’em when I can’t sleep,” he said evenly, ignoring his brother’s grin. “That’s all.”

But Sera didn’t miss the tick of his jaw… or the way he refused to look at the bed when he said it.

Stack gave a low hum and chuckled to himself. “He sleep just fine when he’s got the right thing in his hands.”

Sera turned her face away, but not before the brothers saw the flush rush up her cheeks, blooming high across her cheekbones. She tucked her knees in tighter beneath the oversized white shirt, trying to disappear into the fabric but the effect only made her look more precious and touchable. Like some delicate secret wrapped in cotton and candlelight.

Smoke said nothing at first. He sat with one ankle resting on his knee, elbows on his thighs, a tin of tobacco in one hand and paper in the other. His gaze flicked toward her, completely indecipherable. “You ever rolled a cigarette before?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Sera blinked. The question seemed ridiculous considering her background but she let her sarcastic answer die on her tongue. “No, sir.”

He gave a short nod and tapped the tin open with his thumb. “C’mere,” he said, in a detached yet seductive tone. “I’ll show you.” Stack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word. Instead he focused on his task and continued this best to dry Sera’s dresses.

She didn’t move at first. Her amber eyes searched Smoke’s face for mischief or cruelty, but found only that mysterious calm, shadowed by the golden glow of a nearby oil lamp. Her fingers clutched the shirt tighter. “I—I’m fine over here…”

“Like I said sweetheart… You’re safe,” Smoke reassured, still focused on the paper in his hands. “If you gon’ be sneaking around here with us sinners, you might as well learn new skills.”

The room went quiet and Stack stopped what he was doing to turn and glare at his brother. Smoke and Stack haven’t fought for the attention of the same woman since they were little. And right now it seemed like he was three steps behind as his brother effortlessly took all of Sera's attention. His signature grin dropped and twisted into something quieter… almost possessive.

Sera’s breath came a little quicker, heart thumping like it wanted to jump out of her chest. She shifted again, then slowly climbed off the bed. So many sins had been committed in one night and she tried to keep a mental list of everything she’d have to repent for.

1.) Being alone in a room with TWO dangerous men.

2.) Stripping down to her undergarments in front of these men.

3.) Sitting on a man’s LAP…

4.) LEARNING TO ROLL A CIGARETTE!!

The list seemed never ending, and she didn’t even include how the forbidden wetness had returned between her thighs. Her bare feet padded across the floor, the oversized shirt falling around her knees like a curtain. She stood in front of Smoke for a moment, unsure what to do next.

Smoke looked up at Sera and lowered his leg back down before spreading his thighs wide, “Sit,” he said gently, patting his thigh. “I don’t bite, sweetheart.”

She obeyed, carefully lowering herself into his lap. Even though Sera wasn’t a petite woman, her thick thighs draped over one of his and she felt so small… and protected. Her back stayed stiff as a board as she tried not to let any part of her touch more than necessary. But he was so warm and solid, and her juices were flowing through her underwear leaving little droplets on his slacks. Smoke made no mention of it but let one of his hands drape across her waist and maneuver her on his lap so she couldn’t feel his growing secret.

“Relax,” Smoke muttered near her ear, speaking more to himself than her. “Ain’t no sin in sittin’. Now watch.”

Sera nodded and leaned forward slightly, her side brushing against his chest. The scent of smoke, iron, and something faintly woodsy wrapped around her as he guided her hand gently to the tin.

“This here’s the tobacco. You pinch it like this…” His fingers brushed hers rough, but patient like he wanted to cherish this moment. “And you roll it gentle. Real slow. Gotta feel it. Not just use your hands—use your senses.”

Sera nodded, her breath catching every time his fingers touched hers again, every time the soft rasp of his voice fell too close to her ear. Her whole body was trembling and she subconsciously clenched her thighs together. Smoke noticed, just like how he noticed everything but he didn’t comment on it.

Stack watched them from across the room, no longer focused on ironing and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re doin’ fine,” Smoke murmured again. “Just like that, baby.” The cigarette was shaped, ready to light. But Sera didn’t move. Her fingers still lingered over his, eyes still focused on what they’d made. “You’re a fast learner,” Smoke added, voice rougher now.

The sound of her soft voice, the way she shifted shyly in Smoke’s lap, the trembling curve of her thigh under the hem of that white shirt, all of it twisted something hot and mean in Stack’s gut. “Didn’t know we was givin’ private lessons tonight,” he chimed as his jealousy blatantly radiated off of him. “Tell me, ‘Lijah… how many other little doves you taught that trick to?”

Smoke’s hand stilled where it had been guiding Sera’s fingers. His jaw flexed as he looked up, not moving her and definitely not letting go. “I ain’t gotta teach anyone but her,” he said low. “Ain’t my fault you too busy flirtin’ to make things stick.”

Stack sucked his teeth and without another word, he walked to the edge of Smoke’s bed, and made himself at home. He sat down with his legs wide and posture relaxed like he wasn’t deliberately intruding. From his back pocket, he pulled a worn silver tin and cracked the lid open with a flick of his thumb.

“You know,” Stack said as he packed tobacco into his palm, “I ain’t never had trouble teachin’ a lesson when it mattered. Some folks just learn different.”

Sera looked between them, her fingers twisting shyly in her lap. She was still perched on Smoke’s knee, now with less certainty like she could foresee the chaos waiting to erupt.

Stack didn’t look at his brother when he spoke, and focused his eyes on his redhead angel. “Maybe she wanna learn from me next,” he said, voice quiet and teasing. “See how different the teacher makes the lesson.”

Smoke let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned back in the chair as he tightened his grip on Sera’s hip. He didn’t move Sera, didn’t rise to meet the provocation. Instead, he set the cigarette they made aside and looked up, his posture calm but his eyes told how he was tired of the game. “There ain’t no need to start trouble,” he said evenly. “Not in front of her.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back as Stack and Smoke began bickering like children that didn’t know how to share their new shiny toy. Smoke was losing his patience with his brother.

“Nigga, you got some nerve sittin’ here runnin’ ya mouth like I won’t whoop your ass from here back to Chicago.”

“Ain’t nobody fuckin’ scared of you, Elijah!”

While Smoke and Stack continued to bicker and exchanged biting words between them like flint to steel, Sera sat silently in the middle, unsure where to place her hands, her thoughts and her shame. In the heat of the moment, Smoke unintentionally shifted Sera directly onto his growing erection before picking up a nearby ashtray and chucking it in the direction of Stacks head.

“THROW SUM ELSE I DARE YOU!”

“WATCH YA MOUTH YOU LYIN’ SUMMA’ BITCH!”

It was subtle at first, just a small movement, his hands still steady at her waist. He realigned her to keep her out of the crossfire and placed her soft covered heat directly over the firm ridge of his arousal. The contrast made her breath leave her body and she almost arrived at heaven’s gate. It felt good. Too good. Her thighs tightened instinctively and a dangerous warmth flooded to her lower belly. This was a level of sin she wasn’t sure a night of repentance would fix.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night. That night when Smoke’s voice had stirred something buried deep. Since then, she’d refused to look inward, way too frightened to explore what waited behind her curiosity. Too afraid of what she might become if she gave in.

But tonight… the air hung thick with desire. Like a storm rolling slow and low across the fields. It whispered to her, beckoned her. Promised that if she dared to dip a toe into darkness, she wouldn’t fall alone. Smoke would catch her and Stack would comfort her.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Their arguing faded, reduced to static on the edge of her mind as she gave in to the devilish sensation. Smoke’s arms, strong and unmoving, bracketed her body like pillars. His chest rose and fell behind her back, steady and unbothered. Too consumed with arguing with his twin. She exhaled slowly and began to move. Barely. Just a cautious shift of her hips back and forth to test the friction. The thick line of him nudged through his slacks up against her blooming flower that pulsed with each movement.

It was maddening. Up and down… an inexperienced grind… back and forth. Each motion of her hips was gentle and full of exploration. She inhaled sharply as Smoke's shirt rustled over her succulent thighs, letting both men see the wet spot forming on her panties. Her hands found Smoke’s thighs, and she gripped them lightly as she sought the pressure her body craved.

The pleasure was delicate at first, like the flutter of a moth’s wings. But it built slowly and steadily. This was different from when she touched herself. Back and forth… up and down… A warm flush crept up her chest and neck. She no longer heard their voices. She closed her eyes and just focused on her breathing and the wet heat gathering between her legs.

Back and forth… left to right… right to left… up and down… Sera gasped again, her breathing ragged and shallow. Her hips moved with more purpose now testing limits she’d never dared explore. The heat expanding between her legs was damn near unbearable, soaking through her cotton underthings and making her acutely aware of every sensitive inch pressed to the twitching hardness beneath her.

She didn’t hear the creak of the chair when Smoke leaned in closer and didn’t sense the room shifting. Not until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Whatcha doin’ sweet girl?” he whispered, voice husky. “It feel good don’t it? Keep goin’ for me… don’t stop this time… I’ll be here to guide you.”

Her body gave a soft shiver at his words. Her thighs tensed around his trying to close but he slid his hands down to them and held each one open. She didn’t speak, she couldn’t. She just moved, driven by the need curling tighter and tighter low in her belly.

Smoke’s grip on her thighs flexed, then eased, guiding her rhythm ever so slightly, like he was tuning a song only he could hear. “Don’t rush it,” he whispered again, “Just like that… Take your time…”

Then she felt another presence approach. Stack had gone quiet for too long and that was never a good sign. Sera’s eyes opened slowly and the haze of desire clouded her vision as she saw his boots come into view. She tilted her head upwards just slightly and that was all he needed.

Stack crouched down in front of her, his towering frame folding like a wolf preparing to pounce. His eyes were dark and for a split second Sera had to question if she was looking at Smoke or Stack. His firm fingers lightly gripped her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“You don’t stop now, darlin’,” he ordered in a rough tone with something more dangerous than lust. “You keep goin’.” Sera opened her mouth hoping to respond but no words came out, just another whimper and silent moan.

“You hear me?” he growled, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Ain’t no shame in takin’ what you want. Not here. Not with us.”

Smoke’s lips still lingered near her ear. “You’re doin’ so good,” he purred, his tone a complete contrast to Stack’s rough edge. “Look at you… our little church angel learnin’ how to move.”

Stack’s hand slid down her throat until it rested just above the curve of her chest. “You keep rocking’ on him ‘til we say stop.”

Sera’s heart thundered behind her ribs. Their voices tangled around her like tobacco in the lungs, addictive and dangerous. Both men were hard enough to cut diamonds. Their bodies coiled tight and strained beneath their clothes. Yet neither gave in… they just watched.

Every subtle twitch of Sera’s hips, every stuttered breath and delicate shift, each pass of friction seemed more delicious than the last. This was a show. One she wasn’t even aware she was performing. Smoke’s jaw clenched, his hands steady where they gripped her, guiding just enough, allowing her to find her pace on her own. Stack watched like a hawk pretending to be unaffected but the pulse on his neck betrayed him. He was barely breathing. And Sera? She was unraveling by the second. If this addicting sensation and dizzying pleasure was possible with her undergarments still clinging damp between them, what would happen if her bare skin touched his? Would it break her? Would she survive it?

She whined quietly. “E-Elijah… I… I ca—”

But she didn’t finish. Smoke growled, like the sound scraped up from the pit of his stomach. His hands slid to her inner thighs, thumbs spreading her open just enough to stop her motion cold. She whimpered at the loss of pressure. Then, slowly, he leaned her back against his chest, angling her hips forward and exposing the damp fabric stretched over her pulsing center. Her head lolled back on his shoulder with her eyes glossed over with lust.

Smoke’s grip was firm and controlled. His mouth brushed the crown of her head with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “You made such a mess, my love,” he teased, tone deceptively soft. “Bet he’s wonderin’ how you taste now.”

Stack’s eyes darkened then and Smoke’s voice dropped lower and colder. He didn’t look at Sera as he spoke, he looked at his brother, a smirk curling his lips. This was payback. “If you need help to finish,” he said, slow and condescending, “ask Elias real nice and he might help.”

The tension snapped taut like a drawn bowstring. Sera shivered hard, the sound of Stack’s real name crackling through the room like a match being struck. Her body ached, her thighs quivered and she was now wide open in Smoke’s lap with her sanctified pussy soaked and pressed forward, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Like a turkey laid bare for carving on Thanksgiving day.

And Stack—no, Elias—was starving. That cool, collected mask cracked, if only slightly. His nostrils flared. His tongue darted across his bottom lip. His fists flexed at his sides like he was fighting himself not to take. The silence grew thick between them, as if the very walls were waiting.

Sera looked between the two of them with her breath ragged, skin flushed, and her innocence in tatters. And then she turned her attention to Stack. Her voice though soft carried a weight that made the room hold still. “…Elias,” she whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Please… help?”

His name, sweet and unsure on her tongue, shattered whatever restraint he had left.

And the devil in him stirred.

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beckyninja · 3 months ago

Text

Defiance

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestiveness, a certain Chaplain being creepy

Description: Sera wakes up in Leandros's clutches. Meanwhile, her friends realize she's gone, and starting putting two and two together.

Creepy Chaplain is creepy. But never fear! Vesta, Chairon, and Gadriel are on the case!

Read the chapters leading up to this point on my Masterlist. And don't forget to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Icy water shocked you awake. Your eyes snapped open onto… darkness. Cold, wet darkness, the only sounds your own gasps as your lungs struggled for air.

Oh, Emperor… no….

It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Kneel.”

The distorted voice stabbed through you and you froze like a prey animal. Your fingers clutched at the metal grate beneath you. Water dripped into your eyes and you squeezed them shut, curling in on yourself.

“Disobedient.”

An armored hand grasped the hood of your sodden robe and yanked. The material constricted around your neck as you struggled to enforce some kind of order on your shivering limbs, finally managing to settle on your knees, grating biting into your skin. The hand released and you desperately gulped air.

You kept your eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and above. You recognized it, though your mind fought to deny the terrible truth. Your body shook with more than cold.

“Look at me.”

The hand took your jaw in its iron grasp, forcing your head back until your neck screamed. Against your will your eyes sprang open.

Glowing red lenses in a white skull glared down at you. The face that had haunted your steps and your nightmares. You tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came forth.

“Silence.”

The hand forced your jaw closed. You bit your own tongue and tasted blood.

For an eternity the skull helm stared down at you, silent, judging. The hand held you pinned like an insect. Your dripping skin burned with cold. Your knees ached, your jaw throbbed, and any moment you felt your neck would snap beneath that awful strength.

“You stand accused.”

Your heart stopped. The voice continued.

“As Chaplain of the Second Company, I find you guilty of perversion. Guilty of sullying the honored role of ‘serf’ by indulging base instincts. Guilty of corrupting the holy warriors of the Emperor with your feminine seductions.”

I am going to die here.

You only prayed it would be quick.

Then, to your shock, the Chaplain sank to one knee before you with a clang of ceremite on metal. He released your jaw and you sank forward onto your hands.

His voice dropped to a rasp. “In any other case, the punishment would be instant servitorization.”

Throne, help me!

A sob tore from your throat. “P-please… no….”

“But I am not without mercy.”

You dared glance up through your lank hair.

“I know the corruption did not originate with you, but is a foul result of your service to the heretic Demetrian Titus.”

The raw hatred in his voice stunned you.

His hand returned to your jaw, this time almost gentle as it tilted your head back. “Your soul may still be saved. Denounce him, and be redeemed.”

Your mind spun. A small, snivelling part of you whimpered.

No one will save you now. Spare yourself the agony and do as he wills!

But a larger part of you recoiled at the very suggestion.

Demetrian….

Kind eyes. Strong arms. Hearts that burned with compassion beneath his stoic exterior. Courage. Honor. The will to endure against all odds.

Love.

You felt his laurel leaf around your neck still.

Your shaking subsided. Slowly, you sat back on your knees, folding your hands in your lap. Lifting your chin, you spoke your defiance.

“My Lord is no heretic.”

The kneeling Astartes before you shook his head, something that sounded almost like a sigh coming from within his helm.

“As I feared, the corruption is deeply embedded.”

Quicker than your eyes could follow, he struck. The armored hand curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet, and slamming you against the wall. Your head bounced against the metal, sparks flashing behind your eyelids. You clawed at his fingers.

Can’t… breathe…!

The helm drew close to your face. So close, you could hear deep, chugging breaths.

“I will cleanse you.”

***

“Vesta.”

The medica groaned and wiggled deeper into her blankets. “S’too early, Uncle.”

“Vesta. Now.”

She knew that tone of voice. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and stretched. Above her the Apothecary loomed. Or tried to. The cramped space of her closet-turned-sleeping chamber was not meant to contain the bulk of a fully armored Astartes.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Did the Lieutenant’s serf come here last night?”

“Sera?” Vesta looked around.

The cot pressed against hers remained as it had been when she’d gone to bed, alone, after checking on Sera in the Apothecarion one last time. The sedative had still been in effect, though her friend’s sleeping face had not looked exactly peaceful.

“No… I, I don’t think so, Uncle. Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Callistus turned and left the room.

After throwing on her robes, Vesta hopped into the greater chamber, struggling to tie the laces on her sandals and nearly face-planting in her hurry. The chrono embedded into the wall told her the day cycle had just barely begun. Her uncle stood by the row of baseline-sized beds on one side of the Apothecarion.

The row of very empty baseline-sized beds.

“Where is she?” Vesta trotted up beside the Astartes.

A low humph. “If I knew that, would I have awakened you, girl?” His habitual frown had deepened. “She is not in the lavatory, either.”

Vesta’s stomach flipped, but she pasted a smile to her face. “I’ll check the refectory, and the serf baths. Perhaps the sedative wore off earlier than expected, and her insomnia returned.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced down at her. “You thoroughly examined her skull when the Sergeant brought her in yesterday.”

“A nasty bump but,” she caught his meaning, “I swear I didn’t see any sign of concussion! And Lord Gadriel said she lost consciousness before she struck the-”

“I remember.” The Apothecary glared at the empty bed as if it had offended him. “Go.”

Vesta spent several hours searching everywhere she could think that her friend might have wandered. None of the refectory or bath serfs had seen her. Nor had any of the cleaning crews, or candle-lighters Vesta encountered in the corridors.

Anxiety roiled in her gut as she paused next to a candle-lit shrine. She felt beads of sweat forming at her hairline.

She couldn’t be suffering from concussion. I checked!

Still, thoughts of her friend, confused and disoriented, wandering the ship’s corridors made her heart pound. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.

“You look distressed, Medica.”

Vesta whipped around with a shriek. Brother Chairon stood there, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I may not have the Sergeant’s fine features, but I did not think my face quite so repulsive.”

She fell back against the wall, hand pressed over her fluttering heart. “M-my Lord! Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, Medica.” His faint chuckle faded as he searched her face. “Not even a smile at my poor attempt at levity? Something must be troubling you, indeed.”

The words burst out like atmosphere through a blown airlock. “Sera is missing!”

His face stilled. “Explain.”

Vesta told him all she knew, listing every place she’d searched, and searched again. “The only other place I can think to look is the Chapel. But Sera doesn’t-” She bit her tongue.

Shut up, you idiot!

“She does not what?”

She gnawed her lip, hesitating. Since the day she was assigned to the Apothecarion, Sera had avoided the Chapel like the plague, preferring to perform her devotions at one of the many smaller shrines scattered throughout the ship. When Vesta had questioned her about it, she’d visibly paled and changed the subject.

Vesta hadn’t given it much thought, until now.

Chairon seemed to study her. “Did the little one avoid the Chapel, Medica?”

“I….”

The Astartes suddenly turned and began striding away. “Come.”

Vesta rushed to catch up with him. “My Lord? Where are we-”

“I would have a word with the Chaplain.”

***

“Woe to those who hold themselves in high esteem, forsaking holy humility for shallow vanity. Woe to those who relish the false pleasures of the flesh… for they will… they will- ah!”

You gasped as the blind servitor tossed another bucket of icy water over your back. The shock tightened your already aching muscles, yet you welcomed the moisture, desperately lapping at the droplets pouring over your lips. Your dry throat burned.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

It felt like hours.

You knelt before a little shrine on legs that had long since gone numb. A single candle placed atop the altar illuminated your little cell. Merely a box of metal containing the shrine and the servitor, dripping faucet on one side and a barred door on the other.

Through the bars, a familiar voice intoned. “Again.”

Again, you repeated the words he’d spoken to you. This time, the chattering of your teeth caused you to slur the scripture, resulting in yet another frigid deluge. You felt more than your legs going numb.

“Again.”

Another try. You repeated three full verses before tripping up this time. Another bucket.

“Again.”

Two verses. Another bucket.

“Again.”

One verse. Another bucket.

The muscles in your lower back burned. You gritted your teeth.

“Again.”

“W-woe… woe to….”

With a sob, you felt your body give out. Your back spasmed and you gasped in agony as you collapsed to your side. The servitor soaked you again… and again… and again. Covering your head with your arms, you fought for breath.

“Enough.”

You heard metallic creaking and glanced up to see the servitor step back against the wall, sightless white eyes staring from its ruined wreck of a face.

Was he… she… it… once the occupant of this cell? Is that my future?

If you had anything left in your aching stomach, you would have vomited.

The cell door opened and he entered. For a moment there was heavy silence. Then, a ceramite-clad boot hooked under your ribs and flipped you onto your back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through your ravaged muscles.

The emotionless helm stared. Somehow, you knew the hidden eyes did not rest on your face.

A glance down made you gasp.

The thin material of your sleeping robe, made near-translucent by water, clung to your form like a second skin. It outlined every curve and divot. And the chill had hardened your nipples to defined points.

You struggled to turn onto your side and cover yourself. Tears of shame pricked the backs of your eyes.

“Be still.”

You froze, exposed and vulnerable.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Please, stop!

He didn’t stop. He stepped closer until he towered over your prone form.

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Harlot. Even now, you seek to tempt me?”

Realization rolled over you in waves colder than the water you’d been soaked in. “No-”

“Silence.”

He bent down. Terror brought life to your numbed limbs and you frantically pushed yourself back along the floor, sobbing when the grating tore cloth and skin alike. Your shoulders finally met the wall.

You cowered. “Please-”

“What is this?”

A hand darted out and you felt a sting at your throat as-

“No!” You lunged forward. “Please, don’t! Please! Please!”

Your nerveless fingers slipped from his armor as he straightened, a golden laurel leaf dangling from his clenched fist.

“He gave this to you.”

“Yes!” You whimpered. “Please, give it back! I’ll do anything!”

“You already know what you must do.”

A despairing cry left your lips as you collapsed back to the floor. “No….”

He dangled the leaf before your face. “Denounce him.”

You shook your head, even as he dragged the laurel leaf over your cheek.

“Submit to me.”

Deep within, a spark of defiance still smoldered. “I won’t!”

A vicious blow flung you against the far wall. The last thing you saw before slipping into darkness was the Chaplain’s retreating back, the shining token of your lover’s devotion still clenched in his fist.

Demetrian, forgive me….

***

Tumultuous thoughts filled Chairon’s mind as he marched toward the Chapel. Chief among them was the memory of the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding the Chaplain looming over his serf, practically pinning her to the railing. The stench of fear rising from her, the pathetic relief in her eyes when she saw him and Gadriel, the way she all but hid behind them.

The sound of panting behind him made him pause. “Medica.”

“Yes, my Lord?” She hurried up, chest heaving.

He tempered his gait, allowing her to maintain her position beside him. “What do the serfs think of the good Chaplain?”

Immediately, the scent of stress. Glancing to one side revealed the tension in her shoulders.

“He is greatly revered and respected, my Lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“But not loved.”

“Please, my Lord!” He watched her eyes dart about the corridor, even though few people were about at this early hour.

“Speak freely, Vesta.”

She bit her lip, a sight he found oddly appealing.

“My Lord Callistus and I have not been on The Resilient long, my Lord. But… in that time… I’ve learned most of the serfs stay out of the Lord Chaplain’s path, if they can help it.”

Chairon frowned.

The Codex had strict regulations regarding the treatment of serfs. Many were former aspirants, after all. Others were part of families that had served the Chapter for generations. Still others, like the Lieutenant’s little one, had been taken under the Astartes’ protection for one reason or another. All deserved to be treated with respect.

Now, a creeping suspicion grew in his gut that this tenet he held close to his hearts was being violated.

Do not jump to conclusions. What evidence do you have? Why would the Chaplain…?

The great gilded doors of the Chapel rose before him. The aroma of incense welled from within, along with the droning of hymns. A cherub fluttered by, mechanical voice box muttering benedictions. He paused in a rare moment of indecision.

“My Lord?” The medica whispered at his side. “What will you do?”

“Chairon?” Gadriel pushed through the Chapel doors, brows slightly raised. “I thought you had already completed your morning prayers.”

Well, this saves me having to track him down.

“I had, brother. But something has happened.” He relayed what the medica had told him.

“Warp, damn it.” Gadriel snarled. “Can the Apothecaries not keep track of one little female?”

“Would you have had us tie her to the bed?” The medica snapped, then paled. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Chairon huffed a laugh, even as his sergeant’s scowl deepened. “What matters now is that we find her, brother.” He hesitated. “Or who took her.”

Gadriel’s eyes snapped to his, even as the medica gasped. “You suspect abduction?”

“I think we discounted her fear too readily.” He searched his brother’s face. “You saw someone, when she ran to you.”

The sergeant looked away. “As I said, it is irrational.”

Chairon stepped closer. “Was it the Chaplain? Do you remember how we found her, the day the Lieutenant placed her in our care? The Chaplain seemed to take an undue interest-”

“For the love of the Emperor, Chairon! Do you know what you suggest?” Gadriel glared at the medica. “Leave, woman.”

She turned to Chairon with a beseeching look in her eyes.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Apothecary Callistus sent her to find the little one, brother. And she has told me the serfs fear the Chaplain.”

“As they should.”

“That does not mean he has the right to-”

“Your fondness for baselines is clouding your judgement, Chairon.” Gadriel stepped back. “I will hear no more of this.”

Chairon’s temper frayed. “You were quick enough to accuse the Lieutenant.”

“That was entirely different!”

“At least accompany me to speak with the Chaplain. I swear, I will make no accusations.”

Gadriel hesitated.

Chairon pressed. “The Lieutenant honored us with this responsibility, brother. Would you shirk it?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at the medica. “But the woman stays behind. And should she ever repeat what she has heard here today….”

“I won’t, my Lord!”

***

Gadriel led his brother into the sanctuary of the Chapel, cursing his foolishness with every step.

What am I doing? This is insubordination, at best!

An image of the Lieutenant’s face flashed through his mind.

What will he say when he returns and finds we have failed?

Shame burned in his chest. Failure. It was intolerable, unthinkable. They must do everything in their power to find the missing female. Follow every tenuous lead.

Even if it leads to a rot at the very heart of the Company?

They moved among the pillars and candelabras, toward the platform at the front of the chamber. Only minutes before he had knelt here, repeating his prayers to the Emperor. Prayers for victory, glory, and honor he’d said a thousand times.

The Chaplain was not present. That is… unusual.

The niggling doubt in the back of his mind was growing louder. It had begun weeks ago, when they first began taking turns escorting the Lieutenant’s serf, when he’d caught glimpses of a distinctive figure who always seemed to be just moving out of sight.

And then, yesterday, when the girl charged into him in blind panic, he could’ve sworn he’d seen that same figure standing at the end of the corridor. Watching.

But why?

They reached the platform and paused.

“Is he not usually here at this time?” Chairon looked around impatiently.

Before Gadriel could respond, the scraping hiss of an opening door reached their ears. A few moments later the Chaplain seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the platform, in that eerie way that could strike unease into the most stalwart Ultramarine’s hearts.

“You completed your prayers, Gadriel.” He rumbled, almost sounding annoyed. “Why do you remain? And you,” his helm pivoted toward Chairon, “you are late for your devotions. Do I need to ascribe penance?”

Wonderful. We have caught him in a foul mood.

“We have something we would ask of you, Brother Chaplain.” He found himself saying.

“It can wait.”

Gadriel blinked at the abrupt dismissal. True, the Chaplain had never been the friendliest, never one to mingle with his fellow Astartes, but he had always made time for questions.

Out of nowhere, Chairon spoke. “What do you know of Lieutenant Titus, brother?”

Gadriel watched the Chaplain pause mid-stride. “You have come to ask me this?”

He glanced at Chairon, then spoke up. “Forgive us if we overstep, but when you spoke to each other there seemed to be some… familiarity.”

Chairon again. “Did you know him before his service in the Death Watch?”

A long moment of silence, save for the droning of hymns sung by unseen serfs and the flapping of cherub’s wings.

Why are we even asking this? He will not-

“I did.” The sheer venom in the words took Gadriel by surprise.

How had he not noticed before? The scorn in the Chaplain’s voice whenever he spoke to the Lieutenant. The undercurrents of hatred.

Why? What happened between you?

“Have your doubts about the Lieutenant awoken once more, brother?” The Chaplain addressed him directly, a strange eagerness in his manner.

Gadriel noticed him fiddling with something in his right hand. Something that shone in the candlelight.

Distracted, he stumbled. “I… I do not….”

“Should they?” Chairon stepped in.

“Hmmm.” The Chaplain fell into silence once more.

Unease pooled in Gadriel’s stomach and he found himself scrambling for words. “I… only ask because, when he departed, he requested we look after his serf. And since she has disappeared-”

The Chaplain stiffened. “You intrude upon my meditations with news of a missing serf?”

“Brother Chaplain, we only-”

“I have better things to occupy my time. As do you.”

“Brother-”

“Leave. Now.”

Chairon looked as though he would argue, but Gadriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive our intrusion, brother.”

He all but shoved his fellow Ultramarine out of the Chapel. Once outside, Chairon rounded on him.

“Did you witness his reaction? His hatred of the Lieutenant? Call my suspicions unfounded now, brother!”

“I saw.” Gadriel’s mind spun. “And I saw-”

“My Lords!” The medica bounded up from her place standing by the doors. “Did you learn anything?”

“Woman,” Gadriel gripped her shoulder in one hand. “Did the serf, Sera, wear any,” he flailed for the correct word, “baubles? Trinkets? Around her neck, perhaps?”

Chairon gave him a quizzical glance, which he ignored.

The medica’s eyes widened. “A necklace. I saw it often when she changed her clothing.”

Chairon spoke. “Brother, what are you on about?”

“A golden laurel leaf hung on a string, yes?”

The medica bobbed her head. “She told me the Lord Titus had given it to her. She never removed it, not even when she bathed.”

“By the Warp!” Gadriel’s snarl drew startled looks from a few passing serfs.

Chairon gripped his arm. “Brother-”

He turned to face him. “I saw it, Chairon.”

“What? Where?”

Gadriel forced the words through clenched teeth. “Held in the Chaplain’s hand.”

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