For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the storm beyond the stained glass—rain hammering the roof, thunder cracking the sky.

Then: silence. Breathing. Heavier now.

Seran’s fangs gleamed in the flickering candlelight, bared in a slow, hungry smile. His mouth watered, drawn to the scent of blood and heat and something rawer beneath it.

He could hear it. Lorenzo’s pulse—fast, frantic, fighting. Delicious.

Seran’s gaze lingered on the delicate bloom of blood on Lorenzo’s lower lip—a thin smear from their earlier clash. Crimson against gentle skin. 

He leaned down slowly, shoulders hunched, body coiled with restrained hunger as he kept Lorenzo pinned beneath him. Their mouths hovered close, Seran’s breath grazing Lorenzo’s lips as he inhaled deeply, reverently. Savoring the heat, the scent, the storm-softened musk of the man below him. A slick warmth trailed his lower lip where it had touched the wolf’s.

A flick of his tongue gathered the blood that clung to Lorenzo’s lip, the taste ambrosic, heady and divine. Then he pressed his lips to Lorenzo’s. Slow. Intimate. Intentional.

Seran caught his lip between his fangs—not to pierce, but to pull, savor, suck—tongue coaxing the taste from flesh already beginning to knit closed. 

Lorenzo groaned softly, the sound a tremor between them.

“How about a different truce,” he whispered against his lips, voice low and wanting. “You sate my hunger… and I’ll sate yours.” His tongue darted out again, lapping once more at the faint wound before it could disappear entirely.

Lorenzo’s lips parted on instinct. Not in protest—in invitation.

Seran smiled, the kind of smile that once belonged to angels before they fell. “Let us give in to the temptation of the night, Enzo.” His voice was velvet and fire, wrapping around the name like a lover’s moan.

Lorenzo didn’t respond—not with words. But the hardness pressing beneath Seran said enough.

The vampire loosened his hold, slowly releasing Lorenzo’s wrists before leaning down again, his lips brushing the curve of his neck. The pulse there thrummed like a drumline beneath the skin.

Lorenzo’s hand rose, quick and instinctive, closing around Seran’s throat in warning.

Seran chuckled low in his throat, amused. “Relax, puppy…” he murmured, his voice a velvet purr. “I won’t bite... Not yet, anyway.” His tongue flicked out, tracing the line of tan flesh just above the priest’s collarbone. “Still showing so much restraint. You should give in to your urges.”

“Giving in is what sets apart monsters from the—” Lorenzo began, his voice tight with effort. But he faltered as Seran’s hand slid between their bodies, slipping beneath the fabric of his trousers.

“Monster from what?” Seran murmured against his neck, his lips still curved in a cruel smile. His fingers wrapped around the hardened shaft, beginning to stroke slowly, deliberately. “It’s dangerous to resist your rut, Lorenzo… what if you lose control and hurt someone? We wouldn’t want that now, would we?” His voice was teasing and wicked.

The air thickened—dense with the scent of arousal, of pheromones bleeding out from the wolf beneath him with every stroke.

Lorenzo’s breath hitched. A low moan slipped from his lips as his hips lifted involuntarily, chasing the friction. His hands flew to Seran’s thighs, gripping hard, fingers digging in.

Seran leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of Lorenzo’s ear. “Good boy…” he whispered, his voice little more than breath. “Give in to me.” His fangs elongated—white, gleaming, hungry. And then, with a low groan of satisfaction, he sank them into Lorenzo’s neck. The blood hit his tongue like consecrated wine turned sacrilege—warm, thick, and pulsing with life. 

Lorenzo snarled a guttural growl, his canines flashing as his body arched up. His blood poured into Seran in slow, shuddering waves. 

It was sweet at first, like red fruit just on the edge of rot, but deeper still came something darker—earthy, iron-rich, laced with the faint bitterness of suppressed desire. His rut made it heavier, feral, almost spiced. Like clove and ash.

Seran swallowed greedily, each pull dragging heat through his limbs. His body trembled from too much pleasure packed into one forbidden mouthful. He fought against the instinct to drain him. Every part of him screamed to take, to consume—but with effort, Seran pulled back. Reluctantly.

His hand withdrew from between their bodies, thumb brushing across his blood-slick lips slowly, savoring the heat and sweetness that still lingered. Then, languid and cruel, he reached for Lorenzo—pressing his crimson-stained thumb against the priest’s lips, smearing blood across them before slipping it between.

Warmth. Tongue. Heat. A low moan ghosted between them.

Lorenzo’s tongue darted out, tasting himself with quiet reverence. His hand slid upward, threading into Seran’s dark, earthy auburn hair, gripping tight. In one fierce tug, he pulled the vampire down, mouths crashing together.

Teeth clashed. Noses pressed. Lips bruised.

A sharp nip to Seran’s bottom lip—then a rough slap to his ass, followed by a firm, possessive squeeze.

Lorenzo thrust upward into him, grinding hard. Their hips collided—a cruel meeting of ache and friction, trapped beneath layers of fabric.

A low growl vibrated in the wolf’s throat, primal and hungry.

Seran exhaled a ragged breath, his voice husky and electric as he dragged his lips down Lorenzo’s jaw. “Are you going to rut me, Father?” His words were a sin themselves, whispered filth in a sacred place. “Or are we just going to keep dry humping on this chapel floor?”

That growl finally broke free.

In one swift motion, Lorenzo rose—lifting Seran with him like he weighed nothing. Then—slam. The vampire’s back hit the cold stone altar, knocking the breath clean from his lungs. A hand found his throat again, pinning him there. Lorenzo leaned in close, his lips brushing Seran’s ear, voice rough and wrapped around a snarl. “You want to be rutted, vamp?” A beat. His grin turned wicked. “Then I’ll rut you until the only prayer this chapel hears is my name pouring from those pretty lips.”

Seran lay pinned, hands gripping the forearm that circled his throat. Not in fear, but in readiness. He held no panic in his gaze, only the sharp glint of anticipation. Should he need to reclaim control, he would. But for now, he watched. And waited.

With a single rough pull, his clothes were torn open. Fabric split beneath rough fingers, baring his chest, the sculpted lines of his abdomen catching in the low candlelight. His trousers came next—slower, deliberate. Peeled down, discarded.

Seran remained still, bare and waiting, sprawled across the altar like some unholy offering laid out for the wolf in shepherd’s skin.

He watched Lorenzo’s eyes roam his body—dark, burning, starved. And Seran smiled, slow and wicked. “Is the big bad wolf thinking of devouring me?” His voice teasing. But the smirk faded as the hand at his throat tightened just enough to still him, to claim him. His lips parted, breath caught. The sound that slipped from him was soft, breathless and far too close to a moan.

Lorenzo’s other hand moved between Seran’s thighs, fingers wrapping around the vampire’s hardened cock. His grip was slow, unhurried and teasing. His thumb circled the slick crown, pressing firmly against the sensitive tip.

“Such a filthy thing you are,” he murmured, voice low and languid, his expression unreadable beneath the candlelight’s flicker. He lifted his hand, thumb glistening with Seran’s arousal, and brought it to his lips. His tongue dragged slowly along the pad—a deliberate taste—before taking it into his mouth fully, savoring the salty musk.

Then he stepped back, his touch vanishing like a sudden withdrawal of grace. 

Seran’s brows drew together. He sat up, confusion edging his features as Lorenzo turned away from him—calm, collected—as though none of it touched him.

He began to undress. Each layer of priestly garb peeled away with slow precision, fabric sliding off warm flesh like relics being unwrapped from an altar. He folded them carefully and laid them across the front pew. Holy vestments laid aside for something far more carnal.

He didn’t look back at Seran. “Step down and present yourself to me,” Lorenzo commanded, voice even, almost dispassionate. No fire. No glance. Just expectation.

Outside, the storm had softened. Only the gentle patter of rain remained. The scent of petrichor slipped through the chapel’s old stone cracks—wet earth, cleansing rot—and mingled with something heavier. Lorenzo’s pheromones. Thick. Pervasive. Intoxicating. It was the same scent that clung to his blood. Earth and spice and heat. 

Seran tilted his head, lips curling faintly as his body stepped down from stone, his shirt tossed aside. “Present myself?” he echoed, voice edged in challenge.

Lorenzo finally turned, lifting a glass decanter from where it had rolled. Knocked loose during their earlier struggle. It sloshed as he moved, golden anointing oil catching the light like liquid fire. 

“Yes.”

Lorenzo closed the distance with silent purpose. Their eyes met before he turned Seran with a swift, decisive grip. A firm palm pressed between the vampire’s shoulder blades, guiding him down with unceremonious force until his bare chest met the altar’s cold stone. A soft gasp left Seran’s lips, skin prickling against the chill.

“Present yourself, Seran,” the priest growled, his leg nudging between the vampire’s to part them wider. He didn’t wait for obedience. He took it.

Lorenzo clutched the cork between his teeth, pulled it free, and spit it aside with a clatter.

“So virtuous of you, Father,” Seran murmured, breath catching as warm oil spilled across the small of his back. It flowed slowly, slipping between the cleft of his cheeks. “To take me beneath the watchful eyes of your Lord. Tell me—how will you repent after this?”

“Quiet.” 

The word cracked like thunder, sharp and low, as Lorenzo pressed harder between his shoulders—pinning him firmly. The decanter was cast away, forgotten. 

One hand remained firm on Seran’s back. The other found the heavy shaft of his own cock, guiding it through the trail of oil. His breath grew heavier with each stroke—slick, steady, reverent—as he coated himself in preparation.

Again, he dragged the head through the cleft, letting it catch and press against Seran’s waiting hole, oil pooling and glistening where skin met skin. The tip pushed in—slow, thick pressure breaching him.

Seran’s jaw clenched, his fang pricking his lower lip as the first stretch sent shivers down his spine.

A breathy moan escaped both of them—one ragged, one ruined.

Lorenzo sank deeper, steady and relentless, movements measured like prayer. Each inch claimed was a vow broken. Seran remained bent, pinned in place, claws scratching into the altar’s stone edge as he braced against the pressure—against the sweet, aching fullness of being taken.

The wolf’s breath fanned across Seran’s spine, warm and uneven, as he leaned in close. One hand braced against the altar beside his shoulder; the other gripped his hip with bruising force.

Teeth grazed along Seran’s back—a warning, a promise—before delivering a sharp nip. A soft whimper escaped him. Then a moan, long and broken, as Lorenzo’s bite sank deeper into the flesh of his shoulder. Claiming. Branding.

“Lor—enzo,” the name fractured on his tongue, stuttered around a gasp.

“Say my name again,” the wolf growled, low and husky, his lips dragging across flushed skin before he bit again—harder this time, as his hips drove forward in merciless rhythm.

His hand left Seran’s hip, reaching around to wrap firmly around his cock. He stroked in time with each thrust, the wet slide of oil and precum only stoking the fire between them.

“Lorenzo,” Seran moaned again, cheek pressed to the stone, breath shallow. His lids were heavy, lips parted. He was a beautiful, undone thing. “Don’t stop… keep going,” he purred, voice loose and sweet, like a kitten drunk on milk, drool slicking the corner of his mouth. “Deeper…”

One hand reached, searching, fingers curling around the firm muscle of Lorenzo’s forearm. He guided it beside his head, his tongue dragging across the taut skin before—Fangs.

They pierced through with a single, fluid motion.

Lorenzo moaned—low, thick, touched by pain and pleasure. A wince curled his lips even as his hips never slowed.

Seran drank deep.

The blood was molten, sweet and heady, laced with the edge of rut. It coated his tongue and dripped down his throat, heat blooming through his chest as his body tensed around the fullness inside him.

His own pleasure snapped tight. A wave of ecstasy crashed through him—a hot, breathless high. His spine arched as his balls drew tight and release struck him, sudden and sharp. His moan was muffled against flesh, lips still parted around the wound as blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.

Still, Lorenzo’s hand didn’t stop. Stroking him through it, dragging out every tremor, every gasp.

Seran’s mouth parted in a gasp, eyes widening. “Wait… Lorenzo…” The name fell from him in a breathless moan as he felt himself stretch—fuller, impossibly full—until Lorenzo’s hips began to slow, then still.

He was knotted inside him, a deep, throbbing anchor that made Seran keen softly against the altar.

A ragged moan tore from the wolf’s chest, low and guttural as his cum flooded Seran’s stretched walls. The overwhelming warmth made Seran’s legs tremble, nails scraping the altar.

Both of Lorenzo’s hands came down beside him, bracing hard against the stone. His arms caged the vampire in, the thick scent of sweat and sex and rut coiling in the air between them.

For a long moment, the chapel was silent. Only the sound of their breathing filled the hollow space, echoing off old stone.

Seran swallowed thickly, still bent over, hips trembling. He could feel it all—the pulsing, the stretch, the weight of it inside him. “Did you just—” his voice faltered, thick with disbelief and lingering bliss.

Lorenzo’s voice was gravel. “You let a werewolf fuck you during his rut.”

The knot began to ease, pressure fading as Lorenzo slowly pulled back. A wet, reluctant sound followed, and with it came the slow trickle of warmth down Seran’s thighs.

Seran moved to straighten, to stand. But Lorenzo’s palm came down firmly between his shoulder blades, shoving him flat against the altar once more.

“What are you doing?” Seran hissed, glancing over his shoulder, fangs flashing.

But Lorenzo didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes were lowered—fixed on the mess he’d made. Watching his cum drip from the vampire’s gaping hole, glistening down his thighs like spilled wine on sacred cloth.

“My rut isn’t over,” Lorenzo growled, his voice low, tight, and hungry. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing between slick cheeks as he spread him. “You said you’d satiate me…” A pause. “I am not sated yet.”