Chapter 1
The chapel was a tomb of heat and silence, suffocating in its holiness. The stale scent of old incense clung to the air, like burnt herbs and candlewax soaked into stone. Dust motes floated lazily in slanting beams of light from the high, stained glass windows. Saints watched from their alcoves, their carved faces solemn and disapproving, as if they too were weary of Sister Mirantha’s eternal sermons.
Evaneth sat stiffly on the cold wooden pew, shifting just enough to ease the pressure on her tailbone. Her pale blue habit clung to her in the heat—modest, scratchy linen, tied tight at her waist, with sleeves that bunched irritatingly at her elbows. Her golden hair had been braided and coiled at her crown, a few strands escaping to stick to the flushed skin of her temples. Her blue eyes stared ahead, glazed over.
“…to give in to flesh is to invite corruption of the soul,” droned Sister Mirantha, her voice as dry and unyielding as the heel of last week’s bread. “And remember, purity is not simply what you do, but what you think. A single impure thought invites the devil to feast at the table of your mind—”
Brianna, seated beside her with a slouch that was practically blasphemous, leaned in and whispered behind her hand, “Sure she can lecture us on purity. Look at her. Just one glare from that holy crypt keeper could shrivel every cock for a hundred miles.”
Evaneth choked on a laugh, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle it. Brianna smirked, pleased with herself.
Evaneth had arrived at the nunnery when she was just eight years old, bundled in silk and confusion. Her mother had kissed her forehead without affection, murmuring something about duty and preservation, and her father had spoken only to the abbess, ensuring that their daughter would remain pure until she was old enough to marry well. A noble girl, hidden away behind stone walls like a polished jewel tucked into a drawer, meant to be untouched until some titled stranger claimed her.
Brianna had no such legacy. She’d was an orphan, or so the Sisters said—left swaddled on the doorstep one stormy night with no note, no name, and no claim. She was raised on charity, and prayers, her hair always unruly and her tongue even worse. The nunnery was the only home she’d ever known.
Despite their opposite origins, the girls had become fast friends—two souls who didn’t quite belong. Evaneth, with her golden hair and inherited future. Brianna, with dirt on her knees and nothing to lose. And perhaps that was what bound them so tightly: one girl who longed for freedom, and one who had it, and still wanted more.
Sister Mirantha paused mid-sentence. Her head turned slowly. The silence crackled.
Both girls sat perfectly still, hands folded demurely in their laps, faces wide with faux-innocence.
The nun's eyes narrowed. Then she turned back to her lecture, voice sharp and slow, as if daring them to interrupt again. Evaneth mouthed you’re going to get us killed, but Brianna only grinned and mouthed back, worth it.
By the end of the third hour, when even the saints seemed to be dozing in their alcoves, the final hymn was sung, and Sister Mirantha ordered the girls to attend afternoon prayers.
Evaneth and Brianna did not.
Instead, they slipped from the chapel through a side passage, giggling like foxes let loose in the henhouse. Outside, the sun beat warm on their backs, the meadow thick with bees and wildflowers. The only shade in sight was the great weeping willow behind the herb garden, a beast of a tree with bark like wrinkled skin and long, green tendrils that brushed the earth like curtains.
They ducked beneath the branches, into the shaded alcove it created—a hidden sanctuary where the light dappled and the scent of earth and moss replaced incense and rot.
Brianna dropped to the grass with a thump, pulling a silver flask from beneath her skirt. Her wild brown curls frizzed in the heat, and her cheeks were already flushed from laughter and mischief. Her green eyes shined.
Evaneth’s eyes widened. “Did you—”
Brianna grinned with wicked pride. “Did I steal the communal blood of Christ? Yes. Yes, I did.”
Evaneth gasped, half-shocked, half-amused, swatting her with a laugh. “You heathen!”
Brianna toasted her with mock reverence, took a long sip, then sprawled back in the grass. “I’m going to hell for the good stuff.”
Evaneth shook her head, settling down beside her, pulling a small book from the inside of her bodice. It was worn soft with use, the title inked in a careful hand: On the Mating Rituals and Anatomy of Centaurs, Volume II.
Brianna raised a brow. “Oh gods. Not that book again.”
But Evaneth had already cracked it open and was leaning back against the trunk of the tree, lost to the text. The pages were filled with anatomical sketches, archaic field notes, and long paragraphs on centaur arousal cycles.
Centaurs had to mate once a week at least, or they would become feral, their animalistic instincts taking over.
One particular passage caught her breath.
The preferred position for full centaur penetration requires the female to lie prone, hips elevated, to accommodate the natural downward angle of the centaur’s phallus. Failure to align properly may result in physical trauma or dislodged hips…
Her cheeks flamed. She turned the page—
And there it was: a detailed drawing of a centaur rearing above a naked woman, her breasts pressed to the grass, her rear raised. The centaur’s cock lay across her spine, thick, long, impossibly heavy.
Evaneth's thighs pressed together. Her breath caught.
Brianna, now tipsy and curious, leaned over her shoulder. Her eyes went wide. “Gods. His cock is as long as she is!”
Evaneth giggled awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It is. It’s... huge, isn’t it?”
Brianna raised a brow, her cheeks flushed from drink and mischief. “I wonder what it’s like, you know… to be one of those village girls they use for mating with the centaurs.”
Evaneth’s heart fluttered.
Brianna went on, voice hushed and dreamy, her head tipped back against the willow trunk. “We always see them when they come—staying in that separate wing, like they’re too holy or too filthy for the rest of us. They wear those little dresses that cling to their thighs, all sheer muslin and laces that just beg to be untied.” She chuckled under her breath. “And they walk around like they’ve already been fucked that morning—hips loose, faces glowing. You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”
Evaneth nodded slowly. She had. She remembered the way the girls would slip in just before dusk, always arriving in pairs or threes, always laughing behind their hands. Their skin bronzed from field work, eyes bright, hair braided with wildflowers. And at night… gods. The sounds.
Brinna lowered her voice further, her breath warm. “And the noises, Evaneth. The moans, the cries. Sometimes I wake up just to listen. One of them once screamed so loud I thought she’d been killed. But then I heard her beg for more.” She gave a crooked smile. “Whatever happens out there… it’s not prayer.”
Evaneth swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. Her mind had already begun to drift.
She imagined the pasture at night, soft with moonlight, the grass high and swaying. The air thick with the scent of sweat and damp soil and musk. A centaur—massive, dark, primal—hovering over her, the heat of his body swallowing hers. His breath hot on her neck, heavy and animal, as he snorted and pawed at the ground, needing her. Claiming her.
She imagined her dress already torn open, her body slick with anticipation, her thighs trembling. His cock—thick, long, veined and blunt—sliding against her folds, teasing her entrance. She’d be dripping by then, aching, her scent driving him mad. He’d snort again, rear up, and press her down to the earth—one large hand on the small of her back, the other gripping her hips with inhuman strength.
Her knees would dig into the soil, breasts pressed to the grass, her ass raised and exposed, ready. And when he entered her—gods, she’d scream. The stretch would be unbearable, then exquisite. Her body would seize around him, and he wouldn’t stop—he’d rut her with wild rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, her voice echoing into the night as she came, again and again, her mind breaking open with pleasure.
The scent of sex. Of soil. Of submission.
Brinna’s voice broke through the haze. “Evaneth?”
Evaneth blinked, dazed, her lips parted, breath shallow.
Brinna peered at her. “You’re actually sweating. Gods, what were you thinking about?”
Evaneth tried to laugh it off, but her voice came out soft, almost reverent. “I was just… wondering what it’s like. To be one of them.”
Brinna gave her a long, amused look. “You weren’t wondering. You were practically fucking the air.”
Evaneth flushed crimson. “I was not!”
“You were drooling, my sweet little depraved noble.” Brinna took a long drink from the flask, then waggled her brows. “You’ve got it bad. I think you’d let one mount you right here under this tree if you could.”
Evaneth huffed, clutching the book to her chest. But she didn’t deny it.
Brinna leaned in, voice suddenly softer. “You know they need it, don’t you? The centaurs. If they don’t… if they go too long without rutting, they start to lose control. The beast part of them takes over. That’s why the village girls are brought in every week.”
Evaneth’s thighs pressed together again.
Brinna sat back with a grin. “Gods help us if you’re ever left alone with one.”
They lay there beneath the willow, trading theories and secrets, Brinna sipping and Evaneth reading aloud scandalous lines in a hushed whisper. The air grew cooler as the sun dipped lower, and Brinna’s laughter slowed, her eyes glassy, her words looser.
Eventually, Evaneth tucked the book back into her bodice, pulled Brinna upright, and looped her arm around her waist.
“Come on, drunkard,” she whispered, helping her up the slope, back toward the dormitory wing. The nunnery loomed ahead, ancient and grim against the twilight sky.
They crept through the side hall, just in time to join the dinner line. Holding their breath, afraid of being notice.
Brianna hiccuped loudly. Evaneth shook her head, the little drunkard was going to be the end of them.
Dinner was watery soup that smelled faintly of cabbage, and a single hunk of stale bread. Brinna dunked hers in the soup. Grinning across the table.
Evaneth, still flushed and tingling, said nothing. Her thoughts weren’t in the chapel, or the mess hall, or even the dormitory where she’d sleep on a hard cot under a crucifix.
Her thoughts were on the pastures. The scent of pleasure, and sweaty glistening bodies. The powerful centaurs that roamed nearby. One day, one day she'd meet a centaur.
