A Prayer Before Sinning
by Sandrine Shaw

"I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother."

With her head bowed in prayer, Lucrezia knelt on the hard stone floor of the chapel.

Ten days since Alfonso's funeral, and her skin was pristine and white and bloodless again, just as Cesare had promised. But her hands still felt soiled and sticky, and the sweet scent of the poison mingled with the coppery tang of blood seemed permanently burnt into her nose.

"To you do I come; before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful."

She spoke the familiar words quietly into the silence of the empty chapel, and the echo was louder and heavier than it should have been, coming down on her like condemnation and choking her.

They'd murdered her husband together, she and Cesare, and no amount of prayer and confession would relieve her of that guilt. Alfonso had died by Cesare's blade and her poison, a victim of Cesare's jealousy and his ambition as well as her sweet mercy. Her infidelity, too, her unholy longing for what she should not have wanted yet had taken for herself, time and time again – and that she couldn't bear to regret, even if it had cost her sweet husband so dearly.

Her lips stopped moving mid-sentence.

What good was prayer when she didn't repent? How could she ask for forgiveness if she did not intend to stop sinning? Her eyes opened, brimming with tears that multiplied all the flames from the candles around her and made them melt into a fiery sea of red and yellow.

"Amen," a low voice said behind her.

Lucrezia startled and twisted around. Dressed in black and half-hidden in the shadows, Cesare was leaning against the front row of wooden benches, watching her with such heat in his gaze that Lucrezia felt the intensity of it might scorch her.

"Brother. I thought I was alone." She didn't bother keeping the accusation out of her tone. In time, she would forgive Cesare, even if she wouldn't forgive herself for her own hand in Alfonso's death — but until then, his presence felt like poison burning down her throat and pounding through her veins, eating her up from the inside.

"I was worried about you."

Cesare's eyes didn't leave her. He pushed himself away from the benches and came walking towards her with sure, purposeful steps. In the dim candlelight, he looked imposing, like a dark lion stalking its prey before it tore it apart. For a split second, the thought scared her, before Lucrezia remembered that she was no one's prey – she was a Borgia, a predator by nature, every bit as dangerous and deadly as her brother. She wiped her tears away and stood, meeting him on equal footing.

"You've locked yourself away since your husband's death. Are you grieving, my love, or are you avoiding me?" He reached up and cradled her cheek with his hand, thumb brushing over her lips in a gesture both gentle and possessive.

And God help her, she loved it. Loved the casual possessiveness of his touch, the warmth of his skin against hers, the feel of the rough calluses against tender flesh. Wanted those hands everywhere on her body, her desire like a bonfire burning away all the guilt and the remorse and the anger. It felt blasphemous, to be consumed by such longing in a place that had no room for worldly desires, when she had only minutes before been kneeling down to pray.

"Can I not do both?" She was aiming for a forbidding tone, admonishing Cesare for taking those liberties when she hadn't encouraged them, but her words sounded too teasing, all the harsh edges smoothed out by those tender feelings for her brother that she couldn't shake. "Grieve for my unlucky husband whose only fault was in loving me, and at the same time avoid you who orchestrated his death?"

A frown furrowed Cesare's forehead. "Hasn't my only fault been in loving you as well?"

There was a new, unfamiliar sort of regret in his voice, ill-fitting against her brother's usual certainty and confidence, and Lucrezia instantly hated it with a fiery passion. She shook her head vehemently. "No. Don't say that. That's not a fault. Not from you. You may have many faults, Cesare, but that's not one of them."

She leaned into his touch, brushing her lips against the palm of his hand – a helpless gesture of absolution, trying to convey the depth of her emotions. Despite everything, she couldn't bear the idea of Cesare regretting his affections for her. The mere thought turned her stomach and overwhelmed her with sickness. She'd gladly trade all the husbands and lovers in the world, the lives of every stranger she'd come to care for, for Cesare's love, if that's what it took.

His grip on her chin tightened, turning almost painful for a brief, tense moment before it fell away.

"Good. Because I'm not going to stop loving you. Not as long as I breathe." Then his mouth was on hers, harsh and greedy — like punishment, like a promise, like an eternal unholy vow, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

His hands roamed across her body, brushing softly across the neckline of her dress, toying with the fastenings of her bodice, and finally lacing their fingers together in the parody of a prayer.

His voice, too, sounded reverent. The words were spoken right against Lucrezia's lips, with Cesare's breath fanning across her face, warming her where the coolness of the room left her freezing. "It scares me sometimes, how much I love you. How much I need you. I want to strip you of this dress, lay you out on the floor and have you right here, claim you as mine right before God."

His skin gleamed golden in the soft light from the candles, and in the spark of his eyes, Lucrezia saw a reflection of her own desire. If she were a better person – a less wretched and greedy person, more pious, less driven by her passion – those words would have made her turn away and run.

Instead, she stole another breathless kiss from her brother's lips and, with a smile, whispered, "Then do it."

The blasphemy of it should have made the mighty church walls around them crumble to dust and bury them beneath it. But like her bond with Cesare, the walls persisted — solid and resilient, all but indestructible in their endurance and their strength.

End.