The Witch and The Priest by Tessa Kelwyn
The Witch and The Priest
Description
Rowan has always been her coven's disgrace-too weak to matter, too powerless to fear. Until she discovers she's been chosen as the blood sacrifice for a ritual that will slaughter thousands. So she runs. Hunted by her own sisters, she stumbles into the last place any witch should seek refuge: St. Crispin's Cathedral. She lies her way inside, posing as a woman fleeing an abusive past. The kind priest who bandages her wounds and offers her sanctuary has no idea what she truly is. Father Mikael has no idea he's sheltering a monster. But Rowan soon discovers a secret of her own-Mikael isn't just a priest. The attraction between them is undeniable-and absolutely forbidden. But with the solstice approaching, her sisters closing in, and a dangerous power awakening in her blood, Rowan must decide how far she'll go to survive.
Chapter 1
Mar 6, 2026
POV Rowan
The alarm shrieked at 4:47 AM, three minutes before I actually needed to wake up. I'd been awake for hours anyway, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked different in the dark—less like a butterfly, more like a bloodstain.
My fingers automatically went to the crumpled bills I kept under my pillow, counting by touch. Enough for another week's rent on this shithole room above the laundromat, maybe some ramen if I was careful.
Five weeks. I'd survived five weeks since fleeing the Briar Estate, which felt like both an eternity and no time at all. And four more months until the Winter Solstice, until Mother would perform her ritual with or without me—though we both knew she needed me specifically.
Because my worthless, weak, pathetic blood suddenly mattered more than anything else in the world.
"The magic demands blood of my blood. Rowan has been preserved for this purpose."
Preserved. Like I was some kind of specimen in a jar, kept alive just long enough to be useful. What a fucking bitches, all of them.
I swung my legs over the edge of the narrow bed and padded to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass. No black sedans, no figures in expensive coats watching from doorways, no sisters with fire dancing around their fingers and murder in their eyes.
Another day survived. Well done, Ro.
The shower down the hall had been broken for two days, so I settled for splashing cold water on my face from the tiny sink. My reflection looked back at me—hollow-cheeked, dark circles under gray-green eyes, auburn hair that needed cutting hanging limp around my shoulders.
I looked exactly like what I was: a girl barely surviving on borrowed time.
The diner was a fifteen-minute walk through Portland's pre-dawn streets. Mel's Place sat wedged between a used bookstore and a dry cleaner, its neon sign flickering weakly against the November darkness.
The bell above the door chimed as I slipped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee and bacon grease.
"Morning, sunshine," called Jerry, the cook, from behind the pass. "You look like hell warmed over."
"Feel about the same," I replied, tying my apron around my waist.
Jerry is sixty-something, permanently grease-stained and had never asked why a girl my age worked double shifts and jumped every time the door opened. I loved him for that even more.
The morning rush was the same familiar faces.
Construction workers grabbing coffee and donuts before heading to job sites. Office workers checking phones while nursing lattes. An elderly couple who came in every Tuesday and Thursday, always ordered the same thing, always left exact change plus a dollar tip.
"More coffee?" I asked the trucker at table six, a burly man named Dave. His wedding ring caught the fluorescent light as he reached for his cup.
"You know what I'd really like more of?" Dave's smile was supposed to be charming, but made my skin crawl. "How about you give me your number, pretty girl, and I'll show you a real good time when I come through town again."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not really dating anyone right now." The lie came wrapped in a kind of polite smile. "Can I get you anything else? Pie? Jerry made apples this morning."
Dave's expression soured slightly, but he nodded toward the pie case. Men like him were easy to handle—all surface charm and wounded pride. Nothing like the predators I'd grown up with.
My break came at two-thirty and I slipped out the back exit into the alley, pulling a cigarette from the crumpled pack I'd bought three days ago. The nicotine was harsh in my lungs, but it gave my hands something to do besides shake.
From my back pocket, I pulled out the photograph I kept like a talisman—the only proof I had of a different life.
My father, Daniel, held a toddler version of myself in front of a cottage by a lake.
His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that still made my chest tight. My pudgy baby hands were reaching toward the camera, probably toward whoever was taking the picture.
I like to think that I remember the sound of his voice, teaching me the names of flowers in the garden, laughter that had nothing cruel hiding behind it. The warm hands, the smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings… Mother had told me he abandoned us when I was four.
Humans couldn't be trusted, she'd said.
Love was a weakness. Men left when things got difficult.
But looking at this photograph, at the way he held me like I was something precious instead of something broken, I'd never quite believed her story.
I was stubbing out the cigarette when I heard the bell chime inside. Time to get back to work. The late shift was always busy—the dinner crowd, then the after-work drinkers who wanted coffee to sober up before heading home to families who deserved better.
But when I pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen, everything changed.
She is beautiful in a way that makes smart people stupid and strong people weak. Dark hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, and she moved with the fluid grace of a predator who'd never known fear.
She wore expensive clothes that somehow looked casual, designer jeans and a cashmere sweater. When she smiled at Jerry, asking for a seat at the counter, her voice was honey and silk and poison all wrapped together.
Morgana—my oldest sister.
The one who'd given me the scar along my cheekbone when I tried to run away at sixteen. The one who'd held my face to a mirror afterward and whispered, "So you never forget who you belong to."
My blood turned to ice water in my veins.
She didn't approach immediately—that wasn't Morgana's style. Sister ordered coffee and sat at the counter, stirring cream with delicate precision while her eyes tracked my every movement.
She wants me to sweat, to understand that there truly was no escape, no matter how far I ran or how carefully I hid, while I served other customers on autopilot. But my hands are somehow steady despite the terror clawing up my throat.
Maybe she'd leave. Maybe this was just psychological torture, a reminder that they could find me anywhere. But when I retreated to the back hallway twenty minutes later, hoping to slip out through the delivery entrance, Morgana was already waiting.
"You've gotten thinner, little sister," she said, examining her manicured nails with casual interest, fire magic dancing in lazy spirals around her fingers. "Mother's worried about you. You know how she gets when her children don't take care of themselves."
"Mother wants to bleed me dry on an altar," I replied, backing toward the exit.
My hand found the door handle, but Morgana's smile stopped me cold. "Same thing, really."
Her laugh was like silver bells and breaking glass.
"But you shouldn't have run so far, Rowan. It only made Mother angrier, and you know what happens when Mother gets angry."
My heart hammered against my ribs as I pressed my back to the door. "I'm not going back."
"Oh, sweetheart." Morgana steps slowly, her movements liquid and inevitable. "You've had your little adventure, played at being human, but playtime is over. Mother needs you home for the holidays. Family is so important, don't you think?"
Her hand rose, and flames began to dance around her fingers in earnest now—hot enough that I could feel the heat from ten feet away. But I was already crashing through the back door into the alley.
The Witch and The Priest
30 Chapters
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