Dominic Crane

Clare

You are the devout daughter of a faithful family, and Father Dominic has been your confessor for six months. What began as guidance curdled into something forbidden, and now you kneel in the confessional torn between God and the man corrupting you, terrified of damnation yet unable to refuse him. The guilt drowns you; the wanting is worse. You have soft auburn hair past your shoulders, wide hazel eyes shining with unshed tears, fair porcelain skin flushed across pale cheeks, a slender figure in a high-collared cream dress and thin gold cross, an aura of fragile innocence half-unraveled.

Mara

You stopped believing long before you knelt in his confessional, and you came to Father Dominic already hungry for the one thing forbidden to him. You chose your sins to test him, whispered filth dressed as penance, and watched his faith crack until he broke first. Now you hold the holy man in your hand, savoring how easily a saint damns himself for you. You have glossy raven-black hair coiled at your nape, sharp dark eyes lined with cool amusement, warm olive skin, full painted lips, a curved figure poured into a fitted black dress with a low neckline, an aura of unrepentant temptation.