Author Kait Ballenger whips up a spicy sequel to Original Sinner, a no-holds-barred dark romance where the devil and his queen-to-be explore the bounds of kink, even as they stand on the brink of war.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Kait Ballenger’s Wicked Believer, which releases on September 9th 2025.
I wasn’t always immortal. And I’m not sure I’ll ever get the hang of it. Not like Lucifer, a.k.a. Pride. He and the other seven deadly sins, the high-profile billionaires who run this city, make the divine life look easy.
I came to New York a good, if damaged, Christian girl. Then Lucifer opened my eyes to the darkness. To the hunger burning inside me. To a world of pain and pleasure like nothing I’ve ever known. Now it’s all I crave. He’s all I crave.
But as I grapple with this new existence—and the events that led me to it—unseen forces push me and Lucifer apart. Paparazzi track my every move, Lucifer’s family plays their wicked games, and I hardly know who I am anymore. Or who I’m meant to be.
A celestial war is brewing, and Lucifer’s siblings are out for blood—and the dark power inside me calls me to join the fight.
Charlotte
People love to make heroes and villains out of ordinary men.
I stare down at my father’s coffin, the black lacquered casket gleaming. His supporters shout in the distance, which in the middle of a dusky Kansas cornfield means it’s impossible to tell who the protesters are and who are paparazzi, but still, I refuse to look at them, pretending to listen to my father’s eulogy. The autumn air outside is cold. Frigid and wet. Cold enough my high-heeled toes are nearly as numb as I feel. But I don’t need to hear the minister’s prayers to know exactly where my father’s heading.
Lucifer will make sure of that, even if I ask him not to.
I don’t ask.
I feel his smooth hand in mine, his tall frame looming at my side. Lucifer’s dark gaze levels on the minister in an expression that’s supposed to appear solemn, or so it seems. Ever since I went to work as an intern for his company several months ago, I’ve belonged to him, and he to me. Or so I thought, until recently.
Now I’m starting to think Lucifer might belong to no one. Least of all me.
He feels my gaze on him then, his dark eyes flicking toward me as the corner of his mouth curls. “Eyes forward, Charlotte.”
Like a good girl, I do as I’m told, turning back to the minister as I whisper, “Yes, sir.”
Lucifer’s grip on my hand tightens, his thumb caressing my skin in approval. He may not be my boss anymore, but he’s never had to give me a paycheck for me to call him sir. I’ve been his submissive since long before I understood what that word truly means. But being his completely, irrevocably, suits me.
Though these days, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my doubts.
“Would you like to say a few words?”
I blink, suddenly realizing that the minister’s speaking to me. I’m the only surviving member of my father’s family, after all, not to mention the closest thing to a mortal here, aside from the so-called minister, at least. Whoever he is, I’m pretty sure he’s no more a preacher than I am a virgin, but with the obscene amount of money Lucifer’s paying him, he’ll be whatever we need him to be.
Reluctantly, I step forward, shuffling past the gathered line of mourners, which consists of a few paid pallbearers, and the Original sinners. Lucifer, Azmodeus, Leviathan, Satan, Belphegor, Beelzebub, and Mammon. Or “Mimi,” as she insists I call her. Pride, Lust, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Gluttony, and Greed, respectively.
It’s a rare sight, all seven of them together like this. These days they prefer to live topside. In New York City. Though currently we’re a far cry from home.
I hurry past them, trying hard not to make eye contact, though I can feel their gazes on me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I’m fairly certain if it weren’t for Lucifer, I’d be dead before morning.
But for all the cruel games they play, Lucifer’s siblings fall in line easily, each of them keeping their distance as I head toward the podium. They know better than to risk Lucifer’s fury, for today at least. Things are different now that Lucifer gifted their Father’s redemption to me. I’m no longer their brother’s harmless mortal plaything.
Now I’m something else entirely.
Not that we’ve figured out what, exactly.
I step onto the makeshift pulpit beside my father’s grave. A few extravagant bouquets of narcissus flowers wait for me alongside several large photographs of me and my father. The pictures make me look like the ever-dutiful daughter I once tried to be. The daughter I was for the first twenty-three years of my life. Before I decided I no longer wanted to be Daddy’s broken little girl.
Now I serve a different kind of villain.
I glance toward Lucifer, my stomach fluttering the moment our eyes meet in a way that’s all too familiar. The nod he gives me is meant to be supportive, encouraging, but still, it makes my knees go weak. I can’t help but imagine what wicked things he’s thinking—maybe how I’d taste on his honeyed tongue. Like he hasn’t already claimed me in every way imaginable. Though with him, I’m always eager for more. We’re insatiable, really.
Sex has never been our problem.
I swallow down the longing that thought sparks in my chest before my gaze flits from him out toward the waiting crowd. It’s a motley crew from three distinct sources. My father’s congregants—members of the Righteous, the far-right fundamentalist hate group my oh-so-loving preacher for a dad founded to spite me. Then there are Lucifer’s fans and mine, our supporters. And finally, the true bottom-feeders, the paparazzi who stalk us endlessly.
From here, it’s hard at first to tell any of them apart. In the twilight, the flashes of their cameras nearly blind me. But despite the fact that I’m here at the funeral of the one man who should have protected me, several of their signs are clearly meant to hurt me.
Little whore.
That’s one of the Righteous’s favorites.
Followed by Bride of Satan.
I roll my eyes at that one. Lucifer and I aren’t actually married, and though I’m still wearing his ring on my finger, our initial engagement was fake. The media’s not exactly aware of that little detail. Not to mention, Satan is technically Lucifer’s brother, Wrath. People often get that wrong. To the Righteous, the Originals are all the same. Seven devils cut from the same cloth.
But my personal favorite is a sign that simply reads You’re going to Hell.
I scoff.
Like I’m not already its willing queen.
I shake my head, turning back toward the funeral. It’s only fair, I suppose. My father, their precious martyr, wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for me . . .
My attention slides back toward Lucifer. We haven’t spoken about it directly, but he doesn’t need to say it out loud for me to know. He doesn’t regret a thing.
Killing my father. Lying. Manipulating me.
The last one, most especially.
I keep silent, tamping down the resentment that stirs in me despite my desire.
My father’s place in Hell will be particularly punishing.
Though I can’t help but wonder if Lucifer killed him for me or his own twisted ends . . .
I glance down at the lectern. A prepared speech is there, something Imani or someone in Lucifer’s PR team wrote for me. In the mix of the media chaos over the last few weeks, I didn’t even think to prepare my own father’s eulogy, and honestly, I’m not certain I would have if I’d been given the chance.
My gaze finds Lucifer’s again, this time staying there.
Like there’s no one there except for him and me.
His intensity sears through me, his expression downright devilish. With dark hair and even darker eyes that I swear sometimes hold a hint of hellfire when he looks at me, he’s painfully beautiful. So beautiful that it makes my chest ache.
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His is the face of God’s once-most-cherished angel.
A stark contrast to the villain I know he can be.
“My father used to beat me,” I say into the sudden quiet, surprising myself as the unscripted words drop from my lips. Several cameras flash distantly.
I ignore them, focused on my memories. Lucifer knows this, but it’s the first time I’ve admitted it publicly, and though it was supposed to be just me, his siblings, and the pallbearers present, this will no doubt be plastered across every newspaper stand and media outlet around the world come morning. “And his followers, his congregants, turned a blind eye.”
The words come out barely above a whisper, but I’m certain everyone hears me.
I look toward the nearby crowd, their silence as cold as the frozen ground beneath our feet. “He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t even try to be.” I stare down at my hands then, unable to stop the tears that gather, though I’m not sure whether they’re meant for my father or for me. “And I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
“Murderess! Jezebel!”
I suck in a harsh breath, gripping the lectern as someone from the crowd interrupts me before they’re quickly silenced and hauled away by the attending police.
Lucifer and I don’t go anywhere without a police escort these days. Not after the anthrax that was delivered to his penthouse—meant for me and sent by someone who didn’t know I’m immortal. I’m guessing they know now.
Privacy is a distant dream.
“But I wish . . . I wish I could be . . .” I mutter, struggling to collect my thoughts. “Sorry, that is.” I blink, surprised when a tear falls onto my hand where I clutch the lectern, the first and only I’ve shed for him, but I refuse to look up from where I speak into the microphone. “I wish he could have been the father I needed him to be. Wish he could have been so many things . . .” I glance toward Lucifer again, and I don’t need to see how his throat writhes as he swallows to understand he feels my words keenly.
They’re as much for him as they are for me.
I suck in another ragged breath, knowing this next part is likely to start a riot among the already-violent crowd, the people who are so eager to have a piece of Lucifer, of me. To tear me limb from limb for what they think I represent. But I don’t say it for them.
I say it for me.
And for Him.
The God I still pray to every night, when Lucifer isn’t listening.
“May God have mercy on his soul.” I barely manage to choke the words out before I’m stumbling off the platform.
The crowd turns mutinous in an instant, the mixture of my father’s congregants, the Righteous, and the paparazzi pushing past the SWAT team’s barriers and shields with ease. They’re overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. I don’t look toward them or the other Originals to gauge their reactions as I rush into Lucifer’s arms. All I know is that he catches me, pulling me into his chest and allowing me to bury my face in the smooth Italian wool of his Armani suit.
My eyes sting with tears as he ushers me away. The crowd surges forward, and before I fully know what’s happening, Lucifer’s shoving me into the safety of a waiting Lincoln Town Car. The door slams behind us, locking instantly as the vehicle starts to pull away.
“Vultures. All of them,” he growls.
Harsh faces plaster against the Town Car’s tinted windows, surrounding us as they scream their hatred at me. Somehow Dagon, Lucifer’s demon chauffer—freshly topside in a new human-skin suit that’s taken some getting used to—manages to inch the vehicle forward without running anyone over as I bury my face in my hands. I clamp a cold fist over my mouth, stifling my scream. I can’t look at them. I can’t.
We pull free from the crowd, and finally I lift my head to look out the window, watching at the last second as my father’s casket is hurriedly lowered into his grave and the riot police fruitlessly attempt to regain control.
But it’s the sight of what’s beneath that chills me.
My face presses against the cool glass as I struggle to breathe.
From the hole in the ground, dozens of pale, shadowed hands reach up toward my father’s casket as if to pull him down into the bowels of Hell beneath, and as I glance toward Lucifer, uncertain whether it’s the gravediggers’ doing or the fallen angel beside me, my stomach drops, and I know that, not for the first time, my prayers have fallen on deaf ears.
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