Maria carefully extracted her hair from Raphael’s hands. As quiet as could be, she crept out of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Her heart was racing with every step she made. She closed the door behind her. Turning, Maria caught sight of herself in the mirror. She didn’t move. She just stared at her reflection. At her mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She took a tentative step forward, and another. And as she drew closer to the mirror, she pushed the strap from her dress and let the fabric pool at her feet. Naked, she met her reflection. She ran her hands over her stomach and between her legs. She could still feel Raphael’s warm release kissing her flesh. She could still feel his calloused hand touching her, massaging the semen into her skin. Maria ghosted her fingers over her channel and felt her cheeks heat as though scalded by an open flame. But his semen on her flesh wasn’t what felt most sinful. That honor belonged to the thought of Raphael’s finger pushing inside her, a primal, savage expression on his face.
In that moment, he had claimed her as his own. Maria almost laughed. It wasn’t just this moment. For weeks now, Maria had been steadily falling further and further into Raphael’s arms. She had given herself to the killer—mind, body, and soul—because it was what God wanted. But with every pleasurable hour that passed in his rooms, each day in his arms, his mouth on her core, Maria could no longer pretend it was only God’s will that kept her in his bed. She felt a part of herself break away with the first orgasm he gave her. Felt that broken part of her anchor in his embrace. And he had kept her there, attached to his side.
She was no longer Sister Maria Agnes, but Maria, Raphael’s little rose.
Maria inhaled a shuddering breath. Lifting her hand, she stared at her palms, her fingers. She could still feel the echo of Raphael in her hands. She shook her head, recalling his need for her to hurt him. The despair on his face when he couldn’t grow hard. His anger as he backed her against the wall and slammed his hand above her head.
She had made him come.
Maria, with both hands strangling his penis, working it up and down, had made him come. And when he had . . . his face, as he looked down at her . . . it was as though she had offered him her soul on a gilded plate. He spoke her name like a benediction.
Maria . . . little rose . . .
Maria shuddered and closed her eyes, her skin breaking out into a million goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with a pair of golden eyes that had seared their way through her high walls and into her bruised heart.
Maria faced her reflection again, lifting her hand to the glass. “He is a lost soul, one who kills,” she whispered, yet she could only think of the pain he bore as he tore his room apart. As his face crumpled when he gripped onto the post, his body positioned as if someone were hurting him from behind. His back arched as though someone were lashing him, unleashing torrents of abuse. Tears sprung to Maria’s eyes when she thought of his back. Turning slowly, Maria faced the shower. Her hands shook at the thought of turning around. The entire day, since she had heard the butler mention today’s date, that date had plagued her mind, stabbed her heart and weakened her strength.
Maria’s feet were unsteady as she reached behind her and lifted her thigh-length hair off her back. The warm, still-damp bathroom air kissed her skin, the skin she never revealed. Turn, she silently told herself. This year she would do it. She was determined. This year she would face the pain of her past, allow the long-repressed memories to be exorcised, not locked away down deep. But when her arms weakened and she dropped her blanket of thick hair back into place, she knew she had failed again.
She liked to think that she was strong. She liked to pretend that she was here, with Raphael, in the manor of killers, for God. And she was. But the irony was, she was endeavoring to heal Raphael . . . yet she couldn’t even heal herself.
Maria stared at her naked body. She had no idea how long she had left to live. But she wanted to be at peace with her past when that time came. When she would sacrifice herself for the cause of saving a sinner, like many martyrs before her. Maria expelled a mirthless laugh. Because she was sure the martyrs who had died for their faith and their God had not done so liking it. A flicker of shame washed through Maria. Because Maria liked it. She liked the submission. She liked the control being torn from her hands. But worse, she liked being touched by Raphael’s skillful hands. She liked his tongue between her legs, and she liked his fingers thrusting inside her, making her splinter apart in pleasure. A hot flush raced up Maria’s neck. She bit her lip at the building pressure between her thighs. Just the thought of being touched so carnally caused her body to shake and shiver. Maria wondered if God had given her this enjoyment to help her heal Raphael. Or whether it was just Raphael, period. She and Raphael together that made something dormant inside her come to life.
When she opened her eyes, her pupils had almost eradicated the blue of her irises. She was exhausted. She was spent. Maria glanced at the shower and moved to turn it on, to wash Raphael’s release from her skin. But her feet stopped in the center of the bathroom, and instead she picked up her dress from the floor and pulled it back on.
She had no idea why she wanted to keep her skin so sullied. But she smelled Raphael all around her. His scent was intoxicating. But strangely, it made her feel safe. She almost laughed at the irony. Her kidnapper and killer making her feel safe.
It was the worst kind of affliction.
But it was what she felt all the same.
Slipping out of the bathroom, Maria moved toward the closet that housed her bed. But when she caught sight of Raphael, she stilled. Her hands ran down her dress as she fought an inner war.
Raphael won.
Maria tiptoed over to where he lay. He was where she had left him, his tired body stretched across the mattress. He was lying on his side, his cheek resting softly on his arm.
He was beautiful. A fallen angel in the flesh. She wondered if this was what Satan looked like. The most beautiful of men but with the wickedest of souls. He too was a fallen angel, after all. The first. He hadn’t always been evil; he was a child of God. There had been good in him once.
Just like Raphael. She believed that with her whole heart.
Maria’s eyes dropped to Raphael’s now-flaccid penis. She swallowed on seeing the contraption that encased it. Black silicone caged his flesh. Maria couldn’t imagine such a device bringing him pleasure. Then it made sense. It was why he hissed sometimes. Why, when he was aroused, his head would snap back and he would bare his teeth as though he were being wrapped in a blanket of pain.
“Why?” she whispered to no one but herself. Maria stared at Raphael’s body and noticed scar after scar under the heavy lines and dark tattoos.
Why would he wear such an awful thing as a cage . . . ?
She dropped her head. If unspeakable things were done to him . . . to anyone . . . it left scars that ran deeper than could be expressed on the flesh. It was the scars underneath that cut the deepest. The scars that sliced into the soul, that clawed at the flesh of the heart.
That mutilated the mind.
She knew. She knew that all too well . . .
Suddenly cold, Maria walked back to her bed. She climbed under the covers and closed her eyes. But the memories of this date five years ago and the following months came in strong, robbing her of breath. So she held onto the pillow and hugged it to her chest. When sleep claimed her, her sheets were damp with tears and her body ached from tension.
But sleep did come. Just not for long.
Maria’s eyes snapped open at the loud scream from the bedroom. Her heart raced as she tried to clear the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.
Raphael.
Maria hugged her sheet closer to her chest as she heard him thrash in his slumber, fighting whatever demons devoured him in his dreams. Each night he would shout and scream in his sleep. Each night she hovered close, like an angel, watching over him while he slept. She had never dared touch him after how he had punished her when she first arrived. She wouldn’t push her comfort on someone who seemed to be repulsed by it. But tonight seemed different somehow. The screams were ones of utter pain. The cries were ones of anguish and intense sorrow. And it didn’t stop. They came, wave after wave, until Raphael’s voice had grown hoarse, until his cries were replaced with the quiet, agonized sound of sobs.
Body trembling, and nerves raw, she climbed from the bed and tiptoed to the closet doors. The bedroom curtains had been left open, and the moon was full and high. The blue glow from the sky kissed the room, illuminating where Raphael usually lay. But when Maria’s eyes found him, he wasn’t lying down. He was kneeling on the bed, head cast down and palms flat to the mattress. He was inhaling shaky, shallow breaths. Maria stepped forward, and when she grew near she saw that he was coated in sweat. His messy dark hair was clumped into strands and lay haphazardly over his forehead. A lump lodged in her throat at seeing such a formidable man so torn.
Maria couldn’t help it. She reached forward and laid her hand on Raphael’s head. His breathing paused. Maria’s heart lodged in her throat, fearing she’d pushed him too far. Raphael’s body grew rigid, but his head began to rise, slowly. Maria held her breath as his haunted golden eyes met hers. Her bottom lip trembled at the lost expression on his face, at the tear tracks tattooed on his stubbled cheeks. His lips were pale and, seeing him there, alone on his bed with nowhere to turn, Maria wanted to be the one he turned to. No, she needed to be. She knew that feeling. Knew that suffocating, all-consuming, drowning feeling of being absolutely alone in the world, segregated by pain and despair.
Maria yelped as Raphael cast out his arm and gripped her wrist, his teeth bared. Fire lit in his eyes, replacing the sadness with what looked like naked hatred. Maria tried to pull back her unwanted touch, but Raphael’s grip was strong. “Do you want to die, little rose?” he asked calmly, but with threat in his low, exhausted voice. “Do you want me to wrap my hands around your pretty slim neck and end you now?”
Maria stayed quiet, and as if she were facing the most dangerous predator, she dropped her eyes, body sagging, becoming pliant. She wanted to show she was no threat, that she only wanted to be of comfort. Raphael squeezed her harder. Maria fought back a whimper, but then he threw her hand aside. “Get back to bed and don’t bother me until morning.” Despite his harsh words, she could hear the raw pain in his dismissive tone. Hear the fragility of his heart.
Maria knew she should have turned but, defiant, she stayed still. She knew she should have kept her eyes downcast like Raphael had ordered her from her very arrival in this mansion. But she didn’t. She disobeyed it all.
Maria raised her head, meeting Raphael’s ever-furious gaze. He made to move toward her, but she stepped back. She pictured the reflection of her naked body in the bathroom. How she had failed once again to face her scars. Meeting Raphael’s lost and haunted gaze, a wave of courage overcame her. Maria acted immediately, just in case she lost her strength. Lifting her hands, she brushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders. Raphael’s nostrils flared when her body was bared. Maria had shown him most of her body over the past weeks. But she had never rid herself of her dress; he had never removed it. She had never so boldly displayed her body for his eyes. She hadn’t even bared it fully to herself.
Raphael’s jaw clenched. Maria saw his length begin to swell. But it wasn’t about sex right now; it was about commonality and understanding. It was about compassion . . . about pain and darkness shared.
It was about healing.
Ignoring her weakening legs and arms, Maria began to lift her hair. Raphael was rapt, watching the long strands lift inch by inch until Maria had made a messy bun on the top of her head. She wound the hair around and around, tucking the strands under until her hair was secured out of the way. His eyebrows pulled together curiously.
Maria fought the fear clawing up her throat. Closing her eyes, she began to turn. She feared her legs would give way, but she held strong as she revealed her back to Raphael. Five years. It was five years to the day that she had been taken. Five years since her skin had been stripped from her body. Since she had been bound and gagged and placed in the darkness of a coffin.
Maria’s eyes opened, and she focused on the ruined picture Raphael had destroyed only hours before. It had been of a white dove in flight, soaring through a crystal-blue sky. Only now the dove was ripped apart, the canvas ruined, and the blue sky fragmented into nothing. “His name was William Bridge,” she confessed, the dark memories releasing from the inner prison in which they had been buried. “I didn’t know it until much later, but he was a janitor at my school. He had been watching me for months before he came for me.” Maria fought through her thick throat. “I don’t know why he had singled me out from any other student. It was never discovered.” She paused to gather her composure. “When I was sixteen, he broke into our home.” She kept her voice steady, even though her pulse was firing at the speed of light and the visions of that night were crushing any joy she had ever been able to feel. “He killed my father. Then my brother. He killed my mother.” Maria felt a tear escape her eye, but she didn’t wipe it away. Her hands were paralyzed at the knowledge that someone was seeing her back. Even she had not been able to look at it, growing her hair so long that it had become her shield. Protecting her from the past she had been running away from for so many years. “He didn’t kill me,” she continued. “It wasn’t about death with me. Instead he captured me and took me to his home, deep in the countryside. The home where he took all his victims.” Maria inhaled a shuddering breath. “He placed me in a coffin. In a metal coffin with tiny vents so I could just about breathe.” She closed her eyes and was immediately taken back there. Fear, so strong and intense that it was crippling, took hold of her body. But her confession poured from her lips. She knew once she had opened up about that time, she would never be able to stop. Maria curled her arms over her naked breasts and tried her best to keep her composure. “He kept me there for days, only opening the lid to give me enough water and hunks of bread to keep me alive.” In her stomach, Maria felt the endless pit of despair that had kept her company all those months form once more. “I was starved and kept in the coffin for so many days I thought I would die.” Maria’s face became flooded with tears; the room before her blurred. “Then he came for me.” Maria flinched at the memory of the bright sun blinding her eyes after so many days in the coffin. She remembered the pain in her body as she was forced to walk, her muscles cramping at being awoken from their forced sleep. She recalled the pounding headache from lack of food. Maria glanced down at her naked body. She recalled the bones jutting out from her sallow skin, how her stomach concaved and her legs and arms were nothing but pale skin draped over bone. Maria sobbed, but she kept speaking. “He tied me to a wooden table by my wrists and ankles, stomach down. That’s when he began slicing into my flesh. Stripping the skin off my back in pieces, as if I were a cow and he was collecting my hide.” Maria felt the knife in her back as though she were back on the table. She held back her scream as she felt the skin being pulled from her wasted muscles. “When he had taken what he wanted, he placed me back in the coffin, face down. He left me there in pain, no relief. He fed me through a latch in the bottom of the coffin. A hole out of which I could vomit when the pain and infection became too much.” Maria shuddered as she remembered those hazy days of nothing but agony. “He only ever took a small piece of my skin at a time. Leaving me for weeks in between.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know why. I was so far gone mentally and physically I never considered it.”
She took a deep breath. “I knew I was going to die. I knew I was going to die in the darkness of the metal coffin, and no one would ever miss me. My family had been killed, all so he could take me and strip me of my flesh. I had no one left to love me if I escaped. It was futile.” Maria felt a stirring in her stomach, the familiar flicker of strength she had managed to muster that fateful day. The fight. The will to survive despite it all. “I was never a religious person. We didn’t attend church. My parents were more new age than organized religion. But as I lay there, I prayed to God that if He would just free me, I would dedicate my life to Him.
“I was delirious, speaking to a deity I had never entertained before. I was close to death’s door when I heard people rushing into the room. Many voices that I was sure I was imagining. I heard my name being called.” Maria smiled through her pain. “I thought I had died and I had arrived in heaven and the voice I could hear was my mother, welcoming me home.” Maria’s voice cut out, and it took her a few minutes to gain it back. Clearing her throat, she said, “The lid of the coffin was lifted, flooding me with light. The brightest light I had ever seen. The sound of a gun fired in the distance. Gentle hands lifted me from the coffin. Hands that weren’t those of William Bridge, but of a man in navy blue. A man who whispered to me that I was safe. That they had found me. That I was going to be okay.” Maria closed her eyes and lifted her face to the ceiling, as if she were back in the brightness of that day. “But all I could see was the light shining down on me like it was a spotlight and its beam was cast directly on me.” Maria smiled. “It was God, I knew it. He had listened to my prayer. He had saved me in my darkest time. And I knew it was for a reason. I just didn’t know what that reason was.” Maria’s eyes rolled open, and her mind was clear. But I do now.
“I was the only one who survived,” she said and felt the weight in her chest she had lived with for years. “Seven girls were in his house, all in coffins.” Guilt flooded her veins. Guilt she had never been able to shed. “I was the only one they had found alive. All of us had been stripped of skin and starved. But I still breathed. My heart still beat. They had killed William Bridge when he tried to fire at the officers who found us. Our captor was dead . . . and I was the only one who was freed.”
Maria felt the cold air wrap around her exposed, naked body. Raphael didn’t speak. Her heart plummeted. She’d hoped he would have taken solace, some comfort, from the fact that she too wore scars that had been inflicted upon her. That she too was damaged, arguably beyond repair. She thought he might have understood . . .
Maria’s head hung in disappointment. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she was about to turn when she suddenly stilled, feeling soft lips pressing a whisper of a kiss against one of her scars. Maria froze, her eyes filling with tears as she felt Raphael’s hands take hold of her hips with the gentlest touch she had ever received. She held her breath as he kissed along every strip that had been torn from her flesh. Every deep-red, thick scar she knew he was seeing—ones she had never seen herself.
Maria stayed where she was as Raphael worshipped her ruined skin like a pilgrim at her altar. The gentle touch began to eradicate all the frayed memories and feelings from her mind and heart. The night was silent and the moon basked them in its glow. Maria felt as though they were on a stage, two scarred souls finding one another in the unlikeliest of settings, something strong and unyielding pushing them together, each easing the other of their terrors and pains.
Maria’s eyes closed as Raphael’s hands traveled up her sides, over her ribs, and back down. Caressing her with such warmth it made her heart skip a beat. She felt him rise to his feet. He had been crouching down to her ruined flesh. Revering, worshipping . . . adoring.
His hands on her arms, Raphael turned Maria to face him. She kept her eyes down. He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head. When she met his eyes, they had lost their coldness, and in its place was an amber glow. He was so tall and imposing. Yet she had never felt so safe.
Raphael leaned forward and timidly lowered his mouth to hers, hovering just over her waiting lips. His eyes met hers, searching for something she didn’t understand. Then, unsurely, he pressed his mouth over hers, and Maria felt as though she were back in the path of the sun, being blinded by the deepest form of grace. Warmth spread along her bones and limbs; peace infused her blood and pumped through her frail heart, reviving it with something akin to contentedness.
When Raphael pulled back, he reached down and lifted Maria’s naked body against his own. She placed her hands on his thick shoulders and kept his gaze as he walked them to the bed. He laid her down on the soft mattress and climbed over her body, blanketing her, keeping her safe. Maria’s hands never left Raphael’s skin. Her fingers journeyed over his scarred flesh and tattoos. They threaded under his arms and caressed his back. Raphael’s eyes closed as she worshipped him in return, touching the wounds that traveled deeper than his flesh.
Raphael tilted Maria’s face up by her chin, and he stared into her eyes. He kissed her again. She moaned as his tongue slipped into her mouth. Maria wrapped her legs around Raphael’s waist, arching her back when his hand slipped between them and ran along her core. His familiar fingers caressed and massaged her until she broke from the kiss just to catch her lost breath. Raphael kissed along her neck, her throat, and over her cheeks. His mouth never broke from her, even when she felt his length grow hard and heard him hiss with the pain his caged device would be bringing. Raphael pushed a finger inside her, and Maria cried out softly, her whimper more of a sigh. She didn’t overthink what was happening. She just felt. In five years she had kept what had happened to herself and only herself. With Raphael, she had opened a door she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to re-close. Wasn’t sure she even wanted to.
Raphael’s finger moved from inside her, and she watched his face as he reached downward. It took her a minute to realize that he was squeezing his penis, fisting it in his unyielding grip over the silicone cage. A wave of sadness engulfed her. She wanted him freed from whatever it was that made him need such pain and violence to be intimate. When she looked into Raphael’s eyes, she froze. She saw something in his golden gaze she had never seen before. Not in any man’s eyes. Vulnerability. Stark vulnerability.
Raphael didn’t speak, and Maria basked in the silence. Her vows as a nun made silence a sanctuary for her fragile soul. It was perfect, as Raphael tipped Maria’s hips up and pushed his length inside her, that there were no words being exchanged. No cries of pleasure or crude groans. There were only labored breaths and the feeling of such heavenly freedom.
Maria gasped, cinching her thighs together when Raphael’s movements became painful. He stopped, watched her for a signal to continue. This man, this broken man who was so violent and aggressive, so domineering and dark, was waiting for Maria to move.
Giving her control. She wasn’t sure if he knew it. But he was.
Tears flooded Maria’s eyes as she lowered her hands to the bottom of his back and guided him back inside. Her eyes squeezed shut as he pushed forward. She held her cry captive in her mouth as he broke through her virginity and filled her to the hilt. Raphael paused as Maria tried to catch her breath. Holding his gaze, she nodded, telling him without words to move. And he did. He rocked into her, his jaw clenching as his length pushed in and out, each movement less painful than the last. Sweat glistened on their bodies, and the moon cast their skin in an ethereal glow. Maria couldn’t look away from him, the man who she knew still wanted to kill her. Something had happened to him in his past. She didn’t know if he would ever share what. But whatever it was, it had made him believe that his only option was death and violence and sin.
Pausing, Raphael gripped Maria under her behind and pulled her up. He kneeled back and brought Maria to straddle his lap. Raphael guided her hips, rocking in and out of her. But Maria couldn’t stop the tears from falling when he moved his hands up. Slowly and softly, he moved his hands to her back and stroked her scars. Her bottom lip shook, but when she looked into Raphael’s eyes, she saw a desperate unspoken need in them. Maria moved her hands from Raphael’s shoulders and down to his scars, the large red welts that crisscrossed in jagged stripes. And they didn’t stop. As they rocked and moved, sinking deeper into each other, their hands praised their scars. Scars that no one saw and that were never spoken of. The secrets they both kept, the demons that lived buried deep in their souls.
Raphael moved faster and faster until Maria grew breathless, pressure building at her spine. His eyes flared and his thrusts became erratic. The sight was too much for Maria. Rocking her hips faster, she chased the pleasure only Raphael could bring. Raphael matched her pace, crushing her to his chest. And as his lips pressed softly against hers, his tongue filling her mouth with the sweetest taste, Maria shattered apart, eyes closing, basking in sunlight once more.
Raphael roared and stilled. His warm release soothed Maria in ways she hadn’t thought were possible, calming the anguish her past had unearthed.
She rested her forehead against his. And they both held on tight. They didn’t speak. Raphael slipped from inside her and laid them down on the bed. He looked down at his cage-covered length. Maria followed his gaze, blushing when she saw a smear of blood. But before embarrassment could take her in its grip, Raphael rolled her onto her back and spread her legs. She watched him, breath held for what he was about to do. He moved slowly down her body, then pushed her legs apart. Raphael ran his hands along her inner thighs and to her core. Maria flinched at the sensitiveness, but then her heart melted when Raphael kissed the path where his hands had just been. Kissed her thighs until he reached her core and gently licked along it. Maria’s eyes fluttered shut at the devotion he gave her. She didn’t even dwell on the fact there had been blood, blood that he had consumed. Raphael was the master of her virginity. Her blood was his.
He kissed and calmed her, then raised his head and came back to lie beside her, chest against chest. Raphael reached for Maria’s bun and pulled, releasing the long strands. Her stomach flipped when she saw his eyes flare as her hair shrouded them, blanketing Raphael’s shoulders and arms, creating a cocoon for them to hide behind. Maria wondered if she should move. If she should go back to her bed. As if reading her mind, Raphael pulled her closer, and ordered, “You’re staying in my bed tonight, little rose. You’re staying right here.” He closed his eyes and, with his arm around her waist, quickly fell into a deep sleep. Maria ran her finger along his forehead. The lines that had been so prominent had disappeared. No strain. No pain.
Maria closed her eyes and held him in return.
Two broken souls entwined.
*****
It was the years of rising at dawn that made Maria wake so early each day, before the sun and while the rest of the world still slept soundly. Including Raphael, who was still curled around her, the purity of peace on his beautiful face.
Maria took advantage of his sleep and drank in his features. She felt raw but revived at sharing her past with him. And opening up about her past had somehow made the darkness that lurked ever close fade.
Birds began to wake outside the windows. But the sun was still asleep.
Maria moved as quietly as she could, shifting out from under the heavy weight of Raphael’s arm. She froze when he stirred, but his breathing quickly evened out, and Maria slipped from the bed. She went to the bathroom to freshen up and brush her teeth. When she came out, she looked to the locked doors. Maria needed to leave these rooms. She needed to clear her head. She understood she was a captive, knew she didn’t have the right to wander as she pleased. And she had no intention of escaping. She just needed to walk. To get some distance, and pray upon what had transpired. To rid her mind of the lingering painful memories that had been hard to relive.
Maria glanced down at herself. Needing something better to wear, she went to the room she knew Raphael changed in. When she entered, it was to find another closet, smaller than the one she had been staying in. Maria’s hand ran over the clothes. Each item smelled of Raphael. It made her feel warm.
Spotting the silk pants he liked to wear, she slipped them on and picked up a black shirt that lay discarded the floor. It was recently worn. As she pulled it on, the hem dropping to her thighs, she breathed in fresh water and sea salt. To her, the scent was Raphael.
Maria walked from the closet and to the locked doors. As quietly as possible, she turned the locks and slipped outside into the hallway. She walked along the hallways, down the stairs, and across the foyer. And she drank it all in. She admired the old paintings that hung on the walls. The expensive carpets and furnishings. She became lost in the mansion, letting her feet lead her wherever they wished her to go. And with every step she felt the shackles of her past begin to drift away. Raphael had done that.
They had done that together.
Maria was just about to make her way back up the stairs when she heard pained cries and grunts from behind a nearby door. She heard the cracking of what sounded remarkably like a whip. Maria’s heart raced with unease. She knew she should have left, fled for the safety of Raphael and his room. But seeing the door slightly open, Maria followed the sound of anguished moans and peeked inside. Her face blanched; in the center of a stone floor, Father Gabriel sat, naked, his back bleeding from the stripes he was forcing onto his flesh. Maria jumped when the scourge he was holding whacked into his skin, splitting his back, blood sprouting from the wound. His head was bowed and he was breathless. His back was ruined . . . just like Raphael’s.
Maria’s mind whirled. Who were these men? What had happened to make them hate themselves so much? Cause themselves this much pain? She had no idea if the other brothers in the house were the same, but after seeing Raphael and now Gabriel force such atrocities onto themselves, she guessed they probably were.
As Gabriel went to strike himself again, Maria snapped. She rushed through the door and caught his wrist. Gabriel started, his head of blond curls whipping in her direction. His pained blue eyes widened. Maria’s stomach fell when on his thighs she saw cilices. One on each leg, slicing into the muscle. “Gabriel,” she whispered, sadness lacing each word.
At the sound of his name, Gabriel dropped the scourge and pulled back his arm. He scrambled to his feet and rushed across the room to cover himself with a robe. But Maria saw his skin—barely an inch hadn’t been scarred. Like Raphael, he had the same tattoo of a sword and angel wings on his chest.
Maria realized she had no idea what was happening in this house. With these men.
Gabriel turned, blood seeping through the flannel of his white robe. “What are you doing here, Maria?”
Maria ignored his question and picked the well-used bloodied scourge off the floor. She observed the seven thongs, knotted with ropes and boasting sharp blades. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Gabriel ran his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.” Maria needed answers. She needed to know what was happening in this mansion. Something in her gut compelled her to find out.
Gabriel looked up at her. He laughed without mirth. “You are with the Brethren. You wouldn’t understand.” He shrugged, his face showing an expression of blatant disgust. “Or maybe you would. Maybe you have seen the cause of this first hand.” Maria was shocked to see Gabriel’s eyes grow dark and intimidating. She never thought he would have such a side to him.
Then again, she didn’t know him at all.
Maria frowned, remembering his comment. Gabriel was watching her closely, a hawk on his prey. Maria shook her head. “Who? Who are the Brethren? What are you talking about?”
Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, but then a look of confusion took over his face. “The Brethren,” he said plainly. His eyes never left her; they narrowed as if trying to read something in her face. Before she could ask more questions, Gabriel stepped closer to Maria. He took the scourge from her hand. Maria noticed him wincing as he walked. The pain he must be in from the stripes and the cilices . . .
Gabriel placed the scourge in a closet, then turned to her, arms folded. “You work for Father Quinn.” His voice was tight with unshed anger.
“I . . . I don’t work for them,” Maria said. She wouldn’t do it anymore, even if they ever found her. Not after what she had just shared with Raphael.
Seeing a chair and table close by, she sat down, the fight dropping from her shoulders. Maria met Gabriel’s face, and she crossed her hands on her lap. “I’m a novitiate at Sisters of Our Lady of Grace. I am about to take final vows.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “A nun?”
“Or soon to be.”
He stood in contemplative silence for a couple of minutes then sat down at the other side of the table. Maria cast her eyes around the room. There was another table at the back, with a plate of bread on top. Maria saw vials of some description beside the plate, but Gabriel’s heavy sigh pulled her attention away before she could discover what was in them. “How . . . how did you meet him? Father Quinn?”
“He’s my mentor.”
Gabriel ran his hand over his face. He had large bags underneath his eyes. He looked tired and horrifically tormented. “Gabriel.” Maria pointed to his chest. “What is the emblem you and Raphael wear? Who are the Brethren? I’m so confused.”
Gabriel regarded her harshly for what seemed like an eternity, until he sat back in his chair, and all the fight left his tense shoulders too. His eyes glossed over, and Maria knew he was no longer looking at her, but lost somewhere in his head. She sat on the edge of her seat, a foreboding ache in her stomach.
“We were orphans.” Maria’s heart plummeted at the pain in Gabriel’s voice. “Some of us from being babies. Some of us from being small children.” Maria understood “we” to mean his and Raphael’s brothers. “We were sent to Holy Innocents Home and School for Children.” Gabriel blinked and met Maria’s awaiting gaze. “We were under the guardianship and mentorship of Father Quinn.”
Ice shards crystalized in Maria’s blood. Father Quinn. Gabriel smiled, but there was an underlying agony on his tight lips. “I was his star pupil. I dreamed of becoming a priest. I was intent on pledging my life to the church.” He nodded in her direction. “Like you, I imagine.”
Maria smiled tightly. It was not true. Maria had only chosen the church when her family had been killed and God had granted her a miracle by saving her life. Her marriage to Christ was a bounty to be paid, not a lifelong dream.
“But my brother . . .” Gabriel stopped when Maria’s eyebrows pulled together. “Michael.” Maria tried to remember which man from the dining room that had been. Clearly reading her, Gabriel answered, “The one with fangs and a vial of blood around his neck.” Maria remembered him all too well. He’d appeared vampiric and had a disturbing blankness in his blue eyes. “Michael. My true, full blood brother was always different. He held a darkness inside him from when we were small children. I always believed it was because we watched our mother die slowly . . .” He trailed off, not finishing that tale. “But I was wrong. Michael just liked blood, and to hurt people.” Gabriel sighed. “To cut a very long story short, Father Quinn, Father McCarthy, and Father Brady took him away after he hurt another student. I didn’t know where. I was told by a friend that they were taken to an underground building on the church’s grounds. Known as Purgatory.” Gabriel made sure he was looking right into her eyes when he said, “A place where a secret sect of Catholic priests, known as the Brethren, take boys they deem evil, torture them, rape them, and one day either convert them to their cause . . . or kill them.”
It sounded like fantasy. For a moment Maria entertained the notion that all of the men in the manor were insane. That what Gabriel was saying was nothing but his dark imagination’s peculiar manifestation. But then she thought of Raphael’s harshness and need for control . . . Gabriel’s scourge, his cilices. “No,” Maria whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.
Gabriel sat forward, clasping his hands together as though in prayer. “I pretended to be evil to get inside. I had to find Michael.” A haunted expression overwhelmed his gentle features. “He was there. Michael, and every other brother you have seen in this house.”
“Raphael,” Maria murmured, her chest constricting as though a weight pressed on top of her. Gabriel nodded sadly. Maria tried to imagine a young Raphael, orphaned, lonely, and in pain. It split her heart in two. What must he have been through?
“Maria, Father Quinn is the high priest of the Brethren. We escaped. They have been searching for us ever since.”
Maria breathed deeply, trying to keep calm . . . then it became clear. She had been used to lure in Raphael. Fathers Quinn and Murray had used her to capture Raphael under the guise of her final vows . . . not a task from her church, but from this “Brethren.” “Why?” she whispered. “Why do they want you back so badly?”
“They believe us to be evil let loose in the world. A failure they must fix. The Brethren are a modern extension of the Spanish Inquisition, Maria. If you know anything about the devices and torture techniques used in that time by the Inquisitors, you’ll understand how sadistic Father Quinn and the Brethren are in their beliefs and methods.”
Vomit crept up Maria’s throat. She couldn’t believe it. Devices? The Inquisition? Gabriel had to be mistaken. She said as much. “I . . . Are you telling the truth?”
Gabriel’s face clouded with anger, and he opened the lapels of his robe. “This is the brand we have created for ourselves. We are the Fallen. All of us were renamed by the Brethren after archangels. A mockery of our dark and sinful natures. As children, they forced the Saint Peter’s cross on our chests to show us for the heathens that we were.” Gabriel pulled his robe closed. Maria was trapped in a state of shocked numbness. “We called ourselves the Fallen. It helped us bond. It helped keep us sane.”
Maria had felt the brand marks on Raphael’s chest. She closed her eyes and recalled him hitting himself in the groin. The cage he kept his penis trapped in, and the way he held onto the post of the bed as though he were being flogged from behind. The screams in the night, the sweat, the nightmares . . .
It was true. Everything Gabriel said was true.
“No . . .” Maria whispered, her voice breaking and eyes flooding with tears. Meeting Gabriel’s eyes, she confessed, “They told me I was to take on a mission before my final vows for the church. To apprehend a powerful and dangerous killer so they could take him off the streets and away from harming others. I did so . . . because of my past.” Maria explained her parents’ murder, her kidnapping, to Gabriel. He listened intently. When she was finished, Gabriel rubbed his tired eyes.
“They used you, Maria. They used you. They knew of your past and exploited it for their own ends. They think little of women. It’s in their creed, that women are daughters of Eve and temptresses prone to sin. You were a tool.”
Maria’s hands shook. She kept them in her lap for fear of being consumed by rage. When she had calmed some, she asked, “They must kill? Your brothers? They are all murderers?”
Gabriel laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “It was my idea. I am able to find people who enjoy the less savory things in life, people who do evil things. I send my brothers out to kill people who deserve it before they kill innocents—because they would. They kill other killers, those worse than they are.” He gazed at the flames of the lit fire beside them. “I believed it was because of their start in life. I believed, with all my heart, that they could be cured.” Gabriel met Maria’s eyes, and she could feel the pain emanating from his body. “I was wrong.” He sucked in a breath. “I think they were born that way, after all. I think there is a darkness that lives inside them all. A darkness that can’t be defeated. I can no longer pretend it isn’t true.” Gabriel’s face paled. “You being here is proof of it. You should never have been brought here. Raphael defied orders when he saw you. But . . .” Gabriel pointed at Maria’s hair. “You are Raphael’s greatest fantasy, Maria. Father Quinn used you because he knew Raphael and what would draw him in.”
“What was that?”
Gabriel pointed at her hair again. “That.”
Maria thought of all the ways Raphael had stroked her hair, combed it, dried it, humming “Ring a-round the Roses.” Her hair was always in his hands. She didn’t want to know how he wanted to kill her. Some things were better left alone.
“It was more Father Murray,” Maria said.
Gabriel froze. “What?” Gabriel’s face paled. “Father Francis Murray? Young, dark hair and eyes?” he said quickly. Maria nodded. Gabriel closed his eyes. Her heart missed a beat at his strange reaction.
“Gabriel—”
“Raphael,” was all he said, before closing his eyes and dropping his head.
Gabriel’s reaction caused dread to seep into Maria’s bones. “What? Please tell me.”
Gabriel shook his head. “It’s not for me to tell.” He got to his feet and gazed into the fire. “They beat me. They tortured me.” Gabriel’s hand fisted and his eyes squeezed shut. “They . . . they raped me.” A choked sob ripped from Maria’s tight throat. “Over and over for years.” Gabriel turned to Maria, but he had nothing left in his eyes but emptiness. As if the memories he was sharing had drained the life from his very soul. “It was Father Quinn. I was Father Quinn’s charge.”
Maria’s eyes closed and she tried to breathe. She no longer doubted Gabriel’s word. She saw in his eyes, posture, and broken voice that it was all true. And if it had happened to Gabriel . . . Maria’s eyes snapped open. “Raphael,” she murmured. “It happened to him too, didn’t it? To all your brothers.” She held her breath, praying she was wrong.
“That’s his story to tell, Maria. I won’t betray his trust that way.”
But Maria knew it was true. Realization hit. Father Murray . . . Gabriel’s reaction to Father Murray’s name. Had he been the one to hurt Raphael? Had he forced himself on him?
Maria got to her feet, unable to stay seated. “You hurt yourself because you feel guilt.” It wasn’t a question. Gabriel’s very soul pulsed with self-disgust and shame.
He laughed sadly. “I pledged myself to God as a teen, only to do the devil’s work instead. I deserve to be punished. I deserve to burn in hell.”
Maria went to leave the room, her spirit defeated and exhausted. She was unsure how to offer comfort to a man who was so far gone with self-hatred. And if she was being honest with herself, she wanted—no, needed—to get back to Raphael. Some magnetic force was drawing her back to his side. She felt raw, and she knew only Raphael could make her feel whole.
But just as Maria was about to leave, she glanced over at the table in the corner. She froze. The vials she had seen from her seat were filled with blood. Crumbs of blood-soaked bread lay beside them. She ran her fingers over her inner arm where Gabriel had drawn her blood.
She looked back at the Fallen’s leader. “You’re a sin-eater.”
Gabriel’s head fell. Maria moved to the table and ran her hand over the worn wood. And she saw them. She saw the vials lined up, name tags on each. Michael, Selaphiel, Barachiel, Jegudiel, Raphael, Uriel . . . Maria . . .
Maria gasped at seeing her name. At seeing her vial of blood depleted and used. He had eaten her sins. Gabriel had taken the old-fashioned ritual that had died out years ago and tried to cleanse her soul of any sin by taking it on himself.
“I can’t see them die with so much evil in their veins. I love them. They’re my brothers.” Gabriel’s voice cracked. “They’re all I have. If there is any way to save them, I’ll do it.”
Maria’s heart broke for the man who held such a burden in his soul. “And me?” she asked.
Gabriel sighed but, meeting her gaze head-on, said, “Raphael will kill you, Maria. It’s who he is. That will never change.” Her pulse thundered in her chest at his frank words. He walked to where she stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. “When Raphe brought you home I had to protect us. I couldn’t send you back to our torturers only for you to tell them where we lived. I had to protect my brothers . . . I couldn’t save your life, but I wanted to save your soul.”
Maria nodded, a lump building in her throat at the words he was saying. That he was trying to save her when all was lost . . . and that Raphael, no matter how hard she wished otherwise, would eventually stop her heart.
She covered Gabriel’s hand with her own. If he felt her shaking, he was kind enough not to say so. “You’re a good man, Gabriel.” Maria smiled, though it was strained. “You would have made a good priest. Better than the ones who mistreated you.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said, genuinely seeming to mean it. He stepped back. Maria watched him open the closet doors and pull out the bloodied scourge. She watched him de-robe and drop to his knees on the stone floor. Maria turned before she could see the scourge ripping into him, but she heard the horrific sounds of the rope hitting flesh.
In a daze, Maria shut the door, her mind racing with too many thoughts to count. The Brethren’s existence, what had been done to Gabriel and his brothers . . . and Raphael. The pain he must have suffered as a child. The torture . . . the rape.
And despite it all, all that they had shared, he would kill her.
It was simply who he was.
Maria followed her feet back to Raphael’s suite. He still slept soundly. Maria shed her clothes, putting them back where she found them. Then she climbed back into bed. Raphael’s eyes cracked open, his arm threading around her waist and pulling her near. His eyebrows pulled together in tired confusion. “I needed to use the bathroom,” she lied. “Sleep.” Raphael, still half asleep, awarded Maria with the brightest, most beautiful smile she had ever witnessed. It left her completely enamored.
This man . . . despite it all, he owned her heart.
Raphael closed his eyes, his fingers finding Maria’s hair and sleepily wrapping it around his hand. Maria watched him as his chest evened out with slumber. She ran her finger down his cheek, admiring his beauty. Her eyes dropped to the emblem on his chest. The emblem that the Fallen wore to cover the upturned cross Father Quinn had forced on their skin as children. Maria closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had been hurt, tortured, and broken. But she hadn’t been taken against her will sexually, not by Bridge, and not by Raphael either. She knew it must have been because he was robbed of that right, had had his dignity ripped away by abusive men. She hadn’t been told over and over, each day for years and years, that she was evil and going to hell. Tears tumbled down Maria’s cheeks. She had been loved. For as long as she had had them in her life, her mother, father, and brother had loved her fiercely.
Raphael pulled her closer, as if he sensed her emotional distress. What did Raphael know of love? How old was he when he was orphaned? Had anyone ever loved him? How did his parents die?
As Maria studied the face of her soon-to-be killer, she couldn’t seem to find it in herself to judge him, to cast him aside as a sinner, a murderer of the flesh. All she saw was a little boy lost. Maria’s Mother Superior had told her that sin was simply due to the absence of love from one’s heart. Raphael needed to kill, was consumed by racking pain, haunting dreams, and the need to inflict pain. Maria’s vow to God had been to love Him and others regardless of their transgressions. She thought of the martyrs she was named after. Two women who died because their faith was so strong they paid the ultimate sacrifice with no regrets. Maria Goretti, a young girl, stabbed fourteen times for refusing a boy’s sexual advances. And Saint Agnes of Rome. A Christian in Rome when being a follower of Christ was forbidden. As an early teen, as punishment for being a Christian, she was dragged naked through the streets to a brothel where men were ordered to rape her simply for having a faith. Stories said her hair instantly grew so long it covered her body, shielding her modesty from the hungry eyes of her attackers.
As a young survivor of a killer, Maria took courage from these women. They died for their faith. For what they believed in. So Maria would believe in Raphael. While she still had air to breathe, he would become her religion. He would become her faith. He would become her only god and prophet and angel. And Maria would bestow upon him a kindness he had been robbed of his entire life. If he still chose to take her life, then at least she would die knowing she had tried her best to save his soul.
Just like Maria and Agnes, she would defend her choice with her life… even if it meant paying the ultimate price of all.
“Sleep, little rose . . . sleep . . .” Raphael murmured and kissed Maria’s cheek. As she curled into his dangerous embrace, she closed her eyes. For the first time in weeks, maybe even years, she felt a burst of holy light eradicate the constant tightness in her chest. And as she fell asleep, she thought of destiny. Of why God helped keep her from death five years ago when all the other captives perished. You, she thought and squeezed Raphael’s hand. You are my why.
And so she slept. With her head on Raphael’s chest, she slept and found peace. Neither stirred until the sun was high and bathed them in light. Kissing her lips as a morning greeting, Raphael pushed inside Maria. . . just him and her and a new kind of peace within their souls.