Maria’s hand was tight in Raphael’s as they climbed the stairs. Raphael was acting strangely. He kept looking back at her with a frown on his face. As if she were a puzzle he was trying to work out. Maria didn’t know what was running through his complex mind, but she liked being on the receiving end of that look. It made her knees feel weak.
When they reached the door to Raphael’s rooms, he paused and looked at her as though trying to read something in her face. Maria let him drink his fill. Her heart kicked into a sprint under his attention. Raphael’s nose flared and he groaned. Capturing her face in his hands, he crushed his mouth to hers. Maria melted into his embrace. She felt Raphael opening the doors, and they stumbled through. He lifted her in his arms, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She was a slave to his touch, a victim to his lust.
Maria broke from his mouth with a gasp. She sucked in a much-needed breath, her hands tight around Raphael’s neck.
Then Raphael stopped in his tracks when he saw something over her shoulder.
Maria turned to see what had captured his attention so thoroughly. She froze, every synapse in her body firing when she saw what sat to the side of the room. Her stomach fell, and the residual anxiety from five years ago consumed her bravery, leaving her a shaking, weak mess. What was that doing there? In Raphael’s room?
Maria was too paralyzed to put up a fight as Raphael crossed the room with her still in his arms. When he came to a stop, he tucked his nose into her neck and kissed her skin. Maria heard his quickening breath. She felt his hardness grow.
Raphael lowered Maria to the floor and turned her around. It was her biggest fear. Overwhelming memories of bring trapped, being starved of oxygen, diluted her blood like the deadliest poison. Its effect was quick. Her limbs froze. She couldn’t move.
“What do you think?” Raphael’s hoarse voice asked, the excited tone sending shivers down her spine. Her body didn’t know how to respond—fear and excitement mixed in one heady concoction.
“It’s a coffin,” Maria said, and Raphael moved from behind her to run his fingers over the glass. It was completely transparent but for the red lining in the center.
“It’s for you,” Raphael said proudly, as though he were showing her a new car or bouquet of flowers. Raphael smiled. Maria gasped at the sight. At the happiness that shone from his soul. Despite the darkness of the situation, her heart melted. This tragic man drew such satisfaction from death. From the promise of death. Maria felt tears shine in her eyes. Not for herself, but for the little boy lost before her. The one who had watched his mother be killed so violently, the one who only saw peace on her face when she was dead. The boy who grew roses in her honor. The one who didn’t understand what he was feeling most of the time. And the one who wanted Maria to be just as excited about her promised death as he was—her beautiful killer.
Raphael was a sorrowful beautiful mess. He came toward her, seemingly seeing something in her eyes. “Don’t you like it?” His smile fell, and genuine concern seemed to engulf his handsome face.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, unable to disappoint this man.
Raphael inhaled a relieved breath. His hands cupped her neck, softly, the hold of a lover, not a murderer. Gazing adoringly into her eyes, he said, “I will keep you forever, little rose.” He kissed her forehead as if she were the most precious thing in his world. “I will embalm you.” He took her hand and turned to the coffin. His hand shook with excitement. “You’ll stay in this room, beside me, for the rest of my days. My perfect rose. More beautiful then any flower I could grow.”
Maria heard his words, but she was numb. Listening to the details of her death and beyond. Raphael pushed back a strand of her hair. “Do you want to try it out?”
Maria’s numbness faded and she became racked with fear. But when she saw the hopeful look on his face, all she could hear was Gabriel’s story of the Brethren—the rapes, the tortures—and Raphael telling her about his mother . . .
Maria looked up into Raphael’s eyes and, with steadier hands than she felt, began unbuttoning his shirt. Raphael licked his lips, but he let Maria take the lead. As his olive skin came into view, Maria rolled the shirt off his shoulders until his tattoos were bared to her seeking eyes. Maria lifted her hand and ran it over the rose tattoos. They now made perfect sense to her. The red, she thought, must have represented his mother when she was alive. The black . . . the death of her, the thorns aiming for his crushed boyhood heart.
Raphael didn’t show emotion like a “normal” person. He was too complex a character for Maria to read in typical ways. But she knew he felt. He just didn’t know what to do with those feelings. Except for death. Death and pain he understood more than most. His trophy room told her that.
As her hand ran over the brand that the priests she had once admired and respected had seared on his flesh, a strength she didn’t know she harbored filled her limbs, eradicating the trembles.
She wanted to give him this. The man who had never been given anything good or pure in his young life.
“Little rose?” he said, a hopeful question in his hypnotic voice.
“Yes,” she found herself saying. “I’ll try it . . . for you . . .”
A flash of something she couldn’t name crossed his face. His hands tightened on her hips. Raphael stepped back, and Maria faced her greatest fear. But she pushed down the all-encompassing terror that was rising and embraced courage. Raphael kissed her neck, then, with his hands under her arms, lifted her high until her feet landed on the soft red silk lining of the coffin. Maria’s eyes closed as he lowered her down and down, until she was lying on her back. As though in meditation, she focused on breathing. She breathed in deep and steady breaths as her hands found the high edges of the glass coffin.
“Little rose . . .” Raphael said softly. She followed the path of his voice, basking in the awe, the sensual murmur of the endearment, and she opened her eyes.
Raphael was shirtless, standing beside the coffin. As Maria looked up at him, fear didn’t consume her as she’d thought it would. Instead, seeing the quietness and calmness on his face filled her with peace. She had never seen him look that way. Even in his sleep, there was always a pinch to his forehead, a tension in his body. But seeing Maria like this, Raphael was still, tranquil . . . happy. Had he ever experienced true happiness once in his sad life? Not from kills, but from human connection, from a simple gift?
“You . . .” Raphael cleared his throat. “You look so beautiful.” Gone was the arrogant, dominant male, and in his place was a humbled lover, walls torn down and the jagged scars of his soul exposed. “Maria . . .” he whispered and leaned over the coffin to run his hand softly down her face. It was almost her undoing.
She pictured him in the bath, in his trophy room, how lost he had been after the rose garden. How he’d told her of his mother. He had no one. No one had loved him . . . Maria felt a tightness in her chest.
Love.
Sin is simply due to the absence of love.
She inhaled a stuttered breath as she thought of love. She couldn’t . . . it wasn’t possible. He wanted to kill her . . . but . . .
But as she looked at Raphael, curled her cheek into his caressing hand, she was more determined than ever to heal this man who had never known good, who had been mistreated by everyone he had ever encountered.
She wouldn’t be another to fail him.
Her calling as a nun was compassion. What greater compassion was there than bringing love to a sinner, showing him that not everyone would let him down? Giving him whatever made his heart happy.
Maria thought of the death pictures he displayed on his trophy wall. She was at peace. That was it. Maria’s eyes filled with hot, sorrowful tears. Raphael equated death with peace.
The lost boy who fought a constant inner war.
“I love it, my lord,” Maria whispered, and Raphael’s lips curled back into the biggest, most stunning smile Maria had ever been blessed with witnessing. “It’s perfect.” Raphael’s eyes lit with uncontained happiness.
Groaning, he scooped her out of the coffin and took her straight to the bed. He kissed her and kissed her until her lips were bruised and swollen. Raphael was as gentle as a whisper as he rid Maria of her clothes and slipped inside her. He stared into her eyes as he made love to her.
Because it was making love. Maria knew that now. The way he touched her, the way he stroked her hair and kissed her lips . . . it was love. It was obsession and possession and ownership in every way.
Maria knew she was his. She had been saved all those years ago to give Raphael his dream. To show him that not all people would let him down. That some would protect him and sacrifice themselves to finally heal the darkness in his soul.
When Raphael and Maria came, Raphael hung on to her, head on her chest, still inside her as he fell asleep. Stroking her fingers through his messy brown hair, Maria drifted off too.
Death looming.
Yet she was unafraid.
*****
Maria sat up in bed. It was dark, the open windows letting in only a slither of moonlight. Heavy, quick breathing and agonized moans sailed into her ears. Maria searched the bed and found she was alone.
“No . . .” Raphael’s voice was laced with pain and seemed . . . afraid? Her heart cracked. He sounded afraid. He had never once sounded afraid.
Maria scrambled to the side of the bed, frantically searching for him. She froze when she found him on the floor, his naked body facing down. A sob escaped from her lips. His body had made a cross on the floor—arms outstretched as if someone were holding him down. But his legs . . .
His legs were parted, and his body rocked back and forth as if someone were in between his legs . . . as if someone were forcing themselves inside him.
“Father Murray,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will not repent.”
Maria felt the blood drain from her face. Father Murray . . . Maria couldn’t have stopped her mind racing if she’d tried. As she stared at Raphael, such a formidable man on the floor, fingertips digging into the carpet, unable to move, locked in a nightmare, all she saw was an innocent boy who had lost his mother in the most tragic of ways. And she saw Father Murray above him, naked but for a crucifix around his neck. The kind they had given her before the mission to the sex club so many weeks ago.
“I . . . won’t . . . repent . . .” Raphael hissed, his head snapping back and a scream of pure torment echoing like daggers around the room.
Maria couldn’t take another second of seeing Raphael so haunted, so in distress. Jumping from the bed, she crouched at his side. Even in the dull light of the moon, she saw the thick layer of sweat coating his body. But as his hips lifted again, what was worse was his erection, pushing against the cage he never took off.
She closed her eyes and breathed to steady the anger that was striking like a match within her. What horrors had the Brethren put these men, these seven very disturbed men, through? Tears fell down her cheeks—from a mixture of rage and deep sorrow.
Raphael’s hands scrambled along the floor as if he were fighting to be freed. As he moved, Maria reached out and threaded her fingers through his. She squeezed and whispered, “I’m here, Raphael. I’m here.”
His harrowing scream made her blood run cold. Raphael’s head snapped back, and so did his eyes. But Maria could see in his gaze that he wasn’t awake. He was still trapped in his nightmare. He pulled her down, his free hand covering her neck. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me anymore,” he snarled, and she knew he was replacing her face with that of his abuser.
Father Murray.
“Shh,” Maria soothed, praying to God that He would help her break through Raphael’s pain and give him some peace. Raphael’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he snarled. “Stop touching me. Stop hurting me!” The anger in his voice faded to a little boy’s plea for mercy. “Please, Father . . . please . . . it hurts . . .”
Maria sobbed. Even with Raphael’s hand on her neck, she broke at the echoed voice of innocence that was buried within him somewhere deep, somewhere it was trapped and couldn’t break free.
She felt his erection leaking against her thigh. What had they done to him? The confusion he must feel. Only finding pleasure through pain. Raphael’s eyes closed again and his hips began to buck. He tried to find friction against her leg, but he grew frustrated, growling and . . . Maria gasped when she saw tears falling down his cheeks. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“You will, demon.”
Maria froze at the sound of a odd, deeper voice spoken from Raphael’s own throat. A voice she knew mimicked Father Murray.
Demon.
He’d made Raphael believe he was a demon.
How could they? They were children. Children in need of help, not exorcism and punishment. Their fragile minds had been destroyed, purged of anything good and pure.
“Come, demon. Release your sinful seed.”
Raphael tried. He tried and tried to come, his hand no longer tight around her throat, as if he couldn’t even muster any strength to try. Unable to watch it anymore, Maria reached down Raphael’s soaking chest and took hold of his length. It throbbed in her hand, so desperately trying to find release and break the hell Raphael was in. He hissed as she worked her hand up and down, faster and faster, until his mouth parted and he bellowed out his release, coming onto Maria’s naked body. Raphael collapsed against her. He struggled to catch his breath. Maria cradled him to her, holding him close so he would know he was safe.
Minutes passed, and Raphael didn’t move. Then he stirred. Hs legs moved, his chest lifted off hers, and he slowly lifted his head. Maria braced for his anger. But when weary and sorrowful golden eyes met hers, she felt as if she had taken a spear to the chest. Raphael stared at her. His lips parted. His eyes dropped, and Maria understood. He was embarrassed.
In her heart, she knew he wouldn’t talk about Father Murray or the Brethren, or tell her about his dream. Maria was sure he wasn’t capable of expressing feelings. He never had done; he didn’t know it was something other people shared.
Maria placed her hands on his face. “Raphael,” she whispered, her soft words like a crash of thunder in the room. He didn’t lift his head. “Raphael,” she tried again. “Look at me.” Raphael squeezed his eyes shut, then let her guide his gaze to hers. Fighting to smile, his semen still running down her thighs, Maria kissed his lips.
They were quivering.
In that moment, Raphael wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t a nun. They were just healing balms to one another’s open wounds. “Let’s get you clean.” Raphael struggled to his feet. He never let go of Maria’s hand the entire time. Maria followed him to stand, then when he didn’t move, his body seeping tiredness and sadness, she led him into the bathroom. She sat him on the chair beside the bath and turned the faucet. Raphael still kept hold of her hand. Maria glanced back at him. He was crouching forward, his glazed eyes on the floor. Shivers racked his body. His hair was wet with sweat.
Maria fought back her anger at Father Murray and went to Raphael. She got to her knees. He reluctantly met her eyes. “Let’s get you in the bath, my lord,” she said softly. His eyes flared some at the use of that name. But he didn’t move until Maria got to her feet and led him to the large bath.
Raphael sank into the water, and Maria moved in behind him. Taking the washcloth, she began to clean the sweat from his back. Raphael’s head was bowed as she washed every inch of his scarred flesh. As she dipped her hand into the water and cleansed the cage over his spent penis.
Raphael didn’t even react to her touch. Maria’s blood traveled thick and fast through her veins, fueled by disgust of the Brethren and a man she had considered a friend.
And Father Quinn. He had done the same to Gabriel. Which other priests had hurt the remaining brothers of the Fallen? Did she know them too? How had they been able to do this for so long without being caught?
A pit caved in Maria’s stomach when she wondered if it was still happening. Did Purgatory still exist? Were there innocent but troubled children being raped and tortured in the name of a God that would never encourage such atrocities?
Maria was snapped from her thoughts when Raphael’s hands moved to her hips. Maria paused and simply let him have this moment. When Raphael raised his head and his haunted stare clashed with hers, she saw love . . . felt it pulsing from him in waves. But she didn’t dare say the four-letter word that was on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t sure he could hear that quite yet.
“You took care of me,” Raphael finally said, his voice hoarse from the turbulent emotions and the screams of his nightmare. He swallowed, and Maria watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple with rapt attention. There was no strong man to be found in that moment, but a wounded and scarred boy, lost in a troubled man’s body. “No one . . .” He cleared his throat. “No one has ever taken care of me before.”
If Maria’s heart had been made of glass, it would have shattered with those sorrowful words. Maria dropped the washcloth and held Raphael’s face. “I will care for you. I will look after you for as long as I am here.” The words were hard to say, but Maria knew the ending of her life was non-negotiable. She had made peace with the gift she would give Raphael. She would show him that he could be loved enough that someone would make the ultimate sacrifice to demonstrate that love. Maria smiled to soothe the confusion on Raphael’s torn face. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Raphael let Maria dry him and lead him into the bed. He threaded his arm around her and laid his head on her naked breast. They were silent, and Maria thought he was asleep. But then, holding her closer, he whispered, “I won’t let you ever leave me.” Seconds later she heard his soft inhales and exhales, feeling his warm breath against her skin.
But Maria couldn’t sleep. She looked over at the coffin. Maria knew it was the Brethren’s fault that Raphael was like this. They had taken the memory of his mother dying and made it part of him, made him need to do the same thing as her killer.
With every minute Maria lay in the bed, holding Raphael, her anger built. They had to be stopped. The church had to be told about the monsters that hid in their parishes. Maria began to shake with the fire their actions inspired. She rolled Raphael to his side so as not to wake him with her ire. She padded across the room to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. And she knew what she had to do. She could only face herself if she helped stop them. If she exposed them to the church and more.
She couldn’t see any more children being hurt.
Slipping into Raphael’s closet, Maria dressed in the sweats, hoodie, and sneakers he had let her wear to the rose garden. She moved to his desk, pulled out a piece of paper and pen, and wrote Raphael a note.
She left it on the desk for him to easily find. Softly so as not to wake him, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, promising, “I will be back, my lord. I promise you, I’ll return to you . . .” Maria fought back tears. “For you.”
Maria crept out of Raphael’s rooms. With every step away from him, her heart grew heavier. It was a veritable magnet; she had to force herself not to go back. Maria understood what God wanted of her. She would die to heal the darkness in Raphael’s soul. What Jesus had done for mankind, she could do for one broken man.
Maria found her way through the house and to the back door. When she exited into the bitterly cold night, she fled across the fields of the estate, following the sounds of a road in the distance.
She ran. She ran as fast as her feet would take her, her lungs burning as they inhaled and exhaled the cold night air. She broke through a gate in a high wall and ran through an enclosed wood until she cleared the trees and found herself at a road. She began to walk, praying someone would come by and stop. She had no idea which direction she was traveling in, but she prayed it was the road back to Boston.
Maria had been walking for what felt like hours when she heard the loud sound of tires and saw the blinding light of a truck. Maria held out her hand, hoping they would stop. The screeching of brakes made her heart leap in her chest.
The truck stopped and the window opened. An elderly truck driver leaned across the passenger seat. “Are you okay, miss?”
Maria wrapped her arms around her chest. Her breath made white puffs of smoke as it hit the frigid air. “Are you by any chance heading into Boston?”
“Yeah,” the driver said. He looked around them at the deserted dark road. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Could I catch a ride downtown?”
The driver nodded, and Maria opened the door. As the truck pulled out, she memorized the way back to the mansion. She would never tell a soul where it lay. And as they passed by the thick wood that disguised the manor, she understood why no one ever knew it was there.
The driver made small talk, but Maria gave short, vague answers. She knew where she had to go; she wouldn’t be distracted from her purpose. The sky began to lighten in the distance, a greeting of pinks and reds. By the time the truck pulled to a stop outside the bishop’s residence, morning had broken.
Maria thanked the truck driver and made her way to the door. As she rapped on the wood, all she could think of were the Fallen. And Raphael. Her stomach sank when she thought of him waking and not finding her there. Especially after last night, after how she had seen him so torn apart by his past.
It was because you mentioned Father Murray at dinner. You brought those horrors to his mind.
The door opened, pulling Maria from her guilt. A woman stood on the threshold. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to Bishop McGuiness. It’s urgent,” Maria said.
The woman went to shut the door, but Maria held her hand out. “It’s about priests engaging in abusive behavior at Holy Innocents. I am Sister Maria Agnes from Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, and I won’t leave until I’ve been seen.” Maria felt her chest swell with courage, with what was right and just. “Or I can go to the press. I have it on good authority that many journalists will want to hear what I have to say.”
The woman looked around her to check no one was listening, then ushered Maria inside. “Come in and stop with the threats. I’ll speak to the bishop and see what he says.”
Maria entered. The door slammed shut behind her.
“Stay here.” The woman moved out of sight. The confidence Maria had gathered en route waned some. But she stood tall and waited to be seen. Minutes later, the woman reappeared and showed Maria into an office. Maria sat at the desk and waited for the bishop. She thought she would be nervous. Anxious at meeting the important man. But she wasn’t. She was confident and ready to expose the priests who were straying so far from the church’s path.
When the bishop walked in, he was dressed, but he had a tight scowl on his face. He sat down. “Sister,” he said coldly. “If you wanted to speak with me you should have gone through the proper channels.” His eyes darkened. “Not threatened my staff with tabloid stories.”
Maria bristled at his dismissal. At his tone toward her, no doubt because she was a woman.
His gaze roved over her clothes. “If you are a sister, why aren’t you in your habit?”
“At Holy Innocents Home and School for Children there are abusers among the priests. I know the names of two, but I understand the problem includes many more.” The bishop visibly tensed, eyes widening. Maria kept speaking, needing to purge the information from her soul so she could return to Raphael. “There is a sect hiding among the clergy. A sect that is derived from the Spanish Inquisition.” Maria took a deep breath to stay calm. “They take boys they deem evil to an underground building away from the school.” She sucked in another deep breath. “They hurt them, Your Excellency. They rape them and abuse them sexually, physically, and mentally. They destroy these boys. And they must be stopped.”
The room pulsed with tension. The bishop shook his head. “This can’t be true, sister, you are mistaken—”
“It’s true. And they will be stopped. One way or another.”
Bishop McGuiness sat straighter in his seat. She knew he recognized her words as a threat. “You have names?” he asked.
“Father Quinn leads the Brethren—the group’s name. I know Father Murray is a member too. You can start with them.”
Bishop McGuiness ran his hand down his face. He sighed, and Maria’s heart beat rapidly as she awaited what he would say. The bishop nodded his head. “I’ll look into this.”
Maria exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“You look like you need food,” Bishop McGuiness said and rang a bell under his desk. The woman who’d opened the door appeared in the office. “Margaret, see that the sister gets some food.”
Maria smiled, but then asked, “Could I visit your chapel first? It’s . . .” She forced a cordial smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in chapel.”
Bishop McGuiness regarded her curiously, but he nodded. Maria got to her feet and went to follow Margaret. When she glanced back at the bishop, his head was tipped back, and he sighed. He appeared to be in great distress. Her heart lit with hope. He had been told. He could put an end to the shameful abuse. Good could now be done.
Maria followed Margaret down a long hallway, and they came to a stop at the end. “The chapel,” Margaret said. “When you’re done, the kitchen is the third door on the left back that way.” She pointed down another hallway. “There’ll be food waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” Maria pushed the door open and stepped inside the chapel. The familiar and comforting smell of wood seeped into her senses and calmed her nerves.
Maria walked down the short aisle, past three sets of pews, and stopped at the altar. She dropped to her knees and stared up at Jesus on the cross above her. She exhaled a long breath. “My savior, I hope you understand why I have done what I have. I hope you understand that I couldn’t let him be hurt anymore.” Maria smiled. “I know you do. I know it’s what you would have done. You were the most compassionate man to have ever lived.” Maria closed her eyes and laid her hand over her heart. “And like you, I have chosen a difficult path.” She laughed a mirthless laugh. “Or, I believe you chose it for me.” Maria opened her eyes and looked Mary’s statue. “He deserves forgiveness for what he has done. They all do,” she said, picturing each of the Fallen’s haunted eyes. Gabriel most of all, the good man broken by the burden of his duty to his brothers. “Men are sinning and doing evil acts in your name. Using their power and positions to hurt young boys.” She sighed. “I have broken my vows. I have abandoned my vow of chastity. But I cannot feel regret.” Maria tried to feel guilt, feel shame at what she had done. But none came. “Taking Raphael into my body was my ministry. Caring for the sinner was my prayer.” Maria’s body filled with warmth and love, such strong, passionate love. “And loving him . . . loving him was both his and my salvation.”
“Whore.”
Maria froze as she heard the angry slight spat from behind her. She jumped to her feet and spun around. Father Murray was in the center of the aisle. There was darkness in his eyes that seemed to shine like the North Star. His brown hair was wet. It was early; Maria assumed he had just come from the shower.
Father Murray’s eyes ran over her clothes. His jaw clenched. “We believed you dead.” He stepped closer to Maria. Maria tried to back away, but there was nowhere for her to go. Fear ignited in her stomach and began to disperse through her limbs. “When he took you, when you never returned, we all assumed he had finally gotten his greatest wish.” He gestured to her long hair.
Gabriel was right. They knew about Raphael’s obsession with long hair.
Maria’s hands shook at her sides, but she tried in earnest to keep calm. “I know what you did.” She moved to a pew, putting the wooden seat between him and her. “I know about the Brethren. I know what you do to young boys.” Maria’s gaze became steel as she said, “I know what you did to Raphael. I know how you tortured him. How you abused him.” Maria let her anger take hold. She lifted her chin. “How you raped him over and over, trying to make him repent, to bring him to heel, to bend him to your will.” Father Murray’s face grew red, and he practically vibrated with hate, with fury, and, if the look in his eyes spoke the truth, with the wish for Maria’s slow death.
“You’re caught.” Maria moved along the pews toward the door. Father Murray mirrored her steps and moved swiftly down the aisle. “I’ve already told the bishop of you and your unholy sect.”
Movement by the door caught Maria’s attention. Relief filled her when Bishop McGuiness stepped through. Her panic dissipated, until Father Quinn walked in behind him. Maria froze on the spot. She met Bishop McGuiness’s eyes and felt a chill reach down to her bones. “No,” she whispered.
“Father Murray,” Father Quinn said. “Take her.”
“No,” Maria said again and looked to Bishop McGuiness. “You too?”
“You have no idea how far our reach goes, Sister Maria,” Father Quinn said. Maria’s eyes filled with angry tears. Father Murray, taking advantage of her distraction, moved behind her and covered her mouth with his hand. Maria fought and fought, her screams muted under Father Murray’s gag. She kicked and thrashed, but Father Murray was depriving her of breath. She grew dizzy, but even though her vision blurred, she never took her gaze off Father Quinn and the bishop.
She had been so naïve. She’d had faith in her church. She’d believed that the Brethren was isolated to Holy Innocents.
They were going to kill her.
They couldn’t let their secret out into the world. And Raphael believed that she would return. In her letter, she had made him a solemn promise. A promise he would believe she had broken.
Another person to fail him.
I’m sorry, she thought as black spots began to smother her eyes. I’m sorry, she thought as her body grew weak and her legs gave way. I’m sorry, she thought as she sank into darkness. I’m so sorry . . . my lord . . .
*****
Maria’s eyes fluttered open. Confused, it took her a while to gather her bearings. The room was dully lit, candles and a roaring fire its only light. The air was stuffy, and her skin was clammy.
As the rest of the room came into view, Maria stilled as her eyes drank in what lay before her. Devices and apparatus that she had only ever seen in history books. Instruments of torture. Racks, chains suspended from the ceiling, wooden wheels with metal spikes. Whips and shackles and scourges . . . She began to flail, but her arms and legs were tied down. She realized she was naked, her body completely stripped of clothes.
Panic surged through her veins. She pulled and pulled at her restraints, but they didn’t move. Tears filled Maria’s eyes as she searched the room. She recalled Gabriel’s explanation of Purgatory, of the torture room where they were taken each day.
“No,” she whispered, knowing that was exactly where she was. The underground building that no one but the Brethren knew of. Maria glanced down and saw she was on a wooden table.
She had barely taken in a breath when a door opened. Her stomach flipped in dread. Father Murray was heading toward her. When his brown gaze clashed with hers, his nose flared and a dark smirk etched on his lips.
“Sister Maria.” He came to a stop beside her. His eyes dropped to rove along her body. He lifted his hand, and Maria yanked on her restraints. When his hand landed on her ankle, she captured the sob that threatened to spill from her mouth. Her skin turned from clammy to ice cold at his rough, unwanted touch. “When we decided to send you on the mission . . .” Father Murray’s hand tracked up her leg. “When I saw your hair, when we learned of your past. Of William Bridge, of him killing your family and taking you captive . . .” He shook his head. “We thought you’d understand our mission from God. We thought you’d understand that we need men like Raphael and the rest off the streets.”
Maria’s skin prickled. His fingertips danced up her thigh and to her hips. She wanted to push his repulsive touch from her skin. Cleanse herself of his abusive poison.
Maria stilled when his hand reached her breast and began to circle her nipple. Father Murray shook his head again. “But, like the slut you are, that all women are, you fell for his lustful and sinful ways.” He squeezed Maria’s nipple so hard that she cried out, pain slicing across her chest. As quick as he had brought the pain, he released her nipple, smoothing it with his palm. “All you had to do was tell us where he was. Keep him in your company long enough so we could retrieve him.”
Maria watched him. She stared at his dark eyes and messy hair. But more than that, she focused on his face. On the expression of evil that he had only now bared, in this room of torture. Maria saw the anger in his eyes, saw his fury at her betrayal in the tensing of his jaw and the thinness of his lips. His hand traveled south. A lump filled Maria’s throat as his wandering fingers headed between her legs.
“You weren’t meant to take his side, Sister Maria. You weren’t meant to know of our brotherhood and try to have us stopped.” Father Murray’s hand paused on her inner thigh. Her legs were spread apart by the ankle cuffs; there was nothing she could do. Father Murray dropped his hand and cupped Maria’s core. She cried out when hurtful fingers dug in, pain flashing through her legs. He twisted her clitoris, and tears fell down Maria’s face as he pushed a finger inside her. He hurt her. As he plunged his finger in and out, her body went from pained to steadily numb. Her tears dried. Her body went limp and she stopped fighting.
Maria stared at the ceiling and thought of Raphael. She pictured the manor in her head, and the men gathered around the table, talking and smiling. She didn’t resent them for the life they lived. After just a few minutes in this room, she understood how year after year of torture would affect their childish minds, send them to a place of constant evil and darkness. Make them devoid of good, make them want to hurt people in the way they had been hurt.
They had been conditioned to hate humanity. And with the Brethren as their example, who could blame them?
Father Murray’s fingers slipped from inside her. Maria barely noticed; she had mentally taken herself away from the assault. But the priest moved into her line of sight and, yanking her head to face him, made her watch as he sucked on his fingers, tasting her on his tongue. She was unable to stop him as he gripped her face, forced her mouth open, and pushed his fingers into her mouth. “Taste yourself,” he hissed. “You taste like a whore, an easily swayed woman. A daughter of Eve, tempted once again by the devil.”
Maria’s eyes watered at the invasion, but she didn’t struggle. She could see the disappointment in Father Murray’s eyes at her lack of fight. Pulling his fingers from her mouth, he smiled coldly. He turned and picked something off a nearby table. He walked to the fire, and Maria watched as the orange and red flames danced over his clothes, showcasing a priest riddled with evil.
But any defiant strength she had gathered waned when he turned. In his hand was a brand—an upturned cross . . . like the one Raphael had on his chest, like all of the Fallen had on their chests. Father Murray closed in. The brand was orange as it fed on the heat of the fire. Maria tried to hold herself still, to brace for the oncoming pain. But she wasn’t strong enough for that. She tested the restraints, but it was useless. Father Murray brought the boiling-hot brand over her chest. “You are evil, Sister Maria. You have fallen from the cause.” As the brand lowered, as the scalding metal melted against her chest, an excruciating pain, the like of which Maria had never felt in her life, seemed to burn her alive. She fought to hold on to consciousness. She needed to fight for Raphael. “If you like the Fallen so much,” she heard Father Murray’s voice say in the distance, “then you will be treated the same way.”
Maria blacked out. She slipped in and out of consciousness, unable to keep awake for long enough to try to escape. When her eyes finally opened for more than a few minutes, she was engulfed in darkness. Panicked and feverish with pain, she reached out her hands. All she was met with was a hard, unyielding ceiling. Her legs parted, and her ankles met narrow sides. “No,” she croaked, her voice stolen with the paralyzing quicksand of fear. “No! Help! Please!”
A coffin. Maria was back in a dark coffin. A metal coffin with only tiny holes for her to breathe.
The racking pain coming from the brand on her chest diminished her ability to fight, and as she was quickly dragged back under, losing consciousness, all she thought of was Raphael. How he would never know how much she wished she could return to him. Because to die under the Brethren’s hands was the very worst kind of death.
She knew Raphael’s would have been beautiful. The perfect way to go.