RAPHAEL

(Deadly Virtues 1)

Tillie Cole

Copyright© Tillie Cole 2019 All rights reserved

Copyeditied & Proofread by www.kiathomasediting.com

Formatted by Stephen Jones

Cover Design by Hang Le

Ebook Edition

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This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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In one yellow string I wound three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain.

Porphyria’s Lover

By Robert Browning

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

The Fallen: Genesis (A Deadly Virtues Novella) MUST be read first

Author’s Note

The Deadly Virtues series is a dark romance series based on the concept of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Seven Heavenly Virtues, drawing on the contrarian model, which states that each virtue acts as a “cure” or “remedy” to one of the sins.

Humility will cure Pride.

Kindness will cure Envy.

Temperance will cure Gluttony.

Chastity will cure Lust.

Patience will cure Wrath.

Charity will cure Greed.

Diligence will cure Sloth.

Raphael (Deadly Virtues Book One) will explore the notion of Chastity curing Lust.

The Ten Commandments of the Fallen

1. Thou shalt not kill an innocent

2. Thou shalt not stray from the Fallen’s righteous path

3. Thou shalt not bring prey back to Eden Manor

4. Thou shalt not kill in Eden Manor

5. Thou shalt not betray, injure, or kill a brother of the Fallen

6. Thou shalt kill only the Chosen

7. Thou shalt not put any other above the Fallen

8. Thou shalt not kill another brother’s prey

9. Thou shalt only kill within the realms of one’s desire

10. Thou shalt practice self-restraint

Glossary

The Fallen: Comprises Gabriel, Raphael, Selaphiel, Barachiel, Jegudiel, Uriel, Michael. Seven men from Holy Innocents; later, Purgatory. Named by the Brethren after the archangels of the Catholic faith in hope that their holy names would inspire redemption. They became the Fallen in reference to their archangel names and their rebellious natures.

The Brethren: Sect born from the Catholic Church in Boston, Massachusetts. Exorcises boys of their innate evil, their thirst to kill, through invasive sexual and medieval torture techniques carried on from the Spanish Inquisition.

Holy Innocents Home for Children: Orphanage for boys near Boston. Named in tribute to the boys killed during Herod’s search for Jesus.

Purgatory: Secret home on the Holy Innocents grounds. Run by the secret Catholic sect the Brethren. Boys viewed as innately evil are brought there to be “exorcised” of their demons.

Eden Manor: The manor house on the outskirts of Boston inherited by Gabriel from his grandfather, billionaire/serial killer Jack Murphy. A secret location, protected by the government. Home to the Fallen.

The Tomb: Basement room in Eden where “Revelations” are conducted.

The Nave: Room where the Fallen gather for meals. Dinner each night is mandatory to strengthen the social bonds of the brotherhood. It is a way for Gabriel to assess his brothers and ensure they keep a grip on their humanity.

Revelation: Ritual of the Fallen. Ceremony where Gabriel tasks one of the Fallen with a “mission” to kill. The Fallen wear ceremonial robes.

The Fallen’s Oath: Taken in the Tomb. Each brother of the Fallen signs a contract in blood with the sacrificial quill, committing themselves to the life of a Fallen and to the Ten Commandments that must be adhered to. Performed by Gabriel. Breakable only by death.

Chapter One

Eden Manor, Massachusetts

The sound of Gabriel’s Gregorian chant music drifted up the Tomb’s steep, winding stairs. Raphael ran his fingertips along the gray stone walls. They were damp underneath his skin, slick with the stagnant water that trickled in from the overflowing lake outside. Forest-green moss crept in through cracks and fractures in the brick, betraying the manor’s age.

With every step he descended into the candlelit darkness, Raphael’s heart began to thunder into a heady velocity. The string that forever sat on his right index finger was so tight he could feel his pulse throbbing in the very tip. He focused on the rhythm of the beat, on the tightness of the string wrapped around and around and around his flesh. A fire of pleasure broke out in his chest and surged through his veins at the tightness, the suffocation, the hedonistic asphyxiation of the digit. It was a denial of blood, of the life his finger needed to survive, to thrive—to exist. Raphael’s lip kicked up in a smirk. He knew the tip of his finger would be blue, starved of the sustenance it needed to function. He hissed out in pleasure when the fire that vision ignited darted straight to his cock. Raphael didn’t care if his brothers heard him moan out loud. They would be caught in their own heads, their own excitement of possibly getting the kill, to care—they never cared.

Raphael felt Michael breathing heavily behind him, affirming his point. He knew Michael would be stroking the vial of blood around his neck while almost coming in his leather pants at the thought of sinking his sharp teeth into a vein and sucking down the blood. Gabriel told them Michael had something called hematolagnia. He had a word for what he claimed “ailed” all of them.

Nothing ailed them.

Gabriel just didn’t understand the way the six of them were, the way they had to be, the six of the Fallen who were nothing like Gabriel. They liked to kill. Needed to as much as they needed to breathe. It wasn’t abnormal to them. Blood and flesh and cries of pain inflicted by their hands didn’t bring repulsion, only satisfaction.

It was simply who they were.

Out of all the brothers, Raphael was closest to Michael. But right now, each of the brothers was completely alone. The Revelation ceremony brought out the utmost selfishness in them.

The chance to bring death consumed them.

Controlled them.

And Raphael wouldn’t have it any other way.

Raphael’s cock grew hard in his jeans at just the thought of taking someone’s last breath. He pushed the heel of his hand against his crotch as the blood rushed to it, but the burst of painful pleasure that spiraled up his spine only made him groan louder. The rubber cage he always wore around his dick constricted his flesh and began to strain, biting into him as the rubber rebelled against his hardening. The BDSM contraption was designed to bring pain. And it was successful; pain it brought. But Raphael didn’t see pain as a punishment. He lived for pain. The more agony he felt, the more pleasure he felt. He basked in the throttling of his penis, relished the choking of his erection as it tried to break free of the rubber constraints.

Raphael lost his footing, his back slamming into the wet wall. He barely even noticed his shirt growing damp as his eyes closed. All Raphael could focus on was the cage’s incessant strangling. His hands curled into fists as the addictive fire ravaged his body.

Flashes of his ultimate fantasy poured into his mind, fueling his ecstasy. He was powerless. He couldn’t stop them if he tried. But why would he? It was what inspired him to get out of bed each day, birthed every single breath his lungs inhaled. What he had waited years for, and would wait a lifetime more to capture. Raphael’s breathing became deep and labored as he imagined the scene—the king-sized bed, the red rose petals thrown on the pure white Egyptian cotton comforter. And her, the one, sprawled out for him on her back, naked, a temptation made true. Her cheeks would be flushed, and her lips would be cherry red. Her skin would be so soft, no blemish in sight, eyes bright and fixed on Raphael, piercing his gaze with nothing but adoration. She would be his, and he would be hers. There would be nobody else for either of them. She would be his one possession that he would have for all of his days.

Raphael knew his pupils were dilated beneath his closed lids—oddly colored golden-brown eyes that set him apart from everyone else. His greatest tool, eyes that lured in his victims—meaningless women he would chase for a while, seducing, enticing, making them enamored with everything he pretended to be . . . before he pillaged their lives, fucking them hard as death collected their souls, releasing into their dying bodies as he consumed their final heartbeat and breath with his unyielding hands.

Raphael’s eyes snapped open when he heard the church bell echo around the stone basement—Gabriel’s signal to robe for Revelation. As he descended the final steps, the tight rubber cage around his cock caused pre-cum to leak into his jeans. He lived for the sexual strangulation. He needed it as much as he needed to breathe.

Raphael realized he was late. He raced through the wide wooden door of the Tomb. His brothers were already in robes, the heavy hoods covering their heads as they silently awaited his arrival.

Raphael moved to his area of the Tomb to change and slipped on the black robe, tying the waist and lifting the hood over his head. The Gregorian chant drowned out any other sounds in the space. Tall white church candles led the way to a stone altar at the back of the small room, raised a single step higher than the floor. In front of the altar, a robed figure stood facing his brothers. A figure robed in red, standing out among the sea of black—Gabriel. Raphael’s brothers dropped to their knees. Gabriel paused as Raphael took his place, waiting patiently for him to do the same. Raphael took a deep breath as he lowered one knee to the ground. His jaw clenched, everything in his body telling him to refuse the submission. To get to his feet and never bow to anyone or anything ever again. He saw red, his heart pumping boiling-hot blood through his veins as he tried to get his body to obey. His muscles tensed and his skin felt too tight around his flesh as it fought the subjugation.

Raphael tightened the string around his finger and breathed in deeply. He thought of roses. He thought of red and pink and yellow roses. The familiar song he always hummed under his breath poured from his throat, filling the Tomb with its low notes.

This was Gabriel, he told himself. These were his brothers. It was a Revelation . . . and a Revelation led to killing. Raphael placed his hand on the stone floor beside his one bent knee. Felt the smooth hardness of the stone on his palm. Recalled the many times Gabriel had called his name and the lightness he would feel in his chest when he knew he had been given the kill.

Fighting every rebellious instinct in his soul, Raphael placed his second knee to the floor. The stone was cold under Raphael’s jeans as he kneeled. The hood caused his labored breathing to echo in his ears, his breath swirling around the confined space. He waited, muscles tense, for Gabriel to begin. He needed to get to his feet. He needed to be off the floor, off his knees. Memories flashed into his mind, memories of his neck being held and his mouth being fucked against his will. He shook his head, forcing them from his mind.

Roses . . . He focused on roses . . .

Gabriel turned down the music until the monks’ chants were no more than a distant hum. Under the lip of his lowered hood, Raphael watched Gabriel reach for the scroll that rested on the gilded plate on the center of the altar. The parchment, as always, was wrapped in a red ribbon. Red for the blood that would be spilled. The sin that would be committed.

Then there was silence.

Raphael watched Gabriel’s feet move along the six of the Fallen. Past Bara, past Uriel, past Sela, past Diel . . . then finally past Michael. Gabriel stopped before Raphael. “Rise,” Gabriel said in an authoritative voice. Dark-tinged adrenaline rushing like lava through his body, Raphael drew back his hood and looked up at Gabriel. His brother was staring down at him, Gabriel’s blue eyes boring into his. Raphael’s nostrils flared as his attention dropped to the scroll. The scroll that held the name of his next kill. Gabriel waited as Raphael slowly got to his feet. From the minute the Fallen were brought to the manor, Gabriel had made them practice restraint. Made them prove to him that they could control their murderous urges enough that they could be set free to kill outside of the manor’s doors when ordered. It was torture. The waiting, curbing the compulsion to flee the seclusion of the manor and kill and fuck whoever they wanted.

None of them had to obey Gabriel, of course. At any point they could leave. But they wouldn’t. They shared a covenant with their pure brother. As kids, Gabriel had saved them from the Brethren. He’d sacrificed his destined future as a Catholic priest, had attacked Father Quinn just to follow his little brother into the depths of hell. Was raped, fucked by priests, tortured, stripped and branded and torn down . . . all to save their already damned souls. The adoptive brothers he would never have wanted, but always kept close.

The guy was a living saint. And Gabriel had the Fallen’s allegiance . . . no matter how much it tested them to restrain their basest desires. Their self-restraint was their thanks to their brother for everything he had done. Without Gabriel, they would all be dead.

When Gabriel handed Raphael the scroll, Raphael saw what he always did in Gabriel’s eyes. Something that looked like pain. Raphael didn’t understand it. He would never understand what Gabriel felt in these moments. In Raphael’s opinion, their leader felt too much, period. He was too innocent. Gabriel couldn’t have been more different than the rest. Bara, back in Purgatory, used to tease him and call him “Angel.” The moniker couldn’t have been more accurate.

The angel willingly living in a den of demons. Unrepentant, soul-stealing demons.

“The Revelation has been given,” Gabriel announced. One by one Raphael’s brothers rose to their feet. Hoods were pushed back as Raphael unlaced the red ribbon that held the scroll closed. Dropping the ribbon to the ground, where it pooled like the blood he would spill, he opened the parchment and read the name written across the center in Gabriel’s perfect calligraphy.

Angela Bankfoot.

“Trafficker of young girls,” Gabriel said. “Made millions kidnapping teenagers from their homes then selling them to the sex trade.”

Raphael smirked.

Angela Bankfoot would be fun to kill.

Raphael walked to the stone font engraved with the Fallen’s sword-and-angel-wings emblem. The font wasn’t for holy water, as the fonts at Holy Innocents had been. This was an inferno. And rather than being used to bless a congregation or to baptize a child, the Fallen’s font consumed the names of the soon-to-be dead, preemptively sending their names to hell, to where the prey’s soul would soon follow. Mesmerized by the orange and red flames, Raphael let the fire heat his face. He relished the burn on his skin.

Raphael dropped the scroll into the fire. He watched as the blaze devoured the paper, swallowing up the letters that formed the bitch’s name. When he turned, Gabriel handed him a brown leather folder. It was filled with information on the target. Each brother was given one when they received a Revelation. All the intel they would need to seek out and toy with their deserving victim before bringing them their demise.

One by one, his brothers nodded in his direction. An act of silent congratulation. But Raphael saw the envy on their faces, the disappointment that it wouldn’t be them who got to elicit pain from another fucked-up soul and savor the symphony of their screams. Gabriel moved back to the altar. The Fallen all looked his way. When Gabriel nodded, they lowered their heads and began reciting the Commandments of the Fallen: “Thou shalt not kill an innocent. Thou shalt not stray from the Fallen’s path . . . Thou shalt not bring prey back to Eden Manor. . .”

As the commandments fell from Raphael’s lips, he fought the need to flee to his room, for privacy. To begin the preparation for the takedown. He smiled to himself.

It was time to begin the hunt. It was almost as fulfilling as the kill. Almost.

Gabriel walked to the ceremonial bell’s rope and pulled it down; the bell rang out, its tone vibrating through Raphael’s bones. He stared at the rope, and his smile widened. If he closed his eyes, he would be taken back to the genesis of his fall. To being a twelve-year-old child who thought nothing of watching someone die. And was no longer able to hold back the need to do so.

Raphael could still remember every detail of wrapping the red rope around Gavin’s slender neck. After months of studying every student at Holy Innocents school, he had finally chosen Gavin to be his first. The one to break Raphael’s virginity—his strangulation virginity. If he closed his eyes tighter, Raphael could still feel the rough fibers of the church bell’s rope under his fingers, the crimson strands caressing his palms as he wound it tightly around Gavin’s throat. Around and around and around, the bell signaling Mass ringing in his ears. Raphael sucked in a sharp breath as his cock swelled inside the cage. Replaying Gavin’s chokes and stuttered breaths in his head brought him to rapture. He remembered every detail of Gavin’s battle to hold onto consciousness as Raphael pulled the rope tighter and tighter, pulling it just enough that it drained Gavin of life but didn’t crush his trachea. Raphael needed the neck to remain perfect, no breaks or snaps. The true beauty of the kill lay in the remaining perfection in the aftermath. The elegance of the slow death without mutilation.

A most perfect asphyxiation.

Raphael was suddenly consumed by the need to begin his hunt. The memory of Gavin’s strangulation had awakened his senses, stirred to life the demonic beast that owned his blackened soul. The minute the final bell rang out, he rushed back to the change room to hang up his robe and made for the stairs. The winding of the stone steps only made the kindle of anticipation flare more strongly. The twisting, circular movements made his breath come in sharp puffs of strained inhales and exhales.

Raphael stopped when he reached the Nave. He opened the file on the vast wooden table at which the Fallen ate their meals. The bitch’s face in a photograph was the first thing he saw. Angela Bankfoot. A slim, tall blonde, pumped full of silicone, Botox, and fillers. But he didn’t gave a shit about her face or even her figure. It was her neck his eyes focused on. His head tilted to the side. Her neck was of adequate size. Not slender enough to make it the most exciting target yet, but sufficient to make the kill sweet enough to sate the darkness that roared inside his heart.

Raphael’s lip curled in disgust when he looked at her hair. Peroxide-blond hair that fell to the tops of her shoulders. Not as long as he craved. Raphael’s hands balled into fists on the tabletop, his eyes closed, and he breathed deeply though his rabid disappointment. Pulling himself together, he refocused on the file. He smirked when he saw where the bitch liked to go for pleasure.

A place Raphael knew all too well.

Angela Bankfoot liked fucked-up play. Unluckily for her, so did Raphael. The bitch had no idea what was coming.

“Well?” Sela asked.

Raphael stood, and his brothers gathered around him. At least, five of them did. Gabriel would still be in the Tomb, no doubt praying to God to forgive his soul for giving Raphael the mission. The self-hatred would be eating him alive, the agony of being judge and juror of someone’s soul.

It was a fool’s move. God had no place in their lives, in the manor. He’d abandoned them all a long time ago, letting his agents of sin fuck them and hit them, making them more fucked up than they’d ever been before.

A hand waved in front of his face. When Raphael’s vision cleared, it was to see Bara and his flame-red hair. His green eyes were alight with excitement. “Good target?”

Raphael pointed at the photograph of Bankfoot.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Sela. “Too bad she isn’t the one, brother,” he said. Sela leaned in closer for a better look. His long brown hair fell on the picture and, for a moment, made it look as though Bankfoot’s hair dropped all the way below her big, fake tits. Raphael hissed at the sight. Bara smirked, knowing exactly what had made him temporarily lose his shit.

“Maybe next time.” Sela stood back, moving his hair, ripping the fantasy away. He studied the photograph. “But she’d be easy to recreate. All that surgery makes for an easy death mask.” His eyes flared. Sela made masks of all his victims. Hung them in his room, so they would look down at him as he slept. “And those rubber lips would feel wicked good around my cock.” He shrugged. “At least until I cut them from her face and put them in a jar.”

“Where will you find her?” Diel asked. The black-haired, blue-eyed brother pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. His head twitched every few minutes, the tell that he was fighting for control of the killer inside. The part of him that would throw him into a killing spree. His collar buzzed, the telltale sign that Gabriel had it switched to automatic control. The minute Diel moved too fast, pulse increasing, feet picking up, switching from a walk into a run, it would activate, shooting in excess of fifty-thousand volts into his body and bringing him to his knees.

Raphael went to reply, but he was interrupted.

“Her blood would be vile.”

The men all looked to Michael, who rarely spoke. If he ever did, it was mostly to Raphael. For whatever reason, Michael had always been more drawn to him than to the others. Michael’s ice-blue eyes showed nothing but repulsion toward the target. He pushed back his black hair from his eyes. “All that Botox and shit takes the refinement from the flavor.” Michael flicked his tongue along his sharpened teeth, along the fangs he’d had made that were now permanently attached into his gums. Michael shrugged, then addressed Raphael, meeting his gaze. “If you choked her hard enough, you could always make her eyes bleed.” Michael’s nostrils flared. “That would be a sight to see.”

Diel turned the file around to face him. “Sex dungeons,” he said, amused. “Your favorite place to reside, Raphe. Apart from her hair, it’s what you like most, yeah?”

Raphael nodded. “And she frequents my favorite club too.” Raphael smiled and met each of his brothers’ eyes. “The most extreme and fucked-up toys to play with.”

“Wicked good,” Diel replied, smiling coldly too.

“She needs to be killed slowly.” Uriel moved closer to Raphael to see the picture in more detail. His voice had dropped into a low growl. “The whore is in love with herself. All that shitty work.” His mouth curled in disgust. “Murder the bitch over hours. Make the cunt scream until her voice gives out.” Uriel rubbed the spot over his upper chest, above the Fallen’s brand that they all wore with pride. Uriel’s body was littered with piercings and tattoos, marring every inch of his skin but for his neck and face. He was tracing one of the many words he had inked into his skin, the biggest one. The one that read “UGLY.” It was ironic; Uriel’s face was anything but. Uriel’s gray eyes met Raphael’s gaze. “When you’ve done it, you come and tell me how loud she wailed. How much you fucking made her pay. I need to know. I need to know every second of her pain, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Always,” Raphael said. And he would. One of the biggest pleasures they shared was the retelling of their kills. Every detail, every feeling the murders elicited . . . how their victims begged and pleaded to be spared, to be given mercy.

Mercy was never awarded by the Fallen.

No one was ever spared.

There was no goodness in their souls. Tears and cries rolled off their consciences like raindrops; protests and pleas made them smile.

Raphael closed the file. “I’ll see you all later.” Raphael walked through the vast mansion and upstairs to his own rooms. He crossed the bedroom and went through the hidden door in the vintage-wallpapered wall and into his private room. He headed straight to the large wall that was filled with pictures. Pictures of his kills, taken minutes after death, eyes wide open and faces frozen in a perpetual state of quietus. Graffitied words written in red and black expressed what each victim had done. How they had screamed. How they had clawed at his skin . . . how they had choked on their final breaths.

His gaze drifted to his left. To the one wall that was adorned with a gilded gold frame, a table of unlit candles, and an empty vase awaiting the single rose that would fill it and sit center stage.

A heavy pang of disappointment hit. He clenched his fist by his side.

Not yet, he thought. Not yet . . .

Pinning the picture of his next victim to the north wall of the room—his planning space—he began to plot. As Raphael stared at Angela Bankfoot, his desires for how she would die grew darker and darker. She wasn’t who he wanted. For that, she would pay. Raphael focused on crafting the seduction techniques: the whens, the hows, the methods by which he would tempt her to her eventual demise.

A while later, Michael strode into the room. He had a shot glass of blood in his hands, as he did every night. Raphael knew it was Michael’s own, extracted from his veins only minutes before. Drops of blood still stained his wrist, his black shirt barely disguising the wound. Michael sat on the chair on the corner, dipping his finger into the glass and circling his lips until they were painted a deep shade of crimson red. Around and around his finger went as he lapped at the liquid, the movement staining the skin around his mouth.

“When?” Michael asked, never taking his eyes away from his blood. As always, his shirt was open to his navel, and the vial he always wore sat over the Fallen’s insignia that was burned into his skin. Ever since they moved into the manor, Michael had started coming to Raphael’s room each evening. He never stayed the night, just remained in Raphael’s company until he went to bed. They wouldn’t always speak; Michael rarely did. But he always turned up.

They had lived in Purgatory for years. Years of torture, with only each other to rely on for support. When they escaped Father Quinn’s clutches and Gabriel gave them each their own rooms, it was too foreign for them all. For the first year they had all slept in the same room, together, on the hard floor of the Tomb.

The damp, the lack of windows and light, the stagnant air, the cold . . . it had been all they had known for so long. Even Gabriel had joined them, unable to sleep himself. As the years passed, they slowly began to gain independence. But they congregated each night at dinner and, more often than not, many other times in the day. It was brotherhood in its strongest form. They didn’t know how to live without one another—they didn’t care to find out.

Michael had been the youngest of the Fallen next to Raphael. The two of them were naturally drawn together. Even ten years later it was still the case.

“I begin tomorrow,” Raphael said, answering Michael’s question. He stepped back and glared at Bankfoot’s picture. It stared back at him, her blown-up red lips offending his golden eyes. Raphael took hold of the string on his finger and loosened it, letting his finger find momentary relief, only to once again wrap it around the base, then the knuckle, up to the nail . . . over and over again. “First, I will make contact with her, capture her attention. Then I’ll lure her in.” Raphael felt his breathing deepen as he envisioned the play. He thought of the club, the darkness and smoke that filled every part of the space. The smell of sex and cum, and the wooden contraptions in the open for everyone to see.

Raphael smirked as he glared at her face.

The road to death would begin tomorrow.

He could hardly wait.

Chapter Two

It was a den of sin.

Father Murray fought to keep a hold on his anger as he looked around. He stood in the corner of the room, dressed in black slacks and a black shirt. He had shed his red dog collar and robes for the mission, but his rosary lay around his neck, a symbol of his faith. He could almost feel the cross burning his skin in revulsion as he took in the sight of a woman locked in a metal cage, her legs forced apart as her sinful lover pushed sex toy after sex toy inside her. Clamps bit into her nipples, a chain leading down and clamping her clit.

Father Murray tried to tear his eyes away from her face as she cried out in ecstasy for everyone to see and hear, putting on a show. But his gaze locked on her when she threw her head back and bared her long, slender neck. Murray felt the familiar stirrings in his groin. He gritted his teeth in self-disgust, snarling against his own weakness, against the darkness that lay in waiting, readying to strike, deep in his soul.

Turning toward the black-painted wall behind him, sinking into the shadows, he curled his fingers and slammed his fist against his cock, eyes screwing shut at the thundering blast of pain that splintered up his spine. The shooting agony crippled him. He flattened his hand against the wall as he breathed through the burning, the aching. He could barely stand. Father Murray pictured the evil that had once controlled him finding its way back to the surface. He couldn’t let it happen. Not again. He could never go back. Not now that he had been brought into the light, into the way of the brotherhood.

The priest punched between his legs again and again until he almost dropped to his knees. The sting of tobacco smoke burned his nostrils, and the smell of sex and immorality that infiltrated the air clogged his lungs with wickedness. Disgust sailed through his every cell, abhorrence for those polluting the world with their vice. Only when his hardened penis had deflated under his concrete fist did he turn back to challenge the sickening depravity. His erection might have dissipated, but the rage and anger at such unrighteous acts remained as strong.

Even stronger.

Father Murray’s eyes locked on the woman again as she was released from the metal cage and brought into her lover’s embrace. The man slammed his mouth against hers and thrust his fingers into her overused pussy. They were dressed in scandalous leather outfits that did little to conceal their bodies. Father Murray’s lip curled in disgust. The man pulled back and made for the bar. His slut’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips were swollen from the claiming kiss. She had red marks littering her body like the witch she was. Bruises and gashes from whips and chains and whatever else the male sinner had used on her flesh.

Flesh that belonged to the Lord, not her. Flesh that she was defiling, making a mockery of.

As Father Murray sipped on his water, he noticed the whore was walking to the bathrooms. His eyes tracked her across the room, then scanned the club for any sign that someone else would follow. But the heathens were too busy fornicating to notice or care. His heart kicked into a sprint; she was alone in the bathroom. He squeezed the bottle of water until it was crushed beneath his grasp.

Father Murray’s skin burned as he watched the door of the bathroom. His muscles tensed so tightly they felt as though they would snap. His eyes misted with red . . . and then he was moving. He let the Lord fill his senses and gave over control.

Do with me what you will. Use me as your vessel to destroy the evil walking this earth.

As quick as a shadow, Father Murray turned the knob of the bathroom door and walked inside. The whore stood in front of the mirror, wiping a cloth along her rancid pussy. She turned her eyes his way. What first seemed like shock at the interruption turned into heated interest.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was all seduction. The voice of the devil, Father Murray thought. A living temptation trying to sway me from the path.

It would only make her cleansing all the more powerful.

Father Murray licked his lips and pushed his jaw-length dark hair from his eyes. He saw the whore’s eyes flare. That was the reason he was picked for these missions. Father Quinn had told him God gave him his looks and body for this very reason. To ensnare impure sluts and send them to the depths of hell where they belonged and would dwell for eternity.

Silently, Father Murray turned, giving the slightest nudge of his head in instruction for her to follow. He didn’t look back, and the thumping music from the speakers in the club meant he couldn’t hear her high-heeled feet on the floor. But he knew she would follow. It was God’s will.

These missions were the Brethren’s very reason for existing.

Father Murray exited out of the back door and down the winding fire escape stairs. A metal door plunged him into the darkness of the alley outside. He stopped against the wall and waited. He smirked when the fire door opened and the slut walked through. He watched as her eyes squinted in the dark, searching for him. She smiled when she caught sight of his intense gaze fixed on her. “You like privacy, huh?” she asked, coming to stand before him. “Not into public displays?” She smiled. “You should try it. There’s nothing like all eyes on you as you come.”

The whore ran her long fingernail down Father Murray’s chest. Her touch did nothing to him. There was no stirring in his cock, no satisfaction from her attention. The bitch had no idea what turned him on.

She would soon.

She dropped her hands to the fly of his pants and undid his zipper. Her tongue snaked out and licked along her too-white teeth. The whore was a demon wrapped in attractive female flesh.

But she wouldn’t make this man of God sin.

Father Murray grabbed the top of the whore’s arms, spun her, and smacked her back against the wall. An innocent soul would feel fear, dislike of the rough contact. But not this slut. She smiled, enjoying the pain Father Murray’s aggressive grip brought.

Heathen. A heathen who deserves to die.

“Are you gonna fuck me or what?” she whispered in his ear. The whore lifted her hand and flipped her hair back over her shoulder, aiming for seductiveness. Father Murray knew the movement was a message from the Lord. An invitation to strike, to do his work of ridding the world of sinners.

Father Murray smiled; the whore smiled back. He didn’t bother to tuck his cock back into his pants. Instead, he ran his hands over her hell-created curves, listening to her moan. His fingers roved over her small waist and up over her large breasts. Finally, his hands rested on either side of her neck. Father Murray stared right into the whore’s eyes. Leaning in close, he whispered, “You are a blight on the world. You have no place on this earth . . . and I shall be the holy warrior to send you back to the second level of hell.” Her eyes only had a second to flare with fear before Father Murray began to squeeze. The whore’s mouth dropped open as she quickly became starved of breath.

Father Murray hadn’t been aroused by the whore’s touch. But now, with his hands ridding her of life, his dick was hard and throbbing with the need to release. He panted as the whore’s body began to fight back. But she was too weak; he was too strong. He pressed his wide chest against her tits and pushed her hard into the wall. The friction of her skin against his erection only heightened his excitement. Father Murray rocked against the front of her bare pussy, his hands tightening and tightening until the whore’s eyes began to bulge. She clawed at his chest. But the battle, the pain she was trying to inflict on his pure soul, only made his hold around her neck tighten.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” Father Murray felt the pulse in the whore’s neck begin to slow. He thrust against her harder; the friction sent bolts of pleasure shooting down his spine. “Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Father Murray’s voice was raspy as completion raced to catch him. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” The whore’s body began to still under his grip, and her eyes froze over with the heavy blanket of death. The sight, the tight purchase on her neck, made him groan out loud. He squeezed her neck tighter, hearing and feeling the jagged snap of her bone. A roar of release slipped from his throat; his holy seed cleansed her desecrated skin. He was breathless. His dick throbbed in the aftermath of his release. Father Murray dropped his sweaty forehead against the whore’s chest and whispered, “Amen.” As he drew his head back, he noted the imprint of the crucifix around his neck on the slut’s chest. He smiled, knowing the Lord was pleased.

Another demonic soul purged back to hell.

He didn’t wait around to admire his work. Pride had no place in a Brethren’s life. In minutes, Father Murray had tucked himself back into his pants, righted his clothes, and placed the body of the whore in his van that awaited in the pitch-black corner of the alley. Checking the time, he saw that he had enough night left to cleanse another soul. The underground sex clubs of Boston were rife with heretics and enemies of the faith. All of them needed to die. This club was the worst. Only the worst kind of wrongdoers dwelled there.

Father Murray slipped back up the stairs and retook his place among the shadows. He fixed his dark eyes on the man who had been pleasuring the whore who now lay dead in his van. The sinner had moved on to another whore, tying her with rope as she hung suspended from the ceiling, a ball gag in her mouth. Her eyes rolled back with the pleasure of her body being so tortured.

Father Murray was about to move from the shadows to begin his seduction of the man when someone at the bar caught his eye. He froze, feet rooted to the floor. He could barely breathe. Father Murray didn’t take his gaze from the black-clad man chatting to a blond woman with fake breasts. The man circled his finger around his glass, smiling flirtatiously at something the woman said. Father Murray watched the woman shift in her seat, free-falling into the seduction. Whatever the man was saying was having a strong effect on her. She was putty in his hands. But with that jaw and build, Father Murray could understand why. As he himself had been crafted with beauty meant for good, this man had been molded for sin.

It can’t be . . . not after all this time . . .

“Look up,” Father Murray whispered, the soft sound from his mouth disappearing into the heavy music pulsing through the speakers. “Look. Up.”

As if God were rewarding him, honoring him with a boon, the man looked up, and a rush of disbelief crashed through Father Murray’s body, so strong he had to reach out and touch the wall to remain on his feet. Golden eyes. Golden eyes smoldered as sensuous lips hooked up into a smirk, making the woman flush and bat her eyelashes.

“Raphael,” Father Murray whispered. Just the name leaving his lips caused his eyes to close and memories to spill into his mind.

“Get on your knees.” Father Murray had been working on this boy’s soul for four months. Raphael was Father Murray’s first. His first soul to cleanse. After Murray had pledged to the Brethren, Father Quinn had awarded him this boy.

One just like himself. But where Father Murray had succumbed to the exorcisms Father Quinn had performed on him for five years, giving his soul over to serving God instead of the devil, Raphael was resisting.

The evil in this boy was strong.

But he was no match for Father Murray. He would prove to Father Quinn that he was worthy of the Brethren pledge, the brotherhood he had been welcomed into. He would break this boy and the evil that lived within him.

Raphael glared at him, refusal in his strange golden stare. Time on the rack had made his body weak, stretched until he couldn’t take a second longer. Yet Raphael still stood before Father Murray, shoulders slouched in pain and exhaustion . . . but not defeated.

Drawing the baton from the deep pocket of his robes, Father Murray lashed out and rapped Raphael on the back of his knees. The boy’s legs gave out and he crashed to the floor, palms smacking flat on the stone. Raphael tried to scramble to his feet, refusing to submit, but Father Murray wrapped his hand around the boy’s throat, incapacitating him where he kneeled. The priest was aware of the crime that had brought this boy to Purgatory. It had been frighteningly similar to his own.

Raphael stilled, breathing deeply—a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. His body relaxed further the harder the priest squeezed, and Father Murray noted the quick release of breath from his parted lips and the enlarging of his pupils.

He liked this. Raphael liked to be strangled.

Father Murray regarded Raphael. He freed himself from his pants and edged closer to the boy. “I will cleanse you, heathen. I will cleanse your blackened soul.”

When the memory cleared, Father Murray cursed; the seats where Raphael and his whore had been sitting were empty. He raced to the bar. “Where did they go? The couple who were here,” Father Murray demanded of the bartender.

The bartender was drying a glass with a white towel but paused to say, “You know the rules. No information is given on members. If you can’t abide by the laws of the club, leave.”

Father Murray wanted nothing more than to snap the sinner’s neck for his insolence, but he refrained. His job was to blend in with the crowd, to be indistinguishable among the clientele.

But that man had been Raphael. After all these years, he had spotted a Fallen. They were still in the Boston area. Must have been.

He had to tell Father Quinn. Father Murray scoured the club, needing another glimpse of the boy he had long ago failed to exorcise. Raphael had been the only evil spirit he had never succeeded in breaking. Father Murray didn’t fail. And he had always had a certain penchant for Raphael. They were too alike for him to forget the pretty boy with the golden stare.

Kindred spirits. But one of them was pure, made with light, and one of them made with the blood of hell.

Father Murray saw a door shutting to the far right, a man in black leading a woman inside. The woman who had been sitting at the bar, enraptured by Raphael’s affection. Father Murray was about to follow when the man who had been Father Murray’s next chosen victim came to the bar beside him. “Have you seen Suzy, Ben? She went to the bathroom and hasn’t come back.”

Father Murray’s ears pricked up at the question.

“Sorry. I haven’t seen her.”

“I’ll keep looking. She may have found another partner for us to play with.” The heathen smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

He had to go. Father Murray couldn’t stay if a victim was being noted as absent. His brain told him to leave, but everything else in him needed him to stay. To find the man with the golden eyes and bring him back into the Brethren’s care.

“You want a drink?”

Father Murray looked at the bartender, who was waiting for him to make an order. He didn’t answer. Instead he rushed out of the front doors and through the liquor store that hid the depraved pit of evil beyond its storage room. The frigid Boston winter slapped him around the face. But it was no competition to the raging inferno that was consuming his flesh from within. The satisfaction of finding one of the worst sinners to ever darken the doors of Purgatory.

The Brethren’s only failure in over four hundred years.

Well, one of seven.

Father Murray jumped into his van and pulled out onto the downtown streets. The sun was beginning to rise. Another day of the Lord. The sound of a body rolling around the cabin filled the van, but the priest paid it no mind. He would dispose of the body, find Father Quinn, and tell him what he had discovered.

It was time to act.

It was time to complete the exorcism that had begun so many years ago.

An hour later, Father Murray pulled into the crematorium outside of the city. He drove the van into the underground parking lot and jumped out. The undertaker came to the back of the van and wordlessly took the body from the cabin and carried her off to the incinerator.

When the undertaker came back, Father Murray smiled as he noticed the rosary he wore, a crucifix with a “B” embossed on the center of Jesus’s chest. The wider church had no idea what greatness walked among them. Knights of Jesus, Warriors of the Lord, keeping the faith safe by eradicating evil they could only imagine in their worst nightmares. And it wasn’t just priests who were part of the Brethren and their mission, but men in both high and low places.

The Pope and the Catholic Church were oblivious to who lived under their banner. It had been that way for over a century. And as the years passed, the Brethren only grew in strength.

They were unstoppable.

And they would never be defeated.

The undertaker took a hose and spray and began dousing the back of the van with chemicals. It was important to remove all traces of the sinners they killed. Every detail must be attended to with complete professionalism. Father Quinn made sure the men of his cloth never made it close to a mission without mastering how to eradicate any evidence that an exorcism had been made.

The priest rocked on anxious feet as he waited for the undertaker to complete the cleanse. He bit his nails as he pictured Raphael’s eyes in his mind. That smile. That olive skin and dark hair. Hair that was much longer than it had been in Purgatory.

Raphael had been beautiful as a boy. But as a man, he was unrivaled. Beauty was a sin, vanity the worst of all. And it was clear that Satan had blessed Raphael, his precious denizen, with extreme beauty to lure in his victims. Weak sinners wouldn’t stand a chance under Raphael’s hypnotic attention.

His kills must be so easy.

It was why Raphael needed to die. He was too powerful to remain on this earth. A deadly magnet to innocent, lost souls.

Thirty minutes later, Father Murray was heading back toward Boston, no trace of the woman who was now ash in the sky. When he’d parked the van, he ran into the shower, scrubbing the whore’s poisonous touch from his skin. Just the memory of his hand around her throat made blood fill his cock. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want the act of strangulation to still be attractive, to make heat travel over his skin and bones.

He took hold of the fine needle he kept in a small plastic case in the shower, breathed through his nostrils, and pushed the needle into the tip of his penis. Father Murray clenched his jaw, fighting back a scream as the needle sank in deep.

Gasping, he dropped to his knees. The hot water turned cold as it rained down on his bowed head. Insufferable agony suffused his every cell. Father Murray opened his eyes. Blood poured over the shower floor. He bared his teeth in disgust at his own weakness. At the hardening that never left him. Even after his exorcism and years in Purgatory, the feel of a slender neck under his palms, the last desperate gasp for life, and the frosting over of the eyes still caused him to become aroused. But Father Murray had married himself to the Brethren. He had forsaken sexual desires and would not succumb to his baser urges. He wouldn’t sacrifice his soul as he had once done.

After a deep breath, he jammed the needle the rest of the way into his hard flesh. He screamed at the blinding pain and toppled to the side, curling into a fetal position on the tiled floor. Blood washed from his cock and down the drain toward the depths of hell. He breathed in long deep breaths, fighting through the torture.

Then, mercifully, his cock began to deflate. Father Murray watched as he slowly lost his erection. The pain from the invasive needle began to numb as triumph smothered lust. A deadly sin to which he would no longer succumb.

He lay there for minutes and minutes, until his body had calmed and a heady peace swelled through his veins—peace birthed by victory, good defeating evil. He slowly extracted the needle from his unaroused penis. Blood seeped from the tip, crimson red, but blood penance was the price to pay for the temporary darkness he had allowed into his body.

Later, in confession, he would tell Father Brady—the keeper of his transgressions. He would willingly endure the devices in the heretics room, and the purging of the sin that he knew still lurked somewhere in his body. A place he couldn’t reach.

But first he would speak to Father Quinn.

He must relay the sighting . . . the miraculous gift from God.

“He’s at Sisters of Our Lady of Grace,” Father Cormack, a priest not much older than Father Murray, informed him. “He’s with the novitiates.”

Father Murray cursed internally at the news. He left Holy Innocents and drove the ninety minutes it took to reach Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, the monastery Father Quinn oversaw alongside the Mother Superior.

He made his way up the steps. Nuns of all ages and stages of experience milled about the picturesque lands deep in the stunning Massachusetts countryside. The place was silent, the gardens green and perfectly manicured. The stones of the building were gray and delicately laced with forest-green ivy. The monastery was old and large and suited the reclusive sisters perfectly. Sisters who stayed away from the community and instead thrust themselves into prayer and serving the Lord.

“Father Murray.”

Father Murray looked up to see Mother Superior walking down the hallway toward him. “What can I help you with, Father Murray? Father Quinn didn’t mention you would be assisting today.”

“I’m not,” he said, trying to keep the sense of urgency from his steady voice. “But I must speak to him. There is something we must discuss as a matter of great importance.”

Mother Superior smiled but shook her head. “I’m afraid he has sequestered himself and the novitiates in the education room for the day. He will be there until sundown and has made it clear they must not be disturbed. Patience, Father Murray, is a virtue. Make this a lesson in that.” Father Murray tried to control his sudden anger. He needed to speak to his high priest. But it had to be in private. Nobody could overhear a word he had to relay. “The novitiates will take last vows in a matter of months. Their schooling at this time is too important to interrupt.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“Very well.” Mother Superior gestured for Father Murray to follow her outside. “Then you may make yourself useful. The devil makes work for idle hands, after all. We have bushes that need pruning.”

Father Murray wanted to laugh in her wrinkled face. She was a slave to a church who denied the world and the Lord its truth. Tried to stop the heretic trials and ignored the evil that spread through the world like a cancer while they focused on church services and collecting riches from their congregations to add to their already brimming pot.

“Of course,” Father Murray said politely and followed the old woman outside, taking the proffered shearing scissors in his hand.

Six hours later, Father Murray hovered outside the education room. He could hear the low murmur of Father Quinn’s voice as he spoke to the trainee nuns. The sound of footsteps approaching the door followed. He sank back against the wall and watched as the novitiates vacated the room. His eyes quickly searched for the one nun who always captured his attention. The most devout. The quietest. The one who would scarcely meet his eyes. He held his breath when she finally came through. Head lowered in the “custody of the eyes,” she had her gaze downcast and her hands joined together, hidden, tucked under her large sleeves. Her white headdress covered her head, and her black habit hid her small frame. Father Murray took a deliberate step forward into her path.

Shocked blue eyes snapped up to meet his. “Father Murray, you startled me.” She smiled shyly.

Father Murray smiled back. “Sister Maria Agnes. Nice to see you again.”

Sister Maria nodded once, then cast her eyes to the ground once again and commenced her walk to the refectory for the evening meal.

“Father Murray?” Father Quinn’s voice pulled Father Murray’s concentration from Sister Maria. When Father Murray looked to the high priest, he saw the flash of censure in his gaze. “Is there something I can help you with? You were on duty at Holy Innocents today.” Father Quinn spoke vaguely, of course. In actuality, Father Murray was scheduled to be on duty in Purgatory today, overseeing the cleansing of the boys they had in their care.

Father Murray checked their surroundings were clear and stepped closer to the high priest. “I must speak with you. Urgently.”

Father Quinn’s eyes narrowed slightly. The sound of Mother Superior walking toward them made them both face her direction. “Fathers, evening meal will commence soon. Join us.” On cue, a bell rang out into the barren hallways, bouncing off the stone walls.

“We will speak after food, when the nuns retire to their rooms for the night,” Father Quinn said. “Come.” The high priest led the way to the refectory. Father Murray and Father Quinn were seated at the top table with Mother Superior. Everyone ate in silence; discipline was of the utmost importance at this monastery. It wasn’t progressive, a convent of modern times, but one that embraced the past and its harsher, more rigid practices. Father Murray always thought that if the Brethren were to ever take women into their fold, this convent would provide the best candidates.

Father Murray’s seat allowed him a view of the nuns eating their small, basic meals. And as always, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Sister Maria Agnes. He didn’t know why she commanded so much of his attention. But he suspected it was to do with the fact her skin was a gentle shade of milky white, her fairness untouched by the sun. And her neck . . . a long, slim neck that, when she moved, displayed every bone that kept it intact, every vein that housed her lifeblood.

He wondered if she ever felt him watching. It wouldn’t matter. Sister Maria Agnes was the most dutiful bride of Christ he had ever encountered. The perfect holy sister—meek, subservient, and completely devout. He knew Father Quinn felt the same about the novitiate. He had seen the high priest speak to her longer than the others who were close to taking their final vows. He watched the older man’s gaze warm whenever Sister Maria was close, when she nervously smiled his way.

Father Murray choked down the bland vegetable broth and bread and waited until the nuns had vacated the hall before following Father Quinn to the privacy of his office. The minute the door was locked and Father Quinn gave the signal that they were alone, Father Murray rushed out, “I saw one.” The high priest seemed confused, until Father Murray added, “In the club last night, after I cast a sinner to hell, I saw him. Raphael. One of the lost Fallen.”

The room plunged into a harrowing silence. Father Quinn’s eyes widened. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“And where is he now?”

Father Murray rubbed his hand down his face. “I had to leave. People were noticing the sacrifice’s absence. But we now know where he frequents. We can lay a trap.” Father Murray smiled in excitement. “We can finally capture him, Your Excellency. We can finally recall him to finish what we started.”

“We need a plan. We’ll have to call a meeting of the others. This is too important to wait.” Father Quinn sat down behind the desk, but Father Murray could see the high priest was just as excited as he was. The older man was unable to keep still. Father Quinn was a master priest. The finest example to follow. But Father Murray was comforted that the high priest, served with this news, was unable to rest. “I have a call with a Maine diocese that I must take. After that, we’ll call an emergency meeting at the headquarters and make plans. We need something that is iron clad, brother. We can’t lose them again. We may never get another chance to finally send their souls to hell.”

Father Quinn got to his feet and laid a hand on Father Murray’s face. Father Murray was not unused to the high priest’s touch. It had been Father Quinn who had exorcised him all the years he was in Purgatory, cleansing him with his seed. At first he had fought it. But he had still been in the grip of the consuming evil that had captured his soul. Once that evil had been freed, Father Murray had yearned for the high priest’s touch. Prayed that he would come to the dorm and take him into his care.

Father Murray curled his cheek into the priest’s hand, feeling his spirit soothe, and kissed his palm.

“You did well, Francis.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.” His voice was merely a whisper.

“Now, go wait for me in the car. I won’t be long.” When Father Murray stepped out into the empty hallway, Father Quinn’s blessed touch still warming his cheek, silence and darkness greeted him. He glanced toward the main doors, but his heart tugged in his chest and persuaded him to walk in the opposite direction. On light and silent feet, Father Murray followed the shadows to the stairs and up to the first floor. It wasn’t the first time he had ventured into the private rooms of the nuns. As if a beacon were calling to his heart, he followed his feet until they stopped outside a nondescript wooden door, its panels chipped and worn with age.

Checking there was no one around, Father Murray leaned his ear against the wood and listened. All beyond the door was silent. The sister must have been done with evening prayers and already asleep. Smoothing his palm down the door, Father Murray allowed his fingers to wrap around the iron knob and quietly turn it to the right. The door opened, and Father Murray peered through the inch-wide gap he had made.

He froze.

Every muscle locked into rigid ice as the view before him was revealed.

Sister Maria Agnes was undressing, the dim glow of a single low light on her nightstand surrounding her body in an ethereal halo. Father Murray felt his breathing change from soft exhales to short, sharp puffs as Sister Maria removed her habit. She was as meticulous in undressing as she was in walking. Every move was gentle and measured, purposeful in her duty. Father Murray felt a familiar stirring in his groin as Sister Maria slipped into her nightwear and began removing her headdress. The white material gave way to dirty-blond hair he had never before seen, captured in a tight bun at the base of her head. Slowly, the trainee nun pulled out pin after pin until there was a small pile on her empty desk. With delicate hands, Sister Maria proceeded to unravel her hair. Down and down it went, falling past her shoulders, the center of her back . . . until it landed below her rear. Father Murray’s eyes widened as the nun raked through the silky strands with her hands, followed by a simple comb. And then his heart stilled. His blood stopped pumping as a memory flashed across his mind.

“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Father Murray said to Raphael, triumph flooding his face. “It’s the hair.”

Father Murray quickly closed the door and raced to Father Quinn’s office. He burst inside just as Father Quinn hung up the phone.

“Father Murray, I told you to wait in the car,” the high priest snapped.

“I know how we get him,” Father Murray said breathlessly. “I know how we capture Raphael.” Father Murray smiled, his body radiating pure joy. “And I know it will absolutely not fail. He’ll be ours. He’ll finally be ours.”

Chapter Three

The loud clang of the bell broke through Maria’s sleep. Hymns sung by the sisters walking the hallways drifted under the gap at the bottom of the door. It was still dark outside, the Massachusetts winter still holding tightly on to its final chilly breaths. Maria sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She blinked into the dark and reached over to switch on her lamp. The light bathed the room in a warm glow. Maria smiled as she heard the birds beginning to sing outside the curtain-less window. The owl that nested in the nearest tree surrendered his night song to the early-rising jays’ serenade.

Maria kneeled on the cold wooden floor and clasped her hands in prayer. Closing her eyes, she whispered into the silent room. When she was done, she got to her feet, moved to her closet, and dressed in fresh robes. Finally, she retrieved her headdress. She laid the white garment on the edge of the bed and sat down at her desk. A small mirror was the only thing on the desk. That and her comb. Maria glanced at her reflection as she ran the comb down her thick strands. As with every morning, without fail, she didn’t see the reflection of now, but that of years ago. Of that girl. The one who still cowered in a corner of her soul. The girl she couldn’t reach to heal. To soothe or convince that all would be okay.

After all the knots were freed, Maria brought her long hair into a ponytail, then wound it into a low bun at the base of her neck. Pins held it in place. With a deep breath, meeting her own blue eyes in the mirror, Maria placed her headdress over her head and dusted out any stray creases that might have crept onto her black robes.

As Maria walked to the door, a sense of duty and peace washed over her. Convent life had given her a freedom she’d believed she would never find. The rigid schedule and deep, silent prayers were a balm to her soul, a Band-Aid to her ever-bleeding heart.

The second Maria set foot in the hallway, she cast her eyes down and clasped her hands, tucking them into the sleeves of her robe. Her feet led the way to the refectory for breakfast. Maria focused on the stone floor beneath her. Soon she would pledge her final vows to the church, committing herself to a life of sacrifice and servitude. A life loving God and thanking Him for saving her, for singling her out of the many who had perished before her.

Maria recalled her first vows. She relived the sense of happiness and joy she’d felt rain over her body and mind as she donned the white dress, as she kneeled before Father Quinn and took her first step in becoming a dedicated bride of Christ. Something happened to her on that day. Something pulled at her heart. Her gut. Something that told her she was about to embark on the journey that would explain why she had been spared. God was warning her that her reason for surviving was about to be revealed. And she was ready to receive the message and give all of herself to the task. Mind, body, and soul if needs must.

Breakfast passed quickly. Today was a day of reflection and chores. Father Quinn’s lessons would recommence the following day. A heavy mist hung in the air, making it difficult for the rising sun to sneak through. As Maria stepped outside to tend the garden, the morning dew kissed her face. This, Maria thought. This is all the evidence I need to know You exist.

Maria thought upon the people in the world who took every new sunrise for granted. They simply didn’t understand how fleeting life could be. They didn’t know the gift they were awarded every day by simply opening their eyes and seeing the sky. Breathing in the fresh air, igniting life in their lungs.

But Maria did. And she’d vowed years ago to never take the simple things for granted again.

A hand pressed on her shoulder. Maria spun, caught off guard. Mother Superior’s face was before her. “I’m sorry, Reverend Mother,” Maria whispered, trying to calm her racing heart.

Mother Superior smiled. “I called your name three times.”

“I was caught in gratitude, Reverend Mother. In prayer and thanks.”

“I thought so, child. There are none more grateful for their position here than you.”

“Thank you.”

“Come, child. You have visitors.”

“I do?” Maria asked, confused. Maria had no family—none but the family of the church.

“They have come especially to see you.”

Maria dutifully followed Sister Theresa, her Mother Superior, down the hallway that led to Father Quinn’s office and the education room. Head down and hands clasped, Maria tried to focus on God and Jesus as the custody of the eyes required, but her head was too busy with questions of who could be there to see her.

Maria’s questions were answered when the door to Father Quinn’s office opened and Fathers Murray and Quinn rose from their seats at the desk.

“Sister, good day,” Father Quinn said.

“Father Quinn,” Maria said softly. “Father Murray.”

“Please.” Father Quinn gestured to the seat on the other side of the desk.

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Maria didn’t look behind her as Sister Theresa left and locked the door. The room plunged into silence. Maria kept her head bowed, staring at her clasped hands.

“Relax, Sister Maria,” Father Quinn said. “You are not here to be reprimanded.”

Maria released a pent-up breath and lifted her head and looked nervously at the two priests. “Sister, we have been locked in study for a while now. Years in fact,” Father Quinn said. “In a few short months, novitiates, if they decide this life is for them, will take final vows.” He paused, watching her curiously. “Where do you stand on that? On taking final vows?”

“I am pledging,” Maria said quickly, confidently. “I already see myself as a bride of Christ. I want this. This life is everything to me. I understand now that it has been God’s plan for me all along. Everything that has happened to me . . . it was to guide me onto this path, as painful and difficult as it has been.”

Father Quinn and Father Murray looked at one another, seemingly sharing a private thought. Then Father Quinn turned her way and smiled. “You have no idea how happy this makes me, Sister Maria.” Maria exhaled a long, relieved breath. “But,” Father Quinn said, interrupting her relief, “there is something I’m going to ask of you.” Maria waited patiently for him to continue. Father Quinn leaned forward on the wooden desk that separated them, hands steepled. “Sometimes, sister, we, as priests and experienced men of the cloth, need novitiates to prove that they are ready.”

Maria’s heart sank, ripped in two, when those words left the father’s mouth. There was none more fit for a life as a nun than Maria. She wanted to argue that she was prepared, ready for what this life entailed. But she would never speak out of turn. She would never disobey a superior so rudely.

Father Quinn held up his hands. “No one doubts your faith, sister, nor your diligence to your duties. But what we believe you lack is conviction. The ability to do harsh, and often frightening, tasks for the sake of God and mankind. Being sequestered here at Sisters of Our Lady of Grace is noble and will prepare you for a life of service, but what we seek is proof that you are willing to step outside the shackles of these high walls and be a disciple of Jesus, not just His subservient bride.”

Maria’s hands trembled at the thought of stepping out of the gates that kept her safe. When she had decided to join the church at seventeen, Maria was the youngest nun in the convent. She was still only twenty-one; her twenty-second birthday fell on the same week as final vows. But what she lacked in age she made up for in life experience. At age sixteen, she’d felt as though she were ninety. Hardships aged the soul even if the skin your body wore told another story.

Father Quinn sat back in his seat. “Are you ready for that challenge, Sister Maria? One that pushes you, takes you out of your comfort zone and into the graceful arms of Christ?” Maria didn’t speak at first. Father Quinn took advantage of that silence. “Christ died on the cross, in slow, agonizing pain, to save mankind. Is it too much to make sacrifices for Him in return? Love is a two-way street. To take, you must also sometimes give.”

“Love and sacrifice, Sister Maria,” Father Murray said, speaking for the first time. His voice was gentle. “It is what our lives in the church are made of. The church protects us and our mortal souls. Sometimes we need to protect it back.”

Maria swallowed, afraid her voice would shake when she talked. “I-I . . .” she stuttered and cleared her throat. “I am willing to sacrifice myself for the church.” And she was. Her voice may have betrayed her fear, but she knew she was made to endure hardships.

She already had.

Father Quinn smiled so widely that warmth blossomed in Maria’s chest. She had pleased him. “That’s good, sister. I believe it will be your last test before final vows. You will know, as you kneel and give yourself over to Christ, that He is pleased.” Maria nodded. Father Quinn’s face lost all humor. “In the church, we are sometimes faced with evil that many cannot comprehend.” Father Murray sighed, and his eyes softened. “But not you, sister. We understand you are aware of such forces. Are aware and have faced them.”

Maria fought to keep her breathing steady. “Yes, Father,” she whispered. She tried not to feel the permanent red marks on her body burn. Feel the dark touch she had tried to forget. His breath, the sound of his voice, and the devastating mockery in his awful laugh as it filtered into her claustrophobic prison.

“In our years as priests we have encountered many corrupted men like William Bridge.” Just hearing that name said aloud caused shivers to accost Maria’s skin, beads of sweat building on her brow. The mention of his name brought his face to her mind, the one that still caused her to wake at night, panting and unable to calm her pulse. She saw his cold smile as he looked upon her naked teenage body, his eyes as they roved over her skin. And the blood on his face as he tore her world apart, all so he could take her apart, piece by piece, for his own sinful needs.

Father Quinn cleared his throat, taking her from her nightmare. “In fact, there are a group of men we believe are even more evil than he is. Men whose influence has allowed them to evade even the power of the law, has allowed them to assimilate into society among good and honest people. Men who are intent on hurting others, not caring if their victims have families, loved ones, who depend on them, need them. They just want to hurt people, in vile and sick ways. They want to kill.” Father Quinn’s face reddened, and Maria saw incredible anger building in his usually kind eyes. “We have been in positions like this before, where it has fallen to God’s everyday warriors to defeat evil. To bring a reckoning to their door. This time is no different.”

Maria focused on her breathing, sure she would pass out if she didn’t. She didn’t want to face men like William Bridge, men who were worse. She liked her quiet life. Confronting the terrors of her past made her paralyzed with fear.

“That’s where you come in, Sister Maria,” Father Murray said.

“How?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“One of the men has been spotted for the first time in many years. He was found dwelling in a place of perpetual sin and disgrace. A man who uses his beauty and the lust of others to lure in his victims,” Father Quinn informed her. Maria’s eyes were wide as she drank in the information. “We need someone to help us lead him into our path.”

“Me?” Maria whispered.

“The man knows who we are. He will know we are there for him. But you . . .” Father Murray trailed off. Maria looked into the priest’s dark eyes. He must have been about thirty. Still young, Maria thought. But he has risked his life for God many times. She glanced down at her hands, hands that still remembered what it felt like to be trapped in the dark, searching for a way out of her own version of hell. Maria’s eyes closed, and she tried to calm her nerves. She’d always known this day would come. She had chosen Sisters of Our Lady of Grace for its solitude, but God had not saved her so she could hide behind high walls for the rest of her life.

There was a higher purpose to her survival.

Was this it?

Something . . . some inner pull inside her told her it could possibly be.

“Okay.” Maria was terrified even as she agreed to whatever task they were laying at her feet. The thought of meeting the man they spoke of in the flesh was almost too much for her to bear. But if he was anything like William Bridge, as wicked or as vile, she had to help. The very idea of someone hurting an innocent person the way William had hurt her, her family, and many others made her skin crawl in horror.

She had to be more than her fear.

Father Quinn exhaled in relief. “God will see your devotion through this act, sister. All of His great prophets and disciples have endured hardships to prove their love. Yours will be recognized just the same.”

“We will protect you,” Father Murray said. “We will be close and will give you a way to contact us immediately and discreetly if you fear for your safety.” He leaned forward, eyes boring into hers. “I won’t let anything harm you. I won’t let him touch you.”

“Thank you,” Maria said. “What is it you want me to do?”

“We will explain everything. But first . . .” Father Quinn’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her headdress. “I am going to ask you to reveal your hair.”

Maria’s pulse thundered. “M-My hair? But it is to be hidden. My vows . . .”

“It is not sinful if I have asked. I’m your superior and demand this in God’s name,” Father Quinn said sternly. Both priests fell silent and waited for Maria to remove her headdress. Maria had not let down her hair in public for years. It was for her only. To be released in the privacy of her own room. But the priests still waited. Maria knew she was to obey, even if the order was difficult.

Her hands shook as she reached up and slowly removed the headdress. The pins in her bun came next, and Maria let her long hair fall from its captivity and flow down her back and over her bottom to the tops of her thighs.

“Stand please, sister.” Father Quinn’s voice was gravel. Maria got to her feet, eyes cast to the floor. “Turn around.” Maria did as instructed. She didn’t know what the priests wanted, or why they wanted to see her hair. There were no words spoken as the priests got to their feet and walked around her, assessing her.

“Yes,” Father Quinn said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “This will work very well.”

An hour later, Maria stood at the monastery’s gates. Father Quinn and Father Murray waited at the main doors of the building while Mother Superior came to speak to Maria. Sister Theresa took Maria’s hands. Concern was written all over her face. “My child, are you sure you want to do this?”

Unease flooded Maria’s heart, but she nodded her head and squeezed the older lady’s hands. “I am.”

Mother Superior stepped closer. “I don’t know what they have asked of you. Father Quinn doesn’t have to tell me. Nor do you. But I know how hard it will be for you to leave these gates.”

Maria dropped her eyes, but then raised them again to say, “Reverend Mother, you have worked with me for years to get me to this point. To where I have the courage to leave.”

“Are you sure you’re there?”

Maria wasn’t. She was honest with the woman who had been her rock since her first days as a postulant. “I’m sure I have to try. These priests are good men. They have been patient with me.” Maria attempted a weak smile. “You always wanted me to entertain the idea of missionary work outside of these walls.”

Mother Superior sighed. Hugging Maria, she whispered, “Be careful, child. I’ll see you when you return.” She left Maria without another word and went to speak to Father Quinn. Maria watched her go with a lump in her throat.

“Are you okay?” Father Murray asked as he came to stand beside her, the cold wind seeping into the very depths of her bones. Maria kept her focus on the iron gates, and the lock that was firmly in place.

“I haven’t been beyond these gates in nearly five years,” she revealed, for once not caring if she sounded weak and cowardly. The outside world scared her. That was the honest truth. She would never lie.

“We will look after you,” Father Murray said again. Maria smiled up at the young priest. “I promise,” he assured her. “You have my vow.” She knew she did. Father Murray was a good priest. He loved his church and faith. She could see it in his face.

“Thank you. I trust you. I trust you both.” With that said, Mother Superior opened the heavy lock, and Fathers Quinn and Murray stepped over the threshold to a waiting car. With a kiss for Mother Superior, and a soft farewell, Maria stepped over too, ready to sacrifice herself for Christ.

However that may be.

*****

Maria didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. She wore a black dress that fell to mid-thigh. The immodest skintight material showed off her every curve. Maria had not worn anything form-fitting since she was a young teen, and even then it was nothing like this. A thick layer of makeup had been painted on her face by a lady the priests had hired under the guise of Maria being a regular girl about to celebrate her twenty-first birthday with her brother and father.

The stylist had curled her hair, making it glossy and voluminous. The curls shortened the length slightly, but only by an inch or so. Large silver hoops were clipped on her unpierced ears. Her blue eyes stood out against the black kohl liner and mascara that rimmed them. Bright red lipstick and black high heels completed the look. Maria’s skin was fair, and the dress strategically hid all of her scars. The scent of roses drifted up her nose from the strong perfume Father Quinn had given her to wear on her neck and wrists.

Maria heard a sharp inhale behind her. She spun to find Father Murray in the doorway, dressed in civilian clothes—they all were. It was part of the ruse. No one could know they were here on official business of the Catholic Church. Once the man had been captured, he would be turned over to the police and dealt with through the proper channels. Maria didn’t question a word from the priests. They wouldn’t lie. They were devout men of God.

They were stationed in a hotel in downtown Boston. Maria had grown up not too far from where she now stood. It was strange being back around familiar streets. Familiar, yet felt so distant from her life now.

“Sister Maria . . .” Father Murray whispered. Maria felt her cheeks blaze under the priest’s brown-eyed scrutiny. She rebelled against his roving eyes, taking a step back. Seeming to catch the sinful way he was regarding her, Father Murray stood straighter and quickly averted his eyes.

“Father Quinn sent me to see if you were ready. It’s time.”

Maria took one last look at her foreign reflection and picked up the purse the priests had given her. Inside was a tracker. A panic button also lay in the lining of the purse, along with a few other things. When she was ready for the priests to come into the club, or if she felt in danger, she would press the button and they would be there in minutes.

She turned and walked into the living area of the hotel suite. It was an opulent room, all rich golds and thick velvets. The plan was for her to visit the club every night until this “Raphael” appeared. If she could, she was to get as close to him as possible. If God was on her side, she could carry out the more detailed plan.

Father Quinn got to his feet and nodded. “He will be rendered speechless when he sees you, sister.”

Maria lowered her eyes at the compliment. She would find no pride in this mask they had painted on her. She would find no pleasure in this task. This was a sacrifice to God. And she would not be derailed from its purpose.

“Remember,” Father Murray said, “you will know him when you see him. He is beyond attractive. He has olive skin and dark hair that falls over his eyes.” Father Murray paused, a strange look overtaking his face, as though he were lost in a memory of some sort. Clearing his throat, he finished, “But it is his eyes that will confirm it’s him. Light-brown eyes that appear oddly golden.”

Maria nodded. Nervously, she played with her hair. “That,” Father Quinn said, pointing at her moving hand.

Maria dropped her hand. “Sorry. I play with my hair when I’m nervous. It’s why the headdresses we wear at the monastery are a gift.” She tried to smile through her mirth, but it was swept away by her rising anxiety.

“No,” Father Quinn said. “Keeping doing that. Raphael will like it. It will draw his attention. That and the move I showed you.” Father Quinn looked at her expectantly. Maria, understanding she was to practice one final time, tipped her head to one side, pulling all of her hair over one shoulder, baring her naked neck. And as Father Murray had insisted, she ran her red-painted nails down the bones underneath her skin. A caressing, seductive movement. It made her feel sick every time she did it.

“Yes,” Father Murray hissed. The pleasured burst of praise made Maria stop dead. Her gaze snapped to the priest. For the first time since she had met him, Maria saw something unusual in his expression—want, need . . . all from staring at her bared neck. Maria quickly righted her hair, covering both shoulders and hiding her throat. Father Quinn took hold of Father Murray, who was still staring. The touch of his superior’s hand snapped him from whatever impure thought he was lost in. Father Murray’s eyes widened when he saw Maria staring, and Father Quinn whispered something into his ear.

“I’ll be right back. I need to check on something.” Father Murray fled into his bedroom. Maria flinched as the door slammed shut and she heard the running water of the shower.

“He is tense,” Father Quinn said from beside her. Maria jumped; she hadn’t realized the older priest was so close. “He wants this sinner caught. Taken off the streets to protect innocent lives. It pains him that this task has fallen to us, to the church.”

Sadness plowed through the high defensive walls Maria had built years ago. “I understand.” She tightened her grip on the purse. She knew what it was like to feel failed by the authorities. She knew how it felt to lose hope.

“Are you ready, child?”

Maria nodded at Father Quinn, trying not to fall into the black well of despair. She had crawled out of the abyss once. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to do so again.

He checked his watch. “It’s past midnight. The club will be brimming with carnal sinners. Do you have your cards?” Maria checked in her purse for the ID card the priests had supplied her with and the card that allowed her into the club. Father Murray told her no questions would be asked of her—it was club policy. “Keep that purse with you at all times. And press that button when you see him, or if you feel you are in danger.” Maria nodded again. Her voice was silent as she mentally prepared for what was about to happen.

Maria made for the door, but Father Quinn stopped her with his hand on her arm. She spun around, and Father Quinn pushed a rosary into her hand. Maria had left hers at the convent for safekeeping. She missed the beads as they slipped through her hands in prayer. “Keep this with you, Maria. Do not wear it around your neck or have it where anyone will see. But keep it with you for courage. To know the Lord and Mother Mary are with you.” As soon as the rosary was dropped into her palm, peace filled her. She looked at the new rosary in her hand and studied the red beads and ornate silver cross, Jesus hanging on the crucifix, redeeming mankind’s sins. On closer inspection, Maria noticed a miniscule “B” carved into Jesus’s chest. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But what does the ‘B’ stand for?”

Father Quinn’s eyes flashed with something she couldn’t understand. But he quickly recovered enough to say, “I was told it was originally to represent the Boston archdiocese.” Maria nodded, although she was surprised she had never seen such a design before. Father Quinn laid a hand on her shoulder. Maria froze. She wasn’t comfortable being touched. Especially by a man. Father Quinn leaned in close. “But I like to think it stands for ‘Baptist.’ As in John the Baptist. The man whose sacrifice paved the way for Jesus to save all mankind.”

Maria let those words wash over her. “I like that too,” she replied and kept the rosary in her hand. She turned to the door and, without looking back, stepped out into the hallway and began her mission.

In the privacy of the elevator that would take her to the hotel’s foyer, Maria tucked the rosary into her left bra strap. If she couldn’t wear it publicly, she would wear it as close to her heart as she could manage.

Her legs were jelly as she crossed the marble floor of the lobby and walked on unsteady feet out into the frigid Boston winter. The club was only a few yards away. Keeping her head held high, she played her part as best she could. Feigning confidence had been the greatest challenge so far. Maria was used to keeping her eyes to the ground, hands clasped in constant prayer. Her hands were not linked, but she could still find peace in her faith. Hail Mary, full of grace, Maria prayed silently in her mind as she approached the liquor store. She walked through the automatic doors and headed to the back room, praying she had the entrance right. A steep staircase awaited her on the other side. A large man stood at the bottom of it. Maria handed him her cards as he looked her up and down with a salacious smirk on his face. Handing back the cards, he opened the gate that allowed her to pass upstairs.

Maria heard the music from inside pulsing against the walls. She clutched her purse tightly. Maria had never been to a club before. Before she was taken by William Bridge she had been too young. When she was freed, she pledged herself to the church. Maria was sheltered in a way most twenty-one-year-olds were not. Normally, she was thankful. Right now, she wished she had some prior knowledge of what she was walking into.

Ignoring her shaking hand, Maria opened the door to the club and almost stumbled at the sight that greeted her. She froze on seeing a woman tied to a wooden stake in the center of the room, bound by leather straps and metal chains. She was naked but for a strip of black material in her mouth . . . and there was a man, dressed in a three-piece suit, flogging her with a thin leather strap. Even over the blasting music, Maria heard the strap lashing, marring the woman’s skin. There was even blood. But what disturbed Maria more was the look of ecstasy on her face.

Maria could barely breathe. There wasn’t a part of her that was functioning as it should. Her breathing and heartbeat were too quick. Her eyes were too wide and her mouth was dry in shock.

What was this place? Maria wanted to run. The sights and sounds were too much. They were too much like the ranch . . . William’s ranch. But these women were here by choice, wanted to be degraded and hurt and sexually used by choice. She felt as if she had walked into an alternative world, one where nothing made sense and sin, violence, and lust were the norm.

Then Maria’s eyes dropped to the woman’s legs, and all of the blood rushed from her face. Inserted inside her was a toy that resembled a man’s private parts. But that wasn’t what horrified Maria the most. It was the fact that the toy was spiked. Maria’s thighs tensed at merely the sight, as though she could defend the woman from the frightening device. Maria prayed for the woman’s sake that those spikes were rubber and not metal as they appeared. But by the screams and shouts traveling from every corner of the room, Maria couldn’t be sure.

Maria’s body grew colder as she forced herself to move. Men and women stopped to watch her as she moved past, hands reaching out and stroking her bare legs, over her dress, along her breasts. Maria fought back tears as others tried to reach between her legs, pushing themselves on her in ways she could barely stand. She shivered, cold wrapping around her as memories she never wanted to relive sprang into her mind.

Darkness . . . pain . . . despair . . . weakness . . . giving up, I’m giving up . . . no one is coming to help me . . . please . . . please God, please save me . . .

“You want a drink?” A voice pulled Maria from her dark memories. A barman was looking her way.

“Just a water, please,” she said and took a seat at the bar. She placed her purse beside her and, naturally, her hands began playing with her hair. Maria took a large drink of the water when it landed on the bar, and forced herself to look around the club. The sights were too overwhelming, but she kept searching the crowd, looking for the man she was sent to capture. The quicker she found him, the quicker she could return home. In the purse lay a small syringe, one that was filled with a liquid that would render Raphael unconscious. It was only there for if she found herself in the position to get him alone in a private room. Father Quinn and Father Murray didn’t emphasize that expectation too badly, but she knew it was what they prayed for.

She had to do it.

Almost on cue, a man came through the doorway. Maria stilled, her glass halfway to her mouth. He was dressed in a black fitted shirt and black slacks and walked like a god through the club. His confidence leaked from his every pore. Maria’s heart kicked into a sprint when she noticed the olive hue of his skin, the dark hair that fell over his forehead and dropped over his eyes. From this distance, Maria couldn’t see the color of them. The man was looking to his left, away from where she sat. But his lean build, his solid frame—well over six feet tall—fit the description she had been sent with.

He was beauty personified.

Maria was motionless as she watched him cross the club to a woman who waited at the opposite bar. She had blond hair and wore a dress that showed every inch of her figure and what little she wore underneath—a barely-there bra and panties that revealed her shapely behind. In all her life, she had never seen such clothes.

Maria placed her empty glass on the bar and nervously played with her hair. She watched as the blond woman reached out and stroked the man’s wide chest. His top few buttons were undone, revealing the start of a tattoo Maria couldn’t decipher. She raked through her thick dark-blond strands, waiting for the man to look her way. The man lifted his head, and a smile so stunning it was blinding formed on his lips as he threw his head back and laughed. The entire club seemed to fade away as she focused on the man.

And then he looked her way . . . Golden eyes latched onto her. Maria was starved of breath as light-brown—golden-hued—eyes set right on her, on the movement of her hand in her hair. Scrambling to remember what Father Quinn had told her, Maria tipped her head, casually baring her neck. Closing her eyes, she began stroking her hand up and down the fine bones that lay underneath her fair skin. Her fingernails tickled, and goosebumps spread along her spine. Maria pictured Sisters of Our Lady of Grace in her mind, knowing that once this was done she would return to her beloved monastery and never have to be in such a sinful den as this again. This was the last thing she must do to prove she was ready to take final vows.

Maria felt him before she saw him. The scent of fresh water and salt traveled up her nose. The smell was addictive. The steady beat of the music controlled her heartbeat, and, taking in a deep, freshwater-scented inhale, Maria let her eyes flutter open to the vast depravity of the club. Only Maria didn’t see the club, nor the patrons and the people screaming in carnal ecstasy as they were flogged and flayed. She only saw the most captivating face she’d ever seen, that sinfully beautiful face, and that mesmerizing golden stare that rendered her immobile.

Raphael. This wickedly beautiful creature was Raphael, one of the most dangerous men prowling the earth.

“Hi.” His deep voice sailed into Maria’s ears, the heavy Bostonian accent wrapping around the simple greeting. Spell broken, Maria forced herself to play with her hair. Every simple move she made, Raphael devoured like an offering. Maria didn’t understand why such a bad habit would inspire such captivation from the man, but every movement made his chest rise and fall faster, until his tan cheeks were flushed red.

“Hello,” Maria said back. Raphael tore his gaze from the hand running up and down her neck and met her eyes. Maria stroked along the curve of her neck and over to the front of her throat. Her movements were discreet, subtle, like Father Murray had instructed. The movements were so unnatural she felt sure her ruse would be discovered immediately.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” Raphael flicked a hand at the bartender. In less than a minute, a tumbler of amber liquid was placed on the bar before him—whiskey? Brandy? Maria wasn’t sure. Besides red wine at Mass, she never drank. Raphael took the whole shot in one deep swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in this throat. His eyes squeezed closed for a second and shook his head, as if he were arguing with an internal voice. Maria was caught off guard by his strange actions, the tightening of his lips and the twitching of his head. Raphael looked pained, as though something were hurting him from within.

When his eyes opened, they were locked on hers, a strange intensity to his gaze. He straightened. “I’m here for someone else,” he said. His voice had changed from seductive to curt and cold. As if he were reprimanding her for even existing. Anger seemed to flash across his face, and his fists clenched at his sides. Maria’s gaze was drawn to his fist, but she couldn’t help but notice his arousal, the bulge in his slacks that was more than obvious.

Maria’s cheeks burned.

She faced the bar, her hair falling forward to cover her neck. She was chaste. No part of any man, let alone a man as dangerous as this, should draw her attention. The bartender placed another glass of water in front of her. Maria reached for the glass, but before she could take it, she felt rough fingers brush aside her long curls. The pulse in her throat throbbed with unease. But she let it happen; she endured the uncomfortable touch. She let Raphael push her hair away from her milky skin. The pads of his fingertips ran along the bone she had been caressing.

Father Murray had somehow known that simple move would appeal to Raphael. A moth to a flame, and Raphael was wholeheartedly diving into the fire.

“Your hair,” he whispered close to her ear. His soft voice was back and sending hordes of butterflies swooping down her spine. Maria couldn’t help herself. She watched as Raphael’s eyes locked on his slowly moving hand. Up and down along the bone, over and over again. Maria wanted to look away, but she couldn’t not look at the face of this man. The face of an angel.

He is not an angel, but the devil in disguise.

Self-hatred washed over Maria as though she were being doused with holy water after a lifetime of ungodliness. It pulled her from her enraptured state and thrust her back into reality. This man was as ugly on the inside as William Bridge had been in both body and soul. William had been a lot older though. Maria couldn’t help noticing how young Raphael appeared, maybe not much older than herself. It didn’t matter, she told herself. Fathers Murray and Quinn had deemed him one of the most evil men in the world. His age was of little consequence.

She had to keep focused. Though that part of her, the part that believed people could be redeemed, wanted to know more, pulling her mind from the task at hand. She wanted to discover why a man like this, with the world at his feet, would choose this damned and forsaken path.

Raphael stepped closer and closer until he was before her—not touching her, but a mere hairsbreadth away. His scent was overwhelming, his height and lean body imposing in a way no man had ever been to Maria before. “I’m here for someone else.” Raphael’s words sounded reasonable enough, but when she replayed the sentence in her mind, her stomach fell and her chest seized her breath. I’m here for someone else. Not I’m here with someone, but for.

Panic setting in, Maria cast her eyes across the bar to the blond woman who had made him laugh so freely. She was older than Maria and Raphael by quite some years, but she was watching them now with an envious scowl on her face. Her eyes were tight as she watched the man who had been seducing her talk to another.

I’m here for someone else.

Raphael wasn’t at this club for sexual release; he was here for blood. To take another life and rob her loved ones of her grace.

Maria couldn’t let that happen. She could not knowingly allow this man to ensnare an innocent woman . . . even if it meant plunging into the darkness herself.

Edging closer, ignoring the voice in her head that warned her to run, Maria forced herself to play the part of the temptress, a veritable Delilah to this dark-haired, golden-eyed Samson. She forced her finger to move, and ran one red nail down the buttons of Raphael’s shirt. She felt him tense under her touch. Heard him strive for breath, for control. Maria was in a sex club; she had to appear as though she was looking for the same pleasure the other patrons were.

Even if inside she was screaming for forgiveness.

Drowning in a sea of shame and despair.

Raphael leaned closer and closer until his breath ghosted over her face. “Come with me,” he rasped, the sensual tone of his voice stirring something unknown in the depths of her soul. Maria closed her eyes, trying to fight the peculiar sensation. Raphael didn’t appear to see her momentary lapse of strength. He was too busy running his fingers through her hair, from root to end, as gentle as could be. Maria made herself move. She stood off the stool and tried her best to hide her fear. Raphael smiled. The result was breathtaking. That smile could cause a million chaste hearts to succumb to the darkness.

She refused to be one of them.

“My purse,” Maria whispered, just as Raphael tried to reach for her trembling hand. But when Maria searched the bar top, it was nowhere to be seen. Panic set in. “My purse is missing.”

The bartender overheard her.

“New policy. No personal items allowed in the club. There have been leaks, people using their phones. The boss won’t stand for it. Secrecy is key.” He placed a pink ticket beside her. “You’re number nineteen. Hand this in to the doorman when you leave, and he’ll retrieve your purse. It’s safe in the lockers.”

Maria’s vison shimmered. Tears sprang to her eyes as true helplessness and terror wrapped their talons around her heart. Her purse was locked away. The tracker. The panic button. The syringe to render Raphael unconscious.

Caught in her silent despair, Maria flinched when Raphael possessively took hold of her hand. Instinctively, she went to pull it back, to run from the club and to the safe arms of the church, but in her peripheral vision Maria saw the blond woman approaching from the other side of the room. She was walking determinedly toward Raphael.

She was an innocent.

And Raphael was going to kill her.

Maria closed her eyes. She had to make a choice. She could let this woman perish. Many would encourage Maria to allow it. The blonde was a sinner and had no respect for the Lord. But Maria didn’t judge. She would not cast the first stone. A soul was a soul. She believed everyone deserved a second chance in life. A chance to right their wrongs. It was the most fundamental part of her faith in mankind.

She couldn’t let another die in her place.

“I’ll come with you,” she whispered, unsure if her voice would be heard over the pounding music. But she saw the light spark in Raphael’s unusual eyes and knew that it had.

“Robert?” The blond woman came to a stop beside them. She looked Maria up and down, displeasure on her face. “Are we going to get a room?” She smiled, trying to be seductive. Robert. A pseudonym he must use with his victims.

Raphael didn’t even look at the woman; instead he kept his eyes on Maria. He didn’t let go of her hand. In fact, he gripped it tighter, as if he were sure she would try to escape. But Maria had made her decision. She would see this through.

It was strange. Maria had been in the position of being taken, convinced she would be killed every day that she had been held in captivity. She’d had no choices, her free will stripped from her. No decision had been hers. But right now, deciding she would be the one to die under the devilish hunter’s hands brought with it only peace. And a firm sense of control.

Because she was making the choice freely.

Sister Maria Agnes was walking into this willingly. Eyes wide open. Maybe this was God’s plan for her after all, why she had been saved all those years ago. To bring another killer to justice. Father Quinn and Father Murray would know who slayed her. They could bring him to the police and save more of the lives he would inevitably take.

“I’ve found someone else.” Maria was taken aback by the venomous tone of Raphael’s voice when he spoke to the blonde. He was a chameleon, she realized. In one breath he was seductive and charming, in the next, cold and abrupt. Maria saw the evil underneath as he looked at the woman. “I have another play partner. You’re dismissed.”

The blonde’s face reddened with anger and embarrassment. But she turned away and disappeared into the thickness of the crowd. When Raphael turned back to Maria, he adopted his deceptively charming mask again. “Where were we?” Bringing Maria’s hand to his mouth, Raphael pressed a whisper of a kiss on her fair skin. Even the knowledge that he was an evil man couldn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that shot up Maria’s arm at his soft kiss. “Shall we?” He gestured toward a private room.

Maria let him lead. She had left the ticket for her purse on the bar, but she didn’t expect to ever return to collect it. Maria kept her head lowered as they were swallowed by the crowd, scenes of depravity everywhere the eye could see. As they walked, Maria made a silent prayer. Protect me, Lord. Make this quick. Let me feel no pain.

Raphael opened a door and pulled Maria inside. Towering over her, he reached over her head and shut the door. Maria’s back was pressed against the wood, and Raphael’s hand trailed down her arm until it reached the lock.

It clicked into place with a quick turn of his hand.

In the privacy of the room, the music from the main floor was muted. Only a hum of background drum beats penetrated the space. The room was dark due to each wall being covered in padded studded leather. The spotlights in the ceiling were low and tinged with red. Handcuffs and shackles hung from a black padded wall. What appeared to be medieval-looking wooden stocks stood to the right. Rubber and metal swings hung from the ceiling, chains and cuffs and leather straps hanging off each piece of apparatus. Paddles and whips were showcased on a wall to the left. A large leather-coated bed sat in the center. Its four metal posts offered a variety of restraints—chains, leather binds, rope . . . the list was endless.

Maria’s heart pounded so hard she heard the heavy beat in her ears. What was this place? How did people enjoy this kind of sexual exploration? Maria was chaste. Had never been touched. What she understood of sex she learned from gossip at high school and TV as a teen. This . . . this was like nothing she could have ever imagined.

Two other doors stood on the opposite side of the room. She had no idea what they were. The room smelled of leather and a deep sort of musk that she guessed was filtering into the room from the vent in the ceiling.

Raphael’s hand that had been on the lock was suddenly traveling up Maria’s arm, until it wrapped around a section of her hair. Maria noticed string wrapped around his right index finger, his fingertip turning blue through lack of blood. Her hands automatically clasped around Raphael’s back. Her feet were unsteady, and she feared her legs would buckle as fear threatened to take control. Maria had no idea how to seduce this man in return. But the minute her palms pressed against the fine material of his black shirt, her fingers feeling the hard, pronounced muscles that flexed underneath, Raphael hissed in her ear. His hands fisted tighter in her thick hair, pulling at the scalp. “You’re perfect,” he said slowly. “So goddamn perfect.” Maria could almost fool herself that he meant every word. He was staring at her the way Catholic congregations marveled at the Sistine Chapel, the way Mother Superior admired the statue of Mary in the chapel. But it was a ruse. It had to be. Seduction was part of his plan.

Maria met Raphael’s eyes and tried to read what malevolence lay underneath. But she knew it was pointless. She would never understand evil. Never understand the desire to hurt another soul. She wanted to take his hands in hers and beg him to stop, to repent and leave this way of life.

But she trusted Father Quinn. He had told her the church would see that Raphael was brought to the law via the proper channels. They would help him, save him. Fathers Quinn and Murray were good and honest men.

Raphael’s hands were gentle, the softest of touches. Bringing his hands to her face, he ran a finger down her cheek. He guided her head to the left and pushed her hair aside. He was baring her neck. Maria’s heart raced. “How do you like to play?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the finger that now traveled down her neck and to the collar of her dress. “What are your preferences?” Father Murray had warned her about this question. A contract had been forged for her to get the exclusive membership card. In it, she had given consent to anything that occurred in the club. This wasn’t a tame place, and Father Quinn had warned her that she must do whatever it took to bring Raphael into the arms of the church once more. She had no idea what sexual practices would appeal to Raphael. She had to let him take the lead.

“Whatever you want . . . sir,” she whispered back, not daring to move.

Raphael stepped back and hissed, scanning Maria’s face. “A submissive?” His smile widened, and she saw excitement light up his face. “My lucky night.” His teeth raked over his full bottom lip. Maria didn’t really understand what a submissive was. But she could guess from the word—compliant, completely obedient. “I like control. I like to watch and touch and have you writhing under my hands.” His mouth went to her ear. “Before I fuck you and break you.” Maria listened to his slow, shuddering inhale. “I love to watch the break.”

The blood drained from Maria’s face. I love to watch the break.

The softness that Raphael had been exhibiting disappeared in a second. A mask of superiority possessed his face. “Take off your dress.”

Maria’s eyes widened, and she became breathless at such a sternly given order. Raphael folded his arms over his chest, waiting, his golden eyes frosting over with authority. Maria felt light-headed at being spoken to in such a way.

“I’m waiting. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Maria jumped at Raphael’s harsh tone. She began to nervously pull the arms of her dress down. Raphael just watched, unmoving, eyes so focused he barely blinked. He kept his expression neutral. She had no idea what he was thinking.

Maria glanced at the floor. “Look up.” Maria did immediately. “Don’t take your eyes off mine. You’ll always look at me.” Raphael let a ghost of a smirk tug on his upper lip. “Or you’ll be punished.”

Maria swallowed, and she felt heat wash over her skin. Confusion took her in its hold. Maria wasn’t sure if the warmth on her skin was from fear, or worse . . . pleasure.

No, she thought. It was just the reaction of her innate obedience. She didn’t like to displease anyone. She didn’t ever rebel. She found comfort in following orders, in not having to make decisions. She found comfort in numbness.

Maria was good at following orders. It was all she had ever done. She had given her free will over to the church. The church and, right now, Raphael.

She would see this moment like that. In this moment, Raphael was her church.

Taking a steadying breath, Maria wondered what Raphael’s take on punishment would be. As she freed her right arm from the long sleeve, she wondered if she could draw this out long enough for Fathers Quinn and Murray to come looking for her. As she refocused on Raphael’s intense, hungry gaze, she doubted whether they could take him if they did. Raphael was in perfect condition. He was strong, domineering, and Maria was convinced he would handle himself just fine if attacked. Fathers Murray and Quinn were gentle and kind, men of God. They would be no match for Raphael.

“Stop stalling. And pull down the other arm.” Chills scuttered down her spine at his harsh command. It wasn’t from pleasure, she reminded herself. She had told Raphael she would do whatever he wanted. This instinct to obey him was purely survival.

Compared to the hedonistic sights in the main floor of the club, this seemed tame. At least it was right now. Maria knew it would get worse. Much worse. Raphael held that promise in his golden gaze. The frighteningly obscure devices and contraptions in the room only cemented that truth.

Raphael edged closer. “I won’t tell you again. Sleeves off. That’s your last chance.” Maria rushed to pull down the arm of her dress, revealing her black bra. Raphael was close to her. So close she could see the light stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and the scar that ran through his left eyebrow. He wore a cross in his left ear. She swallowed, yet grew intrigued when she saw that cross was upturned. “I don’t like to be disobeyed, and you are testing my tolerance,” he said in warning. He reached out and, in direct contrast to his harsh tone, gently rolled down the right bra strap. He leaned in and his mouth met Maria’s ear. “I expect whatever I say to be done. Immediately. Do you understand, or do you need to be taught? Do you need my expert instruction? I promise, I’ll only have to show you once.” But Maria’s voice had been stolen by the carnal act of baring herself to this stunning sinner. “I said,” Raphael continued, moving his full lips to her left ear. He took hold of the left bra strap and began to pull it down too. The material scraped against the skin on her upper arm, making her suck in a sharp inhale. Raphael smirked, clearly seeing her reaction. “Do. You. Understand?” Raphael yanked the strap down so hard Maria’s breasts were suddenly bared, the dress falling to her waist. But just as a shocked moan escaped her mouth, her hands reaching to her chest to maintain her modesty, a clatter echoed around the room. Maria didn’t even have to time to think about what had fallen. She simply watched in horror as Raphael bent down and retrieved the fallen item from the floor. Raphael stood, the rosary in his hand, the red beads threading through his fingers. As if the religious artifact were a naked flame, Raphael flinched, and his olive skin quickly paled as if the rosary were offensive.

Then, he brought the rosary closer to his face, eyes scanning the crucifix in detail. Maria saw when something within him changed. His body tensed, and the cords in his neck stood out prominently with how tightly he was gritting his teeth. His face reddened with what looked like unadulterated rage.

Maria quickly pulled up the straps of her bra, then the sleeves of her dress. As she moved to right her collar, Raphael’s head snapped up. But Maria didn’t see the beautiful smile or hungry expression she had previously been on the receiving end of. Raphael’s face vowed to inflict pain on her.

Before she had time to move from the door and try to put some space between her and him, Raphael thrust out his arm and wrapped his hand around Maria’s neck. The back of her head slammed against the wood, her shoulder blades taking the brunt of the impact as she was thrust backward. Breath spilled from her mouth as she was lifted off the floor and to the very tip of her toes. Maria tried to claw at Raphael’s strong arms, but his touch was too strong. Golden eyes filled with rage as he glared at her terrified face. “Who are you?” he snarled, voice savage. His full lips tightened as his teeth were bared. “How did you know where to find me? Did they send you?” Maria began kicking her legs, trying to break from his hold. Raphael paid her protests no mind. Instead he dangled the crucifix in her face. “I know these rosaries. The ‘B’ on His chest. I know who it belongs to. The filth who wear it.” Raphael tucked the beads into his pocket, and Maria’s eyes widened, fear becoming the only sensation her heart could feel. Fear and confusion. Raphael pushed her long hair aside and wrapped a second hand around her neck, adjusting the grip to completely stop her breathing. Maria pleaded with her eyes for Raphael to spare her, but her vision began to darken as he watched her gasp and fight to survive. And then she saw it, the hungry smile gracing his beautiful face. Smiling as she began to lose consciousness. Maria never stopped clawing at his arms, his hands. She would fight to the last second.

But as her body weakened and the darkness in her eyes deepened, Maria kept her gaze fixed on the beautiful man before her. The man who would send her soul to reside in heaven among the angels and saints.

This man they called Raphael.

Her beautiful killer.

Chapter Four

Her pulse weakened under his thumbs, once as fast as a butterfly’s wings, now as slow as a dying deer trudging helplessly through molasses. Raphael was caught in a red haze. The crucifix was burning a hole in his pocket. The Brethren. She was somehow connected to the Brethren. Raphael had recognized that “B” embossed on Christ’s chest the minute he held it in his hands. That “B” had been imprinted on his ruined soul. He could never forget it. It had scarred his youth.

This woman, his fantasy made flesh, his biggest temptation, was with the motherfucking Brethren. She flailed under his hands as she fought for life. But his every instinct called for him to end her, to send her to hell where she belonged, along with the other rapists disguised as priests. But as Raphael’s gaze fell to her long hair, hair that hung to below her ass, his hands began to slacken.

Long hair.

Long, thick hair.

Hair that he could wrap around her neck . . . pull tighter and tighter, until . . .

Raphael snarled, the tormented sound immediately swallowed by the padded walls around him.

The woman was perfect, the one he’d been waiting all his life for. Thick, long hair. Strong enough to withstand the pulls, the tugs . . . strong enough to kill her . . . bid her an eternal goodnight. And her neck, a neck his hands fit perfectly around. Fragile perfect bones, just the right length and width. He stared at his fingers on her pale skin, the softness like butter under his palm.

Raphael groaned, heat pulsing in his groin.

He might not get another chance to have this. He finally had her in his hands. The one . . . she was the one.

Decision made, Raphael stepped back, the woman’s small body dropping to the floor. He stared down at her face as he towered over her. Fair skin smothered in makeup that covered its natural paleness. He saw her true skin through the tear marks that had flooded her face as he’d squeezed her perfect throat. Her eyes were crystal blue when they were open. Raphael became hard when he remembered the fear in their depths as he had begun to rid her of life. Eyes that tried to plead with him for mercy.

He could’ve laughed. He didn’t offer mercy, only death.

Sporadic freckles were dusted across her nose and cheeks, making her look younger than she probably was. But that hair . . . her perfect hair . . .

Raphael reached down, ignoring the voice in his head forbidding him from doing what he craved. That voice belonged to Gabriel. Gabriel reciting the Fallen’s Ten Commandments . . . Thou shalt not bring prey back to Eden Manor . . . Thou shalt practice self-restraint . . . Thou shalt kill only the Chosen . . .

But Raphael forced himself to drown out those words with the heavy music outside. He picked up her limp body. Raphael groaned out loud, his cock swelling until it was painfully hard, when her hair draped over his arms and almost touched the floor. He cupped his dick and ran his hand along its caged length. He thought of her hair around it, wrapping around and around, pulling so tightly it hurt.

“Such potential,” he whispered into the silent room as his eyes dropped to the woman. He gazed down at her neck, which was stretched as her head hung over his arm. It was red from his hands. It was the perfect size. He recalled how it had felt to wrap his fingers around her fine bones. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. She had fit him like a glove. Was made just for him. She was slender and, before his attack, had not one mark on her skin. “It’s her. It has to be her.” He felt his dick throb just imagining being inside her as she smiled up at him, her arms wrapped around his back.

Raphael knew he was never going to get anyone more perfect than her. He didn’t care that she was an innocent. He never cared if any of his kills deserved it or not. They were nothing to him. It was Gabriel who insisted on killing only those who harmed others.

And this woman wasn’t innocent, he reasoned. Any connection to the Brethren made her deserving of a slow and painful death. He was simply protecting his brotherhood. At least that was what he told himself as he fled across the room for the door that led to the exit. He was grateful that the private rooms were equipped with an easy escape route. Sometimes the private sessions were so intense people didn’t want to go back into the club.

Raphael tucked her close to his chest and walked down the stairs. The doorman was occupied with a woman trying to get in uncarded. Raphael took advantage of the distraction to slip into the shadows and open the back door, balancing the unconscious woman in his arms. Sticking to the back alleys, Raphael made his way to his car. He put the woman on the back seat and laid a blanket over her so no one would see. From the glove compartment, he withdrew the mask he kept there and doused it in chloroform. He tied the mask around her head, the chloroform-soaked gauze smothering her mouth, jumped into the driver’s seat, and hit the road. With every mile he made toward the manor, thoughts of how he would take her, how he would seduce and then kill her, were all he could concentrate on.

Seventy minutes later and a mile out, Raphael realized he couldn’t drive up the main driveway. The staff might see him. He decided to enter through the back way they rarely used and slip in through the tunnel that led from the unoccupied garden house to the ground floor of the main house.

Killing his lights, Raphael slowed as he made his way along the back road. The tires of his car crunched on the gravel. He prayed it wasn’t loud enough for any of his brothers to hear. The manor looked to be in darkness. But that didn’t mean anything. He and his brothers existed well in darkness. Even after ten years of being out of Purgatory, they still struggled with the light—in all its forms.

Raphael parked his car behind the garden house. Silently, he retrieved the woman from the back seat and stepped into the barren building. He made his way to the bookcase that would give way to the tunnel and pulled on the copy of Wuthering Heights. The bookcase moved. Raphael kept his eyes forward as he traveled the length of the tunnel. He listened intently at the door at the end. Hearing nothing, he sneaked into the house and quickly climbed the stairs, only stopping when he had entered his private rooms and locked the door.

For the first time since he arrived home, he glanced down at the woman in his hands. The mask kept her unconscious. Looking around his suite, he searched for where to put her. He decided on his walk-in closet. Like everything in the manor, it was huge, more than large enough to keep her. And none of his brothers would go inside. When Michael came into his rooms, he wouldn’t even look in its direction.

He quickly ducked out of the room, locking it behind him, and rushed back through the tunnel and into his car. Pulling back out onto the main road, he switched on his headlights and entered the manor through the usual front entrance. He was back in his rooms in ten minutes flat.

Raphael knew he wasn’t thinking rationally. He knew he was disobeying the commandments, Gabriel, and his brothers. But he wasn’t being led by his head. It was lust and want and his greatest fantasy within arm’s reach that were in control. And he happily surrendered himself to them.

He went into the closet and pulled a box from the top shelf. From it, he took tape and a gag, and he bound the woman with her arms around her back and her ankles tied. He took the mask off her face and propped her up in the corner. As he was about to push the gag into her mouth, Raphael let himself get a good look at the woman. The club had been dark and cast in a red glow. In this closet, with the bright light illuminating her every feature, he sucked in a sharp breath. She was stunning. Pale and fair. Like an English rose. Dark-blond hair that draped the upper half of her body. Raphael closed his eyes and sat back on his haunches. He dug his hands into his muscled thighs.

He pictured her lying on the bed, naked beneath him. Petals were strewn around her head. She would reach out her hand and pull him toward her with a smile on her pink lips. He would crawl over her body until he lowered to kiss her mouth as he slipped inside her. She would moan in his ear. Raphael would keep it slow at first, moving his mouth to her neck and licking her warm skin. He would gather her hair in his hands. He would twist the lengths, twist and twist until her hair had made a rope. With her blue eyes locked on his, her cheeks flushed as he pushed in and out, pleasure infusing her body, he would lift her until she was in his arms, her breasts pressed against his bare chest. And around her neck her hair would go. Raphael would lower her back down on the soft bed, increasing his speed. With every thrust he would pull tight. Tighter and tighter, her cheeks reddening with pleasure. Her eyes would widen and her rosy lips would part. In three more thrusts, he would spill inside her, her final gasp washing over his heated skin.

He would bring her to his chest and wrap his arms around her soft body, keeping her safe. And she would never leave him. She would be that way forever.

Only ever his for the rest of time . . .

Raphael groaned, leaning forward, bracing his palms on the carpet. He gasped for breath, pulse racing in his neck. He opened his eyes and looked down at his dick. Cum had soaked through his jeans, over his groin, and Raphael clenched his jaw as he recalled the vision, so real he felt he’d been there.

Lifting his gaze to the woman, he reached out and stroked her cheek. “Soon,” he whispered, the warmth from her skin branding his finger with a promise. A promise that, someday soon, she would welcome him into her bed, of her own accord. Invite him to push inside her . . . and then her hair would wrap around her pretty little throat, and she would give him her life. Because she loved him. Because she wanted to gift him her soul.

Because he was her God.

Raphael stared at her sleeping form. He realized he had lost track of time when the bell rang out in the manor, signaling it was time for breakfast. Raphael quickly attached the gag to her mouth, covering her lips with tape. He didn’t want to mark her skin, but she couldn’t be found.

His brothers couldn’t hear her screams.

Raphael jumped into the shower, rinsing the dried cum from his dick. He didn’t touch himself. The pleasure of this kill would come from the gratification of breaking the woman down, swaying her to attraction, then controlling her every move. He forced himself to dress in jeans and a white shirt, pushing his dark hair from his face. He closed the closet doors tight, locked his bedroom, and made his way downstairs.

When he entered the kitchen, he found all of his brothers already present. Lynn, the cook, was busying herself with the food, pushing his brothers out of the way when they got in her busy path. Sela saw him first, speaking with a piece of toast in his mouth as he leaned against the counter. “Well?” he asked, crumbs spilling onto the floor. Sela’s long hair was still wet from his shower.

Raphael made himself act normal and go straight to the coffee machine. “She’s already obsessed.” Sela smiled and nodded his head in approval.

“You tie her up?” Bara asked from the table. His feet were resting on another seat as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. “Did the bitch scream your name when she came?”

Lynn, not batting an eyelid at Bara’s crude words, placed more food on the table. Raphael dropped to his seat across from Bara and met his green eyes. “Many times.”

“And what name is that?” Diel asked as he brought his coffee to the table and sat beside Raphael.

“Robert,” Raphael replied.

Laughing, Uriel kicked Bara’s feet from his seat and sat down. “Did you cause her pain? Did you make the whore hurt?” His gray eyes were lit with excitement. No one liked inflicting pain as much as Uriel. His victims were the worst off out of them all when it came to pain.

“Leather straps. Wooden canes, and the strappado.”

Uriel’s nostrils flared as he nodded in approval.

“When will she die? This a long game, or short and sweet?” Sela asked. Michael took a seat beside Raphael and stirred his coffee, his eyes focused on the table.

“Soon.” Raphael shifted in his seat. He saw Bara frown and knew his brothers would question why he was being so vague when he normally explained and relived every single detail.

“Morning.” Gabriel entered the room. He was dressed in his usual black shirt, white dog collar in place. He wore black jeans, and his blond curly hair fell over his forehead. His brothers began talking among themselves. Gabriel sat down at the head of the table with his usual morning meal of toast and coffee.

“Raphael,” Gabriel said, smiling when he saw Raphael watching him. Raphael wondered what Gabriel would do if he knew he had a woman tied and bound in his closet. A woman he intended to kill on Fallen territory. Raphael tried to muster up some shame, a feeling of guilt. But he had none.

No one was getting in the way of his kill.

Needing a distraction, something to occupy his brothers’—and especially Gabriel’s—minds, Raphael reached into his pocket. He pulled out the rosary and dropped it in the center of the table. With the sound of metal hitting the wooden surface, his brothers stopped eating and drinking, and all talking stopped.

“Lynn, can you please give us a moment?” Gabriel asked and smiled at the cook. She left immediately. The minute she was gone, Gabriel’s smile dropped. Bara reached forward and took the rosary in his hands.

“Bastards,” he hissed and passed it to Uriel. When each of his brothers had studied the red beads and “B” emblazoned crucifix, it finally landed in Gabriel’s hands. Gabriel’s face was neutral as he studied the artifact.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the club. Last night.”

Gabriel’s blue eyes snapped up. They widened, and Raphael watched something like panic flash across Gabriel’s face. “Did you see any of them? Did they see you?”

“I found it in one of the private rooms. I never saw any of them. I don’t know if they saw me.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. The woman upstairs was associated with the Brethren somehow, but she wasn’t one of them, this Raphael knew. They refused entry to women. They believed them inferior and easily swayed to the side of evil. Weak and pathetic, and unable to be as spiritually pure as men. Women bled once a month, making them spiritually unclean. And in the Brethren’s eyes, they were the root cause of all evil. Eve and the Fall plunged mankind from paradise and out of God’s embrace.

Raphael didn’t know how they got her to do their bidding, but he knew one thing—they wouldn’t care if she died.

His little captive upstairs was perfectly disposable.

“You don’t go back there.” Gabriel dropped the rosary into his pocket. “This is the first time in ten years we’ve come this close to being discovered. We can’t allow it to happen.” He turned his blue eyes on Raphael. “Did anyone follow you? Tail you to the manor?”

“No.” That was true. He had kept his eyes on the road. He had been trained well in the early years by the experts Gabriel had employed to keep them all safe. He had mastered disappearing from plain sight. Sinking into the shadows that always welcomed him home. He’d been extra vigilant that night. He’d had precious cargo in his back seat. He’d made sure they’d got away unseen.

“I need times and locations of where you were. If the Brethren have somehow figured out where we are, we have to be diligent. The last thing we need is to have them back in our lives, coming for our blood.”

“Maybe we should let them,” Diel said. All of the brothers focused on him. He rolled his neck, the bones clicking under the heavy weight of his electric collar. “Maybe it’s time to face them. To show them who we are now.”

“I agree,” Sela said. Sela would always agree with Diel. He and Sela were best friends. Just like Bara and Uriel were, Raphael and Michael the same. It was only Gabriel who sat on the fringes of their group. He was their older brother. But he kept to himself or in the company of John Miller, the lawyer who used to work for Gabriel’s grandfather. The grandfather who was a killer too.

“We’re stronger than them now. We can fight them and win. If they’ve found us or at least are looking again after all this time, maybe it’s a sign we finally need to face them,” Diel argued. His neck tensed under his collar. His head twitched as the collar hummed, reacting to his quickening pulse.

“It could be a sign from your beloved God, Angel,” Bara added, smirking at Gabriel. “Maybe he’s returned to his Old Testament wrathful self and craves a bit of good old-fashioned violence.” Bara gestured around the table. “We’d all be his willing soldiers if it meant bringing down those Brethren cunts.”

Gabriel got to his feet, ignoring Bara. “I’m getting surveillance on that club. I want to know who exactly is looking for us. Once we know that, we’ll make plans.” Gabriel sighed and faced Raphael. He looked tired. He always looked tired. “Raphael, the kill is off. For now, at least.” Gabriel braced himself, body tense, clearly waiting for Raphael’s wrath. But Raphael just nodded. Gabriel’s eyebrows pulled down in confusion. Then, without another word, he left the room.

Uriel was staring at Raphael like he was looking at a stranger. Even Michael had looked up from his black coffee. “Why aren’t you more pissed? He’s taken away your kill,” Uriel asked.

“I’ll get it back.”

“Are you insane?” Sela asked.

“Or, in our case, have you found your sanity?” Bara laughed darkly at his joke and put his hand on his chest. “Raphael . . . have you found God too?”

His brothers smirked at the redhead.

“The whore was rancid. There was nothing exciting about being inside her overused pussy, even if it meant I got to snap her neck at the same time.” Raphael shrugged. “She held no appeal to me. She was a bad target. Nowhere near my type. When I go back, it’ll be a quick and unsatisfying death for the slut.” Raphael stood up. “I’m going to sleep.” He left the room and walked up the stairs. Michael never turned up to hang out until dark fell and dinner was done. He had time with the woman. Hours where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

Back in his suite, he made sure every lock on his door was bolted and headed straight for the closet. When he walked in and switched on the light, it was to find two huge blue eyes fixed on his.

A slow smile broke out on his face. “Hello, again.”

Chapter Five

Maria breathed heavily as she stared into that unnerving golden gaze. His smile was as devastating as she remembered, as seductive and as charming. But her heart fired like a cannon, warning of trouble, when she remembered how quickly the sinner had lost that fake smile and launched at her, wrapping his hands around her throat. Even now she could feel the bruising grip crushing her windpipe. She no doubt had marks on her skin. It hurt her to swallow.

Maria closed her eyes. Last night, or whenever that was, she had thought he would kill her. When she had lost consciousness, she thought she would die. She didn’t know what he wanted with her alive. Father Quinn and Father Murray had told her he was a murderer. But he had kept her. She blanched at what he might do to her next.

Raphael looked different from the previous night. He was in casual clothing, for one. His messy dark locks were unstyled. Like this, he looked young and kind. But Maria had borne witness to the monster lurking underneath his pretty façade. She wouldn’t be fooled again. For some reason, God had spared her once more. She pulled at the binds tying her hands behind her back. Tried to push her tongue against the gag and tape on her mouth. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She was mute and immobilized. She tried to stave off the panic that was threatening to disable her. But the lack of freedom was like heavy quicksand that dragged her under. The iron-clad clutch that grabbed her by the ankle and started pulling her down. Down into her past, one she had fought for years to forget . . .

Maria blinked. Her eyes were sore. She tried to move, but something held her hands in place, her legs. Her mind was fogged. She tried to remember where she was, what was happening. Like the first signs of rain, drop after sporadic drop began to seep into her consciousness. Memories of a man walking into their home. Memories of the man shooting her father in the head, his body dropping to the ground, eyes wide open and watching Maria as she screamed on the floor, staring at her father, who had only minutes before brought them popcorn, as the movie they had chosen to watch still played.

Maria’s brother ran for their mother, who was trying to fend off the heavy fists of the man. But just as Mark tried to reach for the attacker’s gun, the man fired, and Mark dropped to his knees. Maria screamed as her brother held his stomach and collapsed to the side. His hand reached out for her. Maria scrambled to where he lay and managed to hold his hand just as her brother’s eyes frosted over and he exhaled a stuttered final breath. Maria didn’t see the attacker kill her mother, but she heard the single gunshot.

Maria was rolled onto her back and, in her state of numbness and shock, was bound and gagged and shoved into a car . . .

Raphael reached for Maria, ripping her from the darkness of the past. She flinched as he cradled her in his arms. He looked down at her. “I won’t hurt you, little rose.”

Maria didn’t know what to think as the softly spoken loving words fell from his lips. She had never been on the receiving end of an endearment from a man before. Maria remembered the savage expression that had torn apart his face as he held her up by her throat in the private room of the club. Her nerves were frayed by the two very different sides of this man. Lord, give me strength to endure this test, whatever it may be.

Raphael took her into a large ornate room. It was bigger than most apartments she had seen. Perhaps some houses. The bright winter sun peeked in through the floor-to-ceiling period windows that peppered the far wall. Raphael, with the gentleness of a saint, brought her to a padded red velvet chair. He placed her on the seat and sat on the end of the bed. He pulled her closer and smiled.

“I want to untie you, talk to you. But you can’t scream.” He nodded, trying to make his point. “Do you understand? I need you to be silent.” Raphael’s attention fell to Maria’s neck. His nose flared and he gritted his teeth, as if he were angry. Reaching out, he ran his finger over her skin. She flinched when it hurt. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said as he pulled away. “Your neck is too perfect to mark.” He shook his head and ran his hands over his beautiful face. “You were there and you were perfect and . . . you were lying.” Agony morphed his beautiful face again, only for her to see him fight it—deep breaths and clenched jaw—and adopt a visage full of guilt. Maria didn’t know if this was a ruse or whether he seriously regretted hurting her. A flicker of hope burst in her chest. He felt guilt. Guilt and shame. Maybe he wasn’t so far gone that Maria couldn’t be of help.

“You were holding that rosary.” His eyes lost some of their kindness, taking Maria from her thoughts. His mood changes were a turbulent twister, shifting an unpredictable path in a second, giving one no time to prepare for the destruction. “How are you connected to them?” Fathers Quinn and Murray. He must have been talking about Fathers Quinn and Murray. They had told her this killer knew them. She didn’t know how or why; she hadn’t asked. Maria had no idea how Raphael killed, his preferences or his motives. She had entered into this church-ordered task blindly. As a novitiate it hadn’t been her business to question anything. Nuns never doubted a priest. “You’re a woman. How did they get you on their side?”

Raphael didn’t know she was about to become a nun, pledge herself to the church. He saw a woman, not a bride of Christ. Father Quinn was her superior; it was her duty to obey him. And she trusted him. She wouldn’t tell Raphael anything of the priests who were only trying to do God’s work.

Raphael came further forward. Maria could see the outline of tattoos under his white shirt. The material was thin and betrayed the many artful black lines. She couldn’t make out what the design was. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair. She smelled his scent—fresh water and salt. It shouldn’t have been attractive to her. It was. She shouldn’t have found him attractive, period, but she did. Humans were imperfect, and often did and felt things that they shouldn’t. But this man was evil wrapped up in a beautiful package. Every exquisite feature he boasted was a mask for the wretchedness that prowled underneath. Maria prayed there was a hint of good that remained hidden deep. She prayed that she could appeal to that good.

“I want to know your name. I want to help you. I don’t want to hurt you.” His golden eyes narrowed, half threat, half plea. “Don’t force me to hurt you. Things won’t go well for you if you do.” Maria’s stomach flipped at the casually spoken warning. Raphael reached for the tape over her mouth. “Do you promise not to make a sound?” Maria nodded, knowing she had no other choice. She knew how quickly he could turn and didn’t want to risk it. She needed to keep this amiable Raphael on side. She didn’t want to meet the evil Raphael again—that moral-less man terrified her. Fear would keep her silent, if that was what he required, until she could work out a way to escape.

“Good girl.” Raphael smiled proudly and began to peel back the tape. Maria never took her eyes off him the entire time. The tape pulled at her skin, it hurt, but she didn’t even flinch. She didn’t want him to know what caused her pain in case he used it against her. When the tape was off, Maria inhaled a long breath. Raphael tensed, as if waiting for her to scream. She didn’t.

After a few seconds of observing her closely, Raphael sat back on the edge of the bed. “Are you thirsty?” She nodded. Raphael walked to a small fridge on a nearby cherry wood desk, took out a bottle of water, and unscrewed the lid. He carefully brought it to her mouth. Maria parted her lips, never taking her eyes off the killer as she drank down the refreshing mouthfuls. His pupils dilated as he watched her swallow, his gaze fixed on the subtle movement of her throat. She licked her lips after she was done. She didn’t understand her appeal to this man. Maria never paid much attention to looks; she had met beautiful people that were ugly on the inside. She knew she wasn’t overly pretty. In truth she was very plain. She didn’t rival Raphael in terms of beauty, but the way he watched her made her feel like a Florentine Renaissance masterpiece at which people flocked to galleries to marvel.

Raphael pulled the bottle away and took a seat. He leaned back on his hands, the action making the lean muscles in his arms flex. “What’s your name?”

She saw no sense in lying. “Maria,” she said quietly. Her voice was weak and hoarse from the bruising on her throat. “My name is Maria.” At least, that was the name she had chosen and been referred to by for years. It was too painful to remember the girl she was before.

“Maria,” Raphael echoed, her name rolling around his lush mouth. He smiled, revealing dimples that cut into his stubbled cheeks. Raphael leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “And why were you in the club last night? Do you expect me to believe it was because you went to play?”

“I was there to play,” she said, more confidently than she felt. She had vowed her silence to Father Murray and Father Quinn. She would not falter in that regard. She would not break the vow. She would die before she did. Maria had forgone her possessions when she entered the monastery. Her word was all she had in the world.

“Mmm . . .” Raphael pondered, crossing one leg over the other and running his hands over his face in wonderment. “Then it was your first time?”

Maria refused to allow her nerves to best her. She had a role to play. And play it she would. Father Quinn needed this man off the streets and locked away so he couldn’t hurt anyone again. Maria was confident Father Quinn would help Raphael, help him see the error of his ways. She prayed that if they were found by the priests, they could set Raphael on the path to redemption.

Everyone deserved the darkness to be lifted from their souls. Raphael was no different. Maria didn’t know what her future was now. But as she studied Raphael’s beautiful face, she wondered if she could help him. Be some semblance of light in his overcast world.

“It was my first time. I applied for the club. They thought a virgin might appeal to some of its more experienced members,” Maria said, sticking to the script she and Father Quinn had planned.

Raphael’s eyes flared and his lips parted. The movement was subtle, but Maria caught it. She had grown adept at seeing the smaller gestures people made. The little tells that indicated if someone would hurt her or not. She’d had no choice.

“You’re a virgin?” His voice was deep.

“Yes.” Maria hung her head. She wasn’t acting in her timidity. This was real.

Raphael leaned closer. “And what did you want from the club?” His head tipped to the side. He looked breathtakingly beautiful in this position, his long lashes framing his alluring eyes. Raphael’s beauty was sin personified. Maria almost revealed the truth of what he had asked her. She chastised herself for her weakness. For being drawn in by his pretty face and sensual voice. “You wanted to be tied down, strapped up . . . your pussy deflowered by a man in leather with a penchant for pain?” His words were crass, but his voice was silk. Sailing into her ears like an expensive black sheet caught in a cool breeze.

This is how he does it, Maria realized. How he lures his victims in. His voice, his smiles . . . his addictive scent.

“I . . .” Maria searched for an answer that he would believe. “I wanted to be . . . awakened in a non-conventional way.”

Raphael exhaled a long breath as if her answer pleased him, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She kept eye contact.

“How old are you?”

Again, Maria saw no reason to lie. The fewer lies she gave, the less she would have to remember. Her mother always warned her that to lie one must have a perfect memory. “Twenty-one. Almost twenty-two.” She tried to guess Raphael’s age. He was young too. Too young, in her opinion, to live the deviant life he did. Maria couldn’t understand how someone so young could want to kill, to rob someone of the rest of their life.

She wondered whose home they were in. It was grand and screamed of money and status. It couldn’t have been Raphael’s. Not unless he inherited such a place. But what would Maria know? For all her guesses and musings, Raphael could have been a filthy-rich businessman who liked to kill on the side. It would explain how he paid off the authorities as Father Quinn had said. Before she thought better of it, she asked, “And how old are you?”

Raphael smirked at her moment of boldness. She wondered if it was because she was tied to a chair, playing a dangerous game with a predator, was bound and imprisoned, yet had the courage to ask such a thing. “How old do you think I am, little rose?”

Maria didn’t know why he kept calling her that. From the way his tongue wrapped around the word “rose,” she knew it must have had some kind of significance, but she couldn’t even begin to guess what. She shook off the question of the endearment and said, “Twenty-four.”

“Close.” Raphael shrugged. “I’m twenty-five.”

Maria thought back to the blond woman at the club. She must have been fifty or more, her true age disguised by the surgery she’d had done to her face. They hadn’t looked right together at the time. He could have been her son. Or maybe that was part of his alternative lifestyle. Maybe he liked older women.

Or maybe he had no preference over whom he killed, as long as he could.

The way Raphael was looking at her right now, Maria knew that couldn’t be true. He was transfixed. Could barely take his attention away from her for a second.

“What’s your pleasure, Maria?” He stood, pressing his hands onto the chair arms beside her. “Tell me, how do you like to play?” He was breathless, and had been hanging on her every word since he had brought her back to his rooms.

“However you want.”

“Careful, little rose.” Raphael tutted and shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. You know nothing of my particular desires.”

Maria was glad her hands were tied behind her back. They were trembling so hard as she tried to decipher what he meant by that. She couldn’t even imagine what a killer would like sexually. Nothing she could ever envision, she was sure.

Raphael was staring at her, fire in his eyes, as he waited for her response. This was it. The point of no return. She was balancing on a deadly precipice. But she knew there was only one choice. She had to see this through. Maria thought of the martyrs she admired. Her namesakes. They died for their faith, for what they believed was right in the eyes of the Lord. She could do the same. If she did this, giving herself over to Raphael for the sake of the innocent, then she could face God knowing she served Him well. She would never face Him as a coward with regret suffocating her heart. Like Father Quinn had said, giving yourself to the church required love and sacrifice. One cannot love without sacrifice.

This would be hers.

And maybe . . . just maybe, she could appeal to the good left inside him. Like Jesus walked with the sinners and the damned, she could do the same. Maria had never believed that mankind was born evil. As she looked at Raphael, she wondered what had happened in his life to cause him to travel such a brutal and cruel path. Her stomach tightened with hope . . . hope that maybe she could offer him comfort in some way that could release some of the evil that consumed his soul.

Meeting Raphael’s eyes, Maria sat up, trying to look more confident than she felt. “I want you to show me pleasure, in the way you like it, no matter where your particular desires lean. I want you to control me . . . I want you to show me the way, in whichever way you want. I want to please you. I want to be used, and I want you to be the one I serve.”

Raphael’s cheeks flushed. His chest heaved, and Maria knew that her words had penetrated deep within him, struck a chord in his blackened heart. Raphael reached out and took a strand of her long hair in his hands. Maria watched him as he idly wrapped the blond hair around his finger, from base to tip, over the cotton that was already there—was always there. His breathing deepened, grew more labored the tighter he pulled. His finger began to turn blue from the constriction of blood. His pupils dilated.

Snapping out of his daze, Raphael dropped her hair and said, “You’ll give yourself over to me, little rose. You’ll do as I say, and never question me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Raphael stroked his hand over her head, his fingers ghosting down the length of her hair. “Then convince me. Make me believe you want it. I won’t touch you until you do. I’m not into raping women, little rose. You have to want it as much as I do.” The tendons in his hands were pronounced as he gripped the chair arms tightly. “I want you to need me. To need what only I can give you.”

Maria didn’t know how to do what he asked. She was unskilled in any form of seduction and ignorant in the matters of sex. She was confused and out of her depth. More than confused about why he hadn’t questioned her further on the priests and her connection to them. He hadn’t asked her why they sent her into the club. He ignored it all . . . he only focused on her and her request for him to school her with his lustful appetite. He was abandoning everything he should be asking to sate his dark desires.

His damned soul was governed by lust. He saw nothing but the pleasure that awaited him. Cared naught for the truth outside of these four walls and Maria’s body that he would use. Even through her fear, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Raphael. What must it be like to live a life of such darkness?

“Raphael,” she whispered and edged herself forward on the seat. She looked at him through her lowered lashes and spoke softly. “I want you to teach me.” She breathed deeply, and she was encouraged when his eyes fell to her rising chest. “I want you to show me pleasure. Your way. Any way you want. You choose and I’ll obey. I give you my consent, Raphael. And I won’t take it back. No matter how you push me. I want it all. I want it all . . . with and from you.”

Raphael stood up, towering over her as she remained seated and bound. Lifting her to stand before him, his hands under her arms to keep her steady, he said, “You’re mine, Maria, my little rose.” He leaned down and pressed a single gossamer kiss on her cheek—the forbidden, foreign touch sent shivers down Maria’s spine. “And I will break you. I will make it so you can’t breathe without me. Can’t awaken without seeing my face in your mind. You’ll dream of me . . . and I’ll consume you. And when all is said and done, I’ll own you. You’ll never be rid of me. You’ll give me all I have ever wanted. Dreamed of. Finally . . . my little rose.”

Maria heard his words, but she also caught the truth underneath. He would kill her. She was sure of that now. Raphael would kill her. She didn’t know how or when, but Maria felt the heavy weight of the reaper on her back, hovering, patiently waiting for the moment to strike.

Unless she could get through to him first. Minister to the good she knew he held inside. Use his greatest desire—lust—as the tool to try and help him. Perhaps, even save him.

“We need to get you clean.” Raphael reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. Maria jumped, her body freezing with fear. That pleased him. She knew it as she felt him hardening against her thigh. Raphael hissed as though he were in pain, but he took hold of her hands and cut through the binds. Maria moaned in relief as blood began to swell into the starved limbs. She brought her numb arms to her front and stared at the welts the binds had made. Like Christ, she thought. The stigmata. That vision empowered her and fueled her veins with courage and peace.

Raphael lifted her and placed her on the bed as though she weighed nothing. He ran the tip of the knife down one of her bare legs. Maria sucked in a breath at the cold touch of steel and watched him cut through the ties at her feet. The same ache she had felt in her hands burst into her legs. But Raphael’s warm hands began massaging her ankles, her arch, her toes. His hands on her body made her heart miss a beat. No one had touched her naked skin for years, and the last one who did . . .

Maria closed her eyes and forced herself to rid her brain of that memory. When her eyes opened, Raphael had stood and was looking down at her, waiting. He held out his hand. “Get up.” Maria did as he said. Her feet still felt numb, but she managed to find balance. “You will shower, take all of this makeup off your face.” He skirted his fingers over her still-curly hair. “And all of the gunk from your hair. I want it natural. I want to see it as it is meant to be.”

Maria panicked. Was he going to watch her shower? Be in the bathroom with her, see her naked body? She knew he would soon, but faced with the prospect, Maria felt cold fear rush through her.

Raphael pulled a chair from against the wall and sat down opposite the bathroom door. “I’ll wait here for you to finish. I’ll put clothes in there for you to wear. Then you’ll come out to me and sit on this seat. And you will wait for my instruction like a good little rose.”

Maria moved in the direction of the bathroom. Raphael’s eyes tracked her as he went to the closet and came back with a black t-shirt. It must have been his. He placed it on the black marble bathroom counter. Just as he was about to leave, he turned to her, death and hell in his golden eyes. “Try to escape, make a single noise that betrays your presence here, and you will be punished. And not the type of punishment you will enjoy. There’ll be pain. Lots of unbearable pain.”

Terror struck her like a bolt of lightning in a summer rainstorm. Terror of what this man was capable of. He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you disobey. Don’t make me hurt you, little rose. I simply want your pleasure.” Then, like a switch being flicked, Raphael smiled his warm smile and said softly, “Make sure you clean the makeup off. You’ll be much more beautiful without it.”

Raphael left her alone with her nerves, her anxiety, and her utter distress. She closed the door—there was no lock. Walking to the large shower, Maria turned the knob to the highest setting. Steam billowed around the room, sticking to her skin. The fog reminded her of the confusion clogging her mind. “You must see this through, Maria,” she whispered. Moving to the large mirror, she wiped the steam off the glass and looked up at herself. Her makeup was still on her face, although her eyes were rimmed with black from where the eyeliner and mascara had run. The curls in her hair had dropped into clumps resembling rats’ tails, and her red lipstick had stained her lips.

She looked just like the women at the club.

“That’s what you must become,” she said to her reflection. “You must play his game. Even if it costs you your life. You must try to help him, save him.” Her neck was covered in red marks from where Raphael had strangled her.

He had strangled her.

Maria shuddered, remembering the sinister echo in his stare as he tightened his hands and squeezed. Raphael was every inch an unapologetic, stone-cold killer.

She prayed there was more inside him. Some part of him that was simply lost. Someone good deep inside him that she could appeal to, that she could foster into coming to the surface and ending this awful way of life.

Maria pulled the dress over her head, trying to not let trepidation consume her courage. Her bra and panties came off next. When she turned to face the shower, she couldn’t look back. In all these years since she had been found and freed from William Bridge’s ranch, she had never been brave enough to look at her bare back.

She simply couldn’t relive that time in her life. Not right now. Not now she was faced with this new kind of hell.

Maria exhaled as she stood under the heavy spray. This shower was stronger than those back at the convent. It was opulent, the surrounding tile a rich onyx with a gloss finish. Shampoos and conditioners were on the side shelf. Body and face washes, razors—anything a person could ever need.

Maria took the washcloth that lay untouched on the shelf. She scrubbed every trace of last night from her body—the sin, the smoke, and the acts of depravity she had seen. She knew similar acts awaited her in the coming days, weeks . . . however long it took for Raphael to grow tired of her. She glanced down at her wrists and her ankles, at the redness that lay in rings around her flesh. Her neck was sore to the touch.

Maria closed her eyes and her head fell against the wet tile. She breathed. As she tried to calm, to find her purpose in this moment, she saw Mother Superior in her mind.

“I want to stay behind the monastery’s walls,” Maria said to Mother Superior as the older woman laid a hand on her back. Maria had awoken screaming into the night, her cheeks flooded with tears. “I can’t go out there again…” she whispered. “The world, the cruel men that dwell there . . .” Maria shook her head. “I want to serve God in seclusion. Be His devoted servant.”

Mother Superior’s eyes filled with sympathy. She knew of Maria’s past. She knew the horrors she’d endured. Mother Superior stared out of the small window of Maria’s room. “Jesus walked with the sinners.” Maria stilled and tried to calm her racing heart. “He wouldn’t ignore them, cast them aside like everyone else. He walked beside them, even knowing they committed sins and evil crimes. He talked to them, tried to help them see the light.” Mother Superior turned to Maria. “Being devoted to the church isn’t about being sequestered away. It is about listening and helping when it seems all hope is lost. It is replicating Jesus’s example. Walking with the sinners and helping them find the way.”

Maria shook her head. She knew Mother Superior had lived that life before her old age brought her to Sisters of Our Lady of Grace to retire. Maria envied the older nun. She had counseled prisoners, men who had committed unspeakable crimes. “I . . . I can’t,” Maria said and shook her head, tears tracking down her cheeks and onto the bedding beneath her.

Mother Superior’s hand covered hers in comfort. “You may not be ready yet, my child. But one day you will be. One day something will arise that calls to you. Someone or some cause will arrive at your door, and you will feel the need to become the nun you say you could never be. You will follow Jesus’s path. You will walk side by side, hand in hand with the damned.” Mother Superior smiled. “And you will answer the call, Sister Maria. Your heart will tell you it’s time.”

Maria swallowed the lump that had built in her throat as she recalled her Mother Superior’s words. It was a few years ago, when her soul was still raw and her wounds still open. As she blinked into the shower’s heavy spray, she felt something click inside her. Was this that moment? Maria thought of Raphael, the club, and his hands around her throat. His golden eyes that in one moment bore softness and kindness as he looked at her face, and in the next, cruelty and the promise of certain death.

Maria’s soul was in a raging war. Fear and courage fought for control, both gaining ground back and forth, no clear winner.

But she had to move. She had to keep going.

Maria didn’t know how much time passed as she washed the hair products from her hair. The cleaner she became, the more she felt like herself. She made sure her legs and body were shaved and finally turned off the water.

Maria stepped out of the shower and dried herself with the towel. She drew out every simple movement. Finally, when her teeth had been brushed, and there was nothing left for her to do, she pulled Raphael’s shirt over her head. It smelled just like him. Of fresh water and salt.

Strangely, it made her feel calm.

Taking a deep breath, Maria stepped out into the room. Raphael was exactly where he told her he would be, on the ornate red chair. He held a glass of amber liquid in his hand, swirling it in circles, the liquid lapping the crystal glass. He lowered the glass to the floor.

“I dried my hair the best I could, but there was no brush in the bathroom to comb it through. Or a dryer.”

“Come closer.” Raphael crooked his index finger toward him. Ever the subservient nun, Maria’s feet began moving as soon as the order was issued. It was what she liked most about her daily life. Not being in control, following orders.

Maria stopped when Raphael held up his hand—another silent command. He got to his feet, his tight shirt stretching over his muscled chest to show the toned physique underneath. His head tilted as he studied her makeup-free face. Raphael stalked around where she stood, a full circle. Maria’s legs felt weak, but she remained strong in stature as Raphael drank in his fill. “Sit down on the chair.”

Maria did as instructed. Raphael crossed the room and opened a drawer. Maria’s heart was in her mouth as she wondered what would happen next. If he would touch her. If he would begin his games. If he would bring her pain and take her virginity this very moment.

But when Raphael turned, he held only a hairbrush in his hands. He moved behind her, and with a gentleness she didn’t expect ran the brush through her damp hair. Stroke by stroke, Raphael unknotted every strand until all Maria’s hair was smoothed out. Maria hadn’t dared move the entire time. She had expected sex and roughness. She didn’t expect tenderness. It confused her more than anything else that had happened thus far.

Raphael retrieved a hairdryer and started drying her hair. The hot air relaxed her exhausted body. Her shoulders slumped as sleep began to wrap her in its tight embrace. Maria drifted to a state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. She distantly heard the hairdryer turn off and felt the brush slide through her freshly cleaned hair. She only truly awoke when strong arms lifted her into a warm, hard chest. Maria jumped when she felt the connection of bodies, panicking at being in his embrace. She tried to get down. But Raphael laid her on the bed in the center of the room. “Sleep, little rose,” he murmured with the gentleness of a feather falling on a calm lake. “Time to go to sleep.”

Maria tried to stay awake, but eventually succumbed to the lullaby his deep voice made and closed her eyes, obeying his command without question.

*****

The sound of church bells crept under Maria’s thick blanket of sleep. The comforting dings of the familiar bells made her rise, wiping the sleep from her eyes. It was time for morning prayers before breakfast. Maria moved to throw back her thin convent blanket, but it felt too heavy. Blinking into the low light, Maria cast her tired eyes around her. Her heart sped up; she didn’t recognize her surroundings. She shook her head, memories from the past couple of days beginning to find their place within her mind. The priests, the club, the strangulation . . . Raphael.

Raphael.

Maria jumped from the bed and searched the room. She had no idea what time it was, but the sky was dark beyond the large windows. At first Maria could hear nothing but the heavy pounding of her heart in her ears. Then she detected the sound of the shower.

She spun in the direction of the bathroom and edged toward the door. It was open slightly. Peeking through the inch-wide gap, Maria stared into the huge mirror. The room was freezing, not a patch of steam on the mirror. Her stomach flipped when she saw Raphael in the reflection. Raphael naked, his back toward her. She narrowed her eyes, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse. Raphael had marks all over his back. The skin was ruined and marred with red.

An odd feeling of kinship tried to invade her mind. Like me . . . a betraying voice whispered. Sympathy flooded her senses, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten them. Was this why he was like this? Had something happened to him in his life to make him this way?

Maria stepped back from the door when Raphael began to turn, hands soaping his messy dark hair with the shower’s cold water. Her cheeks blazed with heat when she almost caught sight of his groin. She backed away until she hit the edge of the bed. But then her attention was caught by the creak of floorboards outside the room. A thin strip of light slipped underneath the gap at the bottom of the doors. Maria heard the sound of the shower behind her, and before she could convince herself otherwise, her feet were moving to the door.

Do not try to escape . . . you will be punished if you do . . . unbearable pain . . . Maria heard Raphael’s warning clear as day in her mind. But the door and the sounds beyond the room called her name. Raphael hadn’t wanted her to make a noise. That meant there were people close.

People that could maybe help.

In that moment, fear overrode any sense of nunly duty she should offer the sinner in the shower. Mother Superior’s words fled her mind, and self-preservation took the helm. The Maria of old took control, the young girl who had been hurt and tortured . . . and she begged her to run. To not be that girl again. The captive girl who had no fight and just waited to die.

Before she knew it, Maria was quietly unlocking the bolts, and finally she turned the key that sat in the door. Just as the doorknob turned under her hand, the shower turned off and Raphael came through, sweatpants on his bottom half, his damp chest bare and glistening. He stopped dead when he saw her, head shaking slowly from side to side. “Don’t, little rose,” he warned. His voice was soft, placating, but his face had hardened and told her there was not an ounce of gentleness within him right now. His eyes showed a cruelty that scared her to the core.

Maria pulled on the door, and before she could talk herself out of it, she began to run. She heard steady footsteps behind her as she fled down the large hallway. She had no idea where she was running to. But she had to try to escape. “There’s no way out, little rose. There’s nowhere for you to go,” Maria heard from behind her. Her skin broke out in a sweat. Raphael was on her tail. But his voice was distant. He wasn’t running to catch up with her. Instead he was letting her try.

That calmness only came from a predator who knew he would catch his prey.

Maria turned and found a large stairwell. She foolishly cast a look back. Raphael was walking toward her, long strides eating up the carpet beneath his bare feet. His golden stare was locked on her. His tattooed muscled chest was strained, his fists clenched at his sides. Dark eyebrows were pulled down, and his wet hair was falling over his forehead and dripping water onto his olive skin. “I’ll catch you,” he promised.

Maria forced herself to move. She fled down the stairs. When she reached the impressive marbled foyer at the bottom, she looked up to see Raphael calmly descending the steps. Giving herself no time to think, she ran again. Turning right, she powered her bare legs down another hallway. The house was a rabbit’s warren, endless hallways twisting and turning and leading to nothing but more never-ending passages. She was lost, but at least she could no longer hear Raphael behind her. Hearing the low hum of voices from beyond two tall ornate wooden doors, Maria felt the first flicker of hope swell in her chest.

She burst through the doors, turning and slamming them shut behind her. Maria was breathless, her chest aching from exhaustion and the adrenaline surging through her veins. Backing away from the doors, her eyes fixed on the doorknob, keeping watch in case Raphael followed, Maria barely heard the sound of a chair leg scraping on the wooden floor behind her.

She froze. Pulse racing, Maria slowly turned around. Her eyes widened. Around a large dining table sat four men . . . four men who all had their eyes locked on her. Maria stepped back, and back and back until her shoulders slammed into one of the doors behind her. She scanned the table. A man with bright red hair was smirking her way, drinking a large glass of red wine. The man beside him, a blond man with gray eyes, curled his lip in disgust when his gaze dropped to her bare legs. Maria tried to pull down the hem of the shirt she still wore, aware she had nothing on underneath. Her eyes next found a man with long brown hair that fell below his shoulders, eyes as dark as midnight. He was licking his lips as he drank her in, his head tilting as he studied her every inch. Finally, her eyes fell on a man with black hair and ice-blue eyes. Maria almost cried out loud in horror as she watched him cut his wrist with the bladed ring on the tip of his thumb. Blood sprouted from the vein, and he dipped another of his fingers in the blood, as if it were paint, and smudged it onto his lips, sucking at the wound and swallowing the blood down. His lips curled back and revealed pointed teeth . . . teeth of a vampire.

Maria scrambled against the door, as if she could disappear through the hard planes. What is this place? Who and what are these men?

Another man with dark hair and blue eyes came through one of the other two doors leading to the room. He wore a strange collar around his neck. He stopped dead when he saw Maria. She watched him close his eyes and take a deep breath, as though he were fighting for control.

“Well, what do we have here?” The red-haired man got to his feet, the first to speak. He kept his wine in his hand. He wore a green dress shirt that was open to the middle of his chest, and black slacks. The shirt matched the color of his startling eyes. He took a step forward. Maria’s nails tried to find purchase on the door. It was no use. They scraped against the solid wood, digging into it. “It seems Little Red Riding Hood has lost her way and found herself in the wolf’s den.”

One by one the men got to their feet. But Maria felt no sense of good coming from this room. Instead the air was thick with malintent, shrouded in darkness. The looks and the hungry eyes made only one promise—death and pain . . . They are just like Raphael.

As if he’d heard Maria’s thought, the man with the collar around his neck opened his eyes, blatant hunger in his disturbing gaze, and charged in her direction. Maria held her breath, unable to move, paralyzed by the stark fear spiking her blood. She tried to breathe, to find some strength to make her feet move. But just as she knew it was fruitless, the man dropped to his knees, the cords in his neck protruding as he threw his head back and roared out a pained scream.

Maria scurried away to the safety of the flocked red-wallpapered wall, then she looked up. Her heart jump-started to life when she saw a blond man with gentle curls framing his face watching her in utter dismay. But that wasn’t what made her almost cry in relief. That belonged to the shirt and collar he wore. The collar that brought her more comfort than anything else in the world.

That of a priest.

“Please . . .” she begged as she met his bright-blue eyes. “Help me, Father . . . help me.”

The door to her right burst open, and Raphael stormed through. Maria watched him take in the man on the floor. Raphael’s face flamed with rage. His head whipped to her cowering by the wall, and he moved to where she stood, blocking her with his body.

“No one comes near her,” he said, calmly, but each word was laced with threat. “Brothers or not, I’ll kill you if you do. She is mine.” Raphael’s eyes slammed to the man on the floor. The man in the collar who was now looking his way. “Try that again, Diel, and you and me are done.”

The man on the floor’s eyes switched from coldness to sadness within seconds as he looked at Raphael. Strangely, it made Maria’s heart ache.

“Raphael.” The blond priest stepped forward. He was holding something in his hand. A remote of some description. When the man on the floor flinched at the priest’s closeness, Maria realized it must control the collar around his throat. “What have you done?”

Raphael backed Maria against the wall with his body. Maria felt the heat from Raphael’s back seep through her shirt as he tried to block her view. His scent surrounded her, invading her senses like a conquering army. She closed her eyes in shame and confusion when, somehow, it seemed to calm her frayed nerves.

“Gabriel, get back,” Raphael threatened.

Maria frowned. Gabriel? Raphael? She recalled the men around the table. There were seven of them all together.

Seven.

Just like the archangels.

“You’ve broken the commandments,” Gabriel said. “Why? Why would you do that? You’ve . . .” Something seemed to occur to him. His eyes widened and flickered to Maria, then moved back to Raphael. “The rosary you found,” he said, and Maria stilled. The rosary? Gabriel came closer still. Raphael backed into Maria until he couldn’t move anymore. She struggled to breathe with the weight of him pressed against her. But Maria idly noted his body wasn’t as tense around Gabriel as it had been the others.

He trusted him. Raphael trusted this priest.

“Where did the rosary come from, Raphe? Tell me.” Gabriel came close enough to study Maria behind Raphael’s wide chest. Gabriel closed his eyes. He seemed to be fighting a battle of some description on his face. “The hair.” Maria couldn’t help but hear the strained sadness in his voice. “Her hair . . .” Maria glanced down at her long hair, now clean and smoothed out by Raphael’s hands. What did Gabriel mean? “Raphael . . . they knew about that preference.”

Raphael didn’t say anything. Maria dropped her eyes, lost as to what was happening. But this close to Raphael’s back, the only sight that met her were the marks she had seen in the shower, now in full, close view. Her stomach fell on seeing his back completely ravaged. The flesh was littered with red mark after red mark. There wasn’t a piece of skin that wasn’t touched. His face was perfect, his chest, but this . . . It was where Raphael’s imperfections lay, clustered into one masterpiece of mutilation. She wondered what horrors were trapped under the heavy scarring of the rough skin and scarlet welts.

The rush of empathy she had felt toward him when she saw him in the shower returned, so thick and fast that she fought the need to reach out her hand and place it on his scars.

They are like mine, like Jesus’s stripes. Just as that image came to mind, she glanced at the upturned cross that still hung in his ear. Saint Peter’s cross. An image of humility and heroic martyrdom. But neither of those things bore any relation to the apparent evil that ran in Raphael’s veins. The malevolence that smothered his soul. But the lash scars . . . the pain he must have endured to get them . . . Why had someone hurt him in such a way?

Maria felt too much. She always had. She couldn’t bear to see another person in pain. Even this man . . . even the man who wanted to kill her.

“I’m taking her with me,” Gabriel said, pulling Maria’s attention from the nature of Raphael’s soul to a fellow follower of Christ.

“No,” Raphael snarled.

“Raphe, you’ve defied the commandments. You’ve put us all in danger. Do you understand that? Can you even comprehend the severity of your betrayal?”

It was obvious from Raphael’s livid expression that he didn’t, or he simply didn’t care. “You’re not taking her,” he spat. Gabriel’s eyes immediately filled with sadness, with pity.

Gabriel didn’t look back at the men behind him as he said, “Restrain him and take him to the cell in the Tomb.” Raphael’s body went rigid as the redhead, the blond man, and the man with long brown hair reluctantly took hold of his arms and pulled him away from her.

“No! NO!” Raphael tried to fight the men off, but they held him captive and removed him from the room. The man with the collar got to his feet, watching Gabriel with cautious eyes.

“You good?” Gabriel asked him.

“Yes,” he replied with gritted teeth.

Finally, the man with blood staining his lips followed the others without a word.

Gabriel held up his hands. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. But please, follow me.” Maria didn’t really have a choice. She followed the priest out of the dining room, across the vast foyer and to a locked door. A day room was on the other side. Gabriel handed her a bottle of water. “I need to speak to Raphe. I’ll lock you in here. No one has the key but me. You’ll be safe.”

“You’re not like them,” Maria said as Gabriel turned to leave.

Gabriel looked over his shoulder and gave her a sad smile. “Don’t let the clothes deceive you.” He ran his hand over his shirt. “I’m more like them than you know.” With that he left the room, leaving her alone. Maria curled up on the chair. The blue and white floral wallpaper in the large room seemed to close in on her. Clutching the bottle of water to her chest, she prayed to God for guidance. What was she meant to do? Stay and try to minister to Raphael’s darkness? Or beg to leave? To escape this strange and dark place?

I’ll leave it to you, Lord, to show me the way. Whatever you decide, I will obey.

As Maria endeavored to remain calm, she couldn’t get the sight of Raphael’s back from her mind or the echo of his words in her head . . . She is mine . . .

She is mine.

Chapter Six

With every step Gabriel took toward the Tomb, Raphael’s roars of fury grew louder. When Gabriel reached the top of the spiral stone staircase that would lead him down to his brothers, he reached out his hand and took a deep breath. His eyes closed, and the choking feel of dread attacked his chest. He rested his back against the cold stone for strength and opened his eyes. He stared at the commandments written in black calligraphy on the stone wall opposite. The rules the Fallen must adhere to in order to make their system work. The system that kept innocent lives safe, but allowed his brothers to satisfy their murderous urges. One line in particular seemed to pulse from the stone in bold.

Thou shalt not kill an innocent.

He thought back to the young woman in the day room. The woman with hair that reached her thighs. She was pretty, slight, innocent-looking, perhaps submissive in nature . . . and that hair . . . She was Raphael’s ultimate fantasy made flesh.

Gabriel smacked his hand against the wall. “I should have known,” he whispered to no one but himself and God. He should have known that his brothers, when face to face with their fantasy kills, wouldn’t be able to resist. In that moment, no commandment or edict given by him would be obeyed. The truth was, the darkness that lived inside them controlled them. It indulged Gabriel’s pathetic attempts to keep it on a leash for a while, making him feel like their system had some kind of authority over their baser desires. But all this time the darkness had simply been waiting to break free.

Gabriel pushed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know what to do. In ten years, even before that in Holy Innocents and Purgatory, Gabriel had always been able to think of a way to protect Michael, then his new brothers. But right now, he didn’t know what to do. Raphael needed to be punished. His golden-eyed brother would know this. But Gabriel had no idea what to do about the woman. She was so young. Looked barely twenty-one. And if she had been sent by the Brethren, what color was her soul? Was she another unrighteous member of the group who had inflicted nothing but pain on Gabriel and his brothers for too many years, changing them all in ways they could not repair?

“Let me out!” Raphael’s lethal voice climbed up the stone staircase, as vicious and ungodly as a demon scuttling up from the depths of hell.

Gabriel barely recognized his brother. Raphael was always calm. Controlled. Composed. Right now, he was anything but.

Gabriel descended the steps, and as he drew closer to the Tomb, he felt the evil he tried to keep at bay begin to chip at the small amount of goodness left in his soul. When Gabriel entered the Tomb, he saw Raphael in the cell in the corner. In ten years, the only brother who had had to occupy it was Diel, and only when he couldn’t control himself. On seeing Gabriel, Raphael wrapped his hands around the bars and yanked on the metal. “Let me out, Gabe. She’s mine. You won’t take her from me. She’s mine, and I’m having her whether you approve or not. You’re not taking this from me. Not after I’ve found her.”

Gabriel could feel the eyes of his other brothers on him as they stood around the room, watching his every move. For once they were all silent. Even Bara had nothing to say. Raphael’s eyes were wild, showing Gabriel just how close his brother was to the edge. Gabriel stopped in front of the cell but out of Raphael’s reach. It saddened Gabriel that, right now, he couldn’t trust Raphael. He had always trusted his brother.

Raphael was breathing heavily, the muscles on his bare torso strained and tight. Gabriel’s eyes dropped to the sword-and-angel-wing emblem they all wore. The one they all had had branded on them when they signed their oaths to the Fallen brotherhood. The brand that eradicated the upturned cross the Brethren had scarred on their flesh when they were kids. It was his and his brothers’ way of taking back some semblance of control from the priests who had chipped away at everything they were, who’d played with their bodies like toys and crushed their spirits until there was little left to be salvaged.

It was the emblem that bound them in their odd brotherhood. Right now, Gabriel felt it only mocked who they were, how far they had all come.

“You’ve made a mockery of that brand,” Gabriel said aloud, purging his inner thoughts. He pointed at the sword and wings on Raphael’s chest. “You have taken everything we are, the blood oath, our brotherhood, our commandments, and turned your back on us. All for a woman.”

“She’s not just a woman,” Raphael said calmly. Calmly, but darkly. “She’s my one.”

Gabriel resisted the need to run his hands over his face or show in his expression just how much Raphael’s actions had hurt him. Instead, he kept his face neutral. From the minute his brothers had escaped Purgatory years ago, Gabriel had had to be their leader. They could never see him weak. Gabriel took a step closer. Raphael watched him intently. Gabriel couldn’t equate this savage with the man he knew. Raphael had always been one of the closest to Gabriel. Right now, that friend appeared lost, focused on one thing only—the young woman with pale skin, a slender neck, and thick hair that fell to her thighs.

“Was she holding the rosary?”

Raphael clenched his jaw and gripped the bars tighter.

“Was she holding the rosary, Raphe? Was she holding the rosary of the Brethren when you met her in the club?”

Raphael glared at Gabriel; Gabriel didn’t break the challenge. Finally, Raphael exhaled a furious breath. “Yes.”

Gabriel heard the low murmurs of anger from his brothers behind him. His heart sank. He thought back to the woman, how terrified she had been when Diel attacked. Her wide eyes, the way she cowered, the way her eyes dropped to the floor, a victim alerting her attacker to her utter submission.

How could she be working with the Brethren? Or was she just a pawn they used to lure and trap Raphael? Gabriel didn’t think her meekness was a ruse. Too many thoughts clogged his brain, making it ache.

“They knew of your predilections, Raphe. They must have discovered where you were hunting and laid their trap.” Gabriel looked at his brother, who was pacing the ground of the cell. “But you discovered their trap before they could get to you.”

Raphael stopped. His face had lost some of its anger and he seemed to have regained some of his sanity. “She wanted to play.”

“You had another target,” Gabriel reminded him. Raphael had been sent for the trafficker. The Fallen had been paid handsomely to ensure that kill would be made.

Raphael’s eyes lost focus. “Not after I saw her, I didn’t.” Gabriel felt nauseous at how quickly Raphael had forgone his self-restraint and thrown himself into the path of the Brethren’s bait. “I found the rosary in her bra. Hidden, until it fell to my feet.” He didn’t smirk when he said, “Maybe your God wanted to save me after all.” Gabriel believed that, but that was by the by right now.

“And you thought to bring her back here?”

Raphael glanced down at his hands, then wrapped them around one of the metal bars. He began to squeeze, and his eyes seemed to lose focus again, taking Raphael out of the Tomb and to somewhere else in his complex mind. The metal groaned under his hands as he squeezed the bar tighter and tighter and tighter, his fingers turning white. “I wrapped my hands around her throat,” Raphael said, voice deepening and growing hoarse. “I squeezed her slim neck, felt her pulse slowing under my thumbs.” Raphael’s breathing grew more rapid. “I stared into her eyes as I watched her drain of life.” Gabriel ignored the shameless sexual gratification Raphael was obviously gaining from the replay. Raphael pushed himself against the metal bar, hissing as it pressed against his bulging groin. “She fought me. She clawed at my arms.” Raphael’s pleasured tone quickly turned into anger. “It wasn’t how it was meant to be. She isn’t meant to fight back. She gives herself to me willingly. When I’m deep inside her, she whispers my name. Loving me. Needing me. Obsessed and consumed by me. I’m the only thing that exists in her world.” Raphael’s eyes snapped to Gabriel, fully present again. “I have to complete it the way it was meant to be. I have to have her in the right way.”

“You can’t kill an innocent, Raphe. I won’t allow it.”

“She’s not an innocent.” Uriel stepped forward from his place against the wall. His arms were folded over his chest. “She’s with the Brethren. She’s anything but innocent.”

Something pulled in Gabriel’s gut. Something that wanted to agree with Uriel. But Gabriel had looked into the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her confusion when she discovered the Fallen. The fear. He’d seen her staring at Raphael’s back, at the scars they all shared. There was shock and sadness in her eyes, not recognition of the Brethren’s punishments. He didn’t know how they did it, but he was sure the woman had been deceived by the Brethren. The way he had been as a child. Fooled by their masks of good. She’d had no idea about the predators she would be facing in the Fallen. She couldn’t have. No one would willingly put themselves into a killer’s path.

“The Brethren don’t allow women into their fold. They’re a modern extension of the Spanish Inquisition. They see women as temptresses and weak, as witches susceptible to sin. They wouldn’t take one into their employ. They may be a modern version, but their ideology isn’t.”

“She can’t be allowed to leave, Gabe.” Sela came to stand next to Uriel. He knew the Brethren more intimately than the rest. He had ties to them none of the other Fallen did. “She’s seen where we live. She’s seen us all. She’ll leave this place and go running back to Father Quinn and tell him everything. Believe me. I know first hand. She’ll betray us, and they’ll come for us. You know this.”

Gabriel’s brothers nodded in agreement with Sela. Gabriel faced Raphael, who was watching him just as closely as the stained-glass window of Mary had always done in Holy Innocents Church. He knew they were right. But the thought of allowing the death of an innocent . . . Gabriel couldn’t breathe. Phantom hands wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

But what was his choice? When he had plunged himself into Purgatory years ago, following the dangerous path of his little brother, he had unknowingly signed himself up to being who he was now—the Fallen’s leader. His allegiance lay with them. Their protection was everything.

Gabriel felt a flicker of the light he held dear dim into darkness. A candle snuffed out in a thunderstorm of immorality.

“You get no Revelations for six months,” Gabriel heard himself saying. He felt detached from his body, as though it wasn’t him giving the order to Raphael. His mouth was speaking words he didn’t want to serve. Gabriel could practically feel the uncontainable excitement pulsing from Raphael in his cell. “She isn’t to be allowed out of the manor . . . ever again.” Gabriel felt a spear pierce his side and cut right through his heart. “You keep to your rooms. And when it’s over, you never betray us again.”

“I won’t,” Raphael said. “I promise.” Gabriel finally let himself meet Raphael’s eyes. They were dilated. Uncontained excitement beamed from his brother’s face, Raphael’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright—Gabriel had never seen him so happy. Ever. Gabriel felt physically sick. Raphael was elated at being permitted to take another’s life. Gabriel couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand in the vicinity of Raphael’s triumph. Gabriel turned to Bara. “Make him stay for another few hours, then take him to his rooms. I’ll see she is brought there afterward.”

“Maria,” Raphael said as Gabriel turned to leave. Gabriel stilled. “Her name is Maria.” Gabriel closed his eyes. Knowing her name made it exponentially worse. Maria. Gabriel had just signed the death warrant of a young woman named Maria.

Gabriel climbed the first few steps of the staircase, following the wall’s bend until he was out of sight. The minute he was hidden from view, his legs gave way and his back hit the wall. He slid down the cold stone and sat down on a hard step. Gabriel’s head fell into his hands. He had just given a murderer permission to kill an innocent. Something he had vowed never to do.

He focused on breathing through the burning fire of guilt in his chest. But as he concentrated on not falling apart, he heard, “Yes, brother!” Bara’s unmistakable voice sailed to Gabriel’s ears. “You’re getting it. Getting the kill. What we all dream of. You’ve won the damn lottery!”

“Grab the pen and paper from over there. I need to get some things for her.”

Gabriel was frozen as he heard the sound of feet moving across the stone floor.

It was silent for a few minutes, until, “Nice. Though I take it you need one of us to get all this from our not-so-pure friends.” Sela laughed.

“Yes. And I need it all tonight. But the main piece . . .” Raphael paused; Gabriel knew he would be smiling in excitement. “That only arrives when it’s perfect. It must be perfect. You design it, Sela. You know what I want.”

“On it, Raphe.” Gabriel heard Sela move to the back of the Tomb and place a call to one of the many unsavory men they dealt with. Black-market friends, as John Miller had told him when he had given Gabriel the black book full of contacts.

“So, what’s the play?” Uriel asked.

“Seduce her. Spend days inside her. I’m gonna possess her, consume her, make her need me to live.” Raphael’s voice was low and serious, laced with dark determination. Gabriel’s eyes moved in the direction of the base of the stairs, as if he were looking into Raphael’s golden eyes and watching his face light with excitement. “Then I’ll kill her. Kill her so perfectly I’ll never forget it.” Raphael inhaled a loud stuttered breath. “No kill will ever measure up again. It will be what I’ve waited for all my life.”

Gabriel’s body felt as if he had been swallowed by a bath of ice water. The back of his head hit the stone wall of the manor he had inherited from his serial killer grandfather.

Gabriel was exhausted. He couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to.

The priests had been right. He always knew they had been. It had become more and more obvious over the years. The Brethren had rightly detected something sinister running through the veins of his brothers.

Gabriel thought back to Father Quinn, to the Brethren’s priests, to how they treated the boys in Purgatory. They never gave any of them a chance at redemption. They didn’t try to understand them. Just branded them damned and began their exorcisms in earnest. Gabriel cursed the priests for not helping them when they had been boys. What they did didn’t purge his brothers of their evil thoughts and desires. Instead, the corrupt sect of priests had dragged them further into the darkness, stripping away any hope of salvation. Hurting them, brutalizing them, and humiliating them, until there was no good left in their souls. No flicker of light that could be fostered and aided back onto the path of good. Now, they were all as dark as midnight, not a single star illuminating their godless worlds.

The Brethren had made his brothers believe that people were only out to hurt them. That they didn’t belong among normal society.

Gabriel didn’t know how to heal them, how to cure them. As he sat on the stone step, he was consumed with helplessness.

“You’re an incubus, Raphe,” Diel said, and Gabriel caught the low laughter from his other brothers in the Tomb. “This woman doesn’t stand a chance. She’ll be yours in no time.”

Gabriel exhaled a shaky breath and forced himself to move. He would never show his brothers how much their lifestyles destroyed him. He had agreed to this. He had been the one to adopt his grandfather’s system. This was his idea. Not theirs. They had been made to feel inferior their entire lives. Gabriel wouldn’t be another to cast a stone on their already battered souls.

Gabriel crossed the foyer and went to his office. Retrieving the medical bag from his desk, he made his way on unsteady feet to the day room and knocked on the door. When he walked into the room, Maria was sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around her bent legs. Gabriel swallowed back his shame at what he was about to let happen.

“Father,” Maria said as he approached.

Gabriel stared down at her, at the hair that wrapped around her body like a cocoon. Maria was clearly religious, Catholic. That was nothing new in Boston. Gabriel understood it must have been how the Brethren tasked her with seeking out Raphael. But he didn’t want to know if she was part of a congregation he knew. He didn’t want to know if she had a strong faith. As he looked at Maria, her blue eyes warily locked on him.

Gabriel dropped to his knees and opened his bag. Silently, he took out the thick elastic band. Maria watched him closely. “Hold out your arm,” he said. Maria only hesitated for a second before she did as he asked. She didn’t ask him why. She just did as he ordered. Gabriel squeezed his eyes closed and took a calming breath. She was perfect for Raphael. He had no idea why she was so submissive, especially when faced with a stranger. With danger. But she obeyed and offered her arm for him to do with what he wanted.

Gabriel tied the band around her arm. Her veins protruded as he held her upturned wrist. He retrieved a needle from the bag and pushed it into her flesh, watching as her red blood burst into the syringe’s clear chamber. Maria didn’t even flinch. When Gabriel looked up, Maria was watching him, her blue eyes studying his face. Maria didn’t once ask why he was taking her blood. She didn’t question if his needle was clean. She simply did as she was told.

Maria clearly had a high tolerance for pain, never once wincing or flinching as the needle pierced her flesh. Gabriel wondered if the devil himself had placed this young woman in Raphael’s hands as a reward. He had never met someone so perfectly crafted for another . . . for his brother.

Pulling the needle from her arm, Gabriel wiped the small wound with an antiseptic wipe and placed a Band-Aid over the needle mark. He put the blood in his bag and got to his feet. His heart beat rapidly as he lifted his head and found Maria watching him again. “I will send someone to get you later.” He could see the hope in Maria’s eyes—hope that she would be freed. Gabriel couldn’t let her hope in vain. He wasn’t cruel. “You . . . you will be taken back to Raphael, Maria.”

Maria kept her chin held high. Her blue eyes briefly dropped, but when they lifted again, she nodded as though a silent internal question had just been answered. He saw nothing but strength and resolution in her gaze. She has resolved herself to die. Gabriel cleared his throat, pushing aside the pain this moment brought. “You are not to leave his rooms again.” It sounded like she was forbidden to leave. But they both knew what the underlying message was—she would never leave his rooms alive.

Gabriel turned, needing to leave. Just before he reached the door, Maria said, “You care for them.” Gabriel’s eyes closed at the lack of judgment in her voice. The lack of censure. Gabriel couldn’t remember the last time he spoke to anyone who wasn’t linked to their abnormal lives in the manor. He turned and met her eyes. It was the least he could do after he had damned her to death. “Those men . . . Raphael . . . you love them. Despite their natures. You try to redeem them.”

“I thought so once . . .” Gabriel went to say, but then stopped. “There’s no redemption for them. I know this now.”

Maria smiled. It was the final death blow to Gabriel’s guilty conscience. “I . . . I believe everyone can be redeemed. Even those we fear are most unsalvageable.” Maria hugged her arms around her chest as if she had been struck by a blast of cold. “I suppose as long as the people who love them don’t give up on them. As long as people push aside their fears and prejudices and endeavor to bring out the good in them, no matter how vain the effort may seem. Someone, someday, may get through to them and show them a new path, a better path. Or bring them the light they never realized they needed in their days of perpetual darkness. Wouldn’t you say, Father?”

Gabriel stared at this woman, looking so small and frail on the couch. “Why were you working for them?”

He could tell by Maria’s reaction—locked muscles and flared eyes—that she knew exactly who he meant. Father Quinn. The Brethren.

Maria straightened her shoulders. “We all do what we must,” she said, the slight shake in her voice betraying her lack of conviction. “I know you understand.”

Gabriel felt his chest pull. Because he did. He understood it fully. Though he was curious as to what his old priests had on Maria to make her so compliant. He wouldn’t ask. Her breaths were limited. Whatever demons plagued her mind were hers to bear. He had no right to intrude when he had sentenced her to death.

With a simple nod of farewell, Gabriel left the room, locking it behind him. Allowing the insufferable guilt to eat away at his soul, he rushed to his rooms. The minute he was inside, he crossed the carpet and slid his bookcase to the side. Gabriel entered the secret room he’d had built not long after they had moved in, and swiftly rid himself of his clothes. Disgust and shame ran thickly through his body. He took Maria’s blood from his bag and poured it into a vial. From the fridge, he took out another vial marked “Raphael.” He paused as he ran his fingers over each of his brothers’ names. Vials and vials of blood sat waiting for him, blood he drew weekly from his brothers. They believed it was for medical checks. They had no idea of the truth.

Lighting the church candles that decorated the wooden altar, Gabriel glanced down at the marked wooden surface, stained by years of spilled blood. He reached for the loaf of bread that sat to the side, dropped to his knees, and ripped off a chunk. Taking Maria’s vial of blood, he uncorked the lid and poured three drops onto the bread, the crimson quickly smothering the white as it sank deep. Three drops for the trinity. Gabriel closed his eyes and whispered his familiar prayer. “My soul for hers. May Maria’s transgressions transfer to me. May she enter the kingdom of heaven pure and without sin.”

Gabriel chewed the bread and, as he swallowed, felt the heaviness of the burden weigh down his chest. With a shaky breath, Gabriel took Raphael’s vial and repeated the same action on a new chunk of bread. “My soul for his. May Raphael’s transgressions transfer to me. May he enter the kingdom of heaven pure and without sin.” The copper taste of blood coated Gabriel’s mouth, trickling down his throat when he swallowed Raphael’s bread. He sat back on his haunches and stared up at the crucifix hanging on the wall. He focused on the agony on Jesus’s face as he was crucified. He focused on the nails in his palms and feet and the spear wound in his side.

Gabriel reached for the barbed wire crown in the trunk behind him and forced it onto his head. He gritted his teeth as the barely healed wounds from a few days ago reopened and began to trickle with blood. Gabriel knew his blond curls would be stained and sullied. He picked up his scourge and ran all seven thongs of rope and blades over his palm. The bladed scorpions were designed to tear into his flesh. Gabriel looked down at his thighs, at the spiked cilice that bit into his leg. Gabriel let the anger he warred with build in his heart, the darkness that had begun to possess him over the years. His thigh muscles tightened and blood seeped from his wounds. He took the seven-thonged scourge, each thong representing a deadly sin and also, to Gabriel, a brother, and he used the sinful anger heating his blood to whip the scourge behind him and across his back. The pain was blinding as the lashes whipped his already tender skin and the scorpions bit into his flesh. “Raphael,” Gabriel whispered, then brought the scourge back, only to whip himself again. “Uriel . . .” Gabriel whipped and whipped, a brother’s name falling from his lips with each blow as he purged the sins he had eaten and the wrath he had accumulated from his body. “Selaphiel . . . Barachiel . . . Jegudiel . . . Michael . . .” Gathering the last of his strength, fighting through the agony that was threatening to overwhelm him, Gabriel struck the hardest blow. “Gabriel!”

Gabriel dropped the scourge and fell forward, palms slamming on the cold ground. He tried to breathe through his nose, tried to calm his body from the pain he had inflicted on himself. But the agony roared louder until Gabriel collapsed to the floor, the cold winter wind creeping in through the cracks in the brick wall and slapping at his nakedness. Gabriel moved his heavy head and focused on Jesus’s face. “Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice drifting away with the breeze. “They know not what they do.” But Gabriel was well aware of what he did. And for it, he would sacrifice his soul. He had sworn to protect his brothers. And that was exactly what he would do.

He would consume their sins and save their souls.

After everything they had been through, they at least deserved that.

*****

Father Murray pulled at the rack. The boy’s screams echoed around the room. But he kept on turning the wheel, glaring at the dark-haired boy with the brown eyes. They weren’t golden, but they were close enough. The boy screamed again, his limbs beginning to pull from their sockets. But Father Murray needed to see the demon-possessed boy in pain. He needed to hear the crack of bones and the screams of imminent death.

“Please,” the boy whispered. “I’ll repent.” Father Murray paused. He met the boy’s eyes. Months. It had taken Father Murray months to get this boy to break, to repent and hand himself over to the Brethren as a heretic and lover of Satan. But when Father Murray saw the look of fear and begging on the boy’s face, all he felt was disgust. He had broken another one. Every such boy he had broken, but one. Father Murray pictured the boy he never conquered in his mind. The evil boy with golden eyes, olive skin, and face made by the Lord himself.

“Repent,” he hissed.

Raphael remained unmoved. Father Murray’s seed ran down the back of Raphael’s legs. Blood covered his skin from the whip, and marks peppered his neck from where Father Murray’s hands had wrapped around it and squeezed. But the boy didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with a rebellious expression. Father Murray grabbed Raphael’s short hair and yanked his head back. Raphael met his eyes, but there was no weakness there, no sign of tiredness, no sign of submission. “I will break you,” Father Murray promised. “One day, Raphael, I will break you and make you beg at my feet. You’ll kneel to me, and you’ll give me your soul.”

Too lost in his head, when Father Murray looked down at the boy on the rack he only saw Raphael staring back at him. “I’ll break you,” he promised again.

“No,” the boy begged, but his voice was all wrong. It wasn’t the voice Father Murray needed to hear. He needed to hear that raspy voice tell him he had won. “Please!”

Father Murray shook with rage at the sound of the whiny voice. Using all his strength, he thrust the wheel of the rack forward. The boy screamed, and cracks and snaps echoed off the stone walls. Without even looking at the boy’s broken corpse, Father Murray stormed from the room and along the hallway. Seeing a trainee priest, he snapped, “The boy is dead. Get rid of the body.” Father Murray kept on walking until he reached his private quarters. He slammed the door and bolted it, then moved to his decanter of whiskey. He poured a large glass and stared at the picture he had pinned on the wall. Rage boiled inside him, threatening to wake the darkness that lay asleep in his soul. For a moment, he let that darkness free. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out his knife and charged at the wall. The blade sank in deep. Father Murray bared his teeth. The picture was almost destroyed, but the golden eyes that Father Murray hated so much stared back, mocking him.

“I’ll kill you, I promise,” he growled, the whiskey fueling his words.

Breathless at his momentary lapse of control, Father Murray backed away and stared at the school picture of Raphael he had salvaged from the archives of Holy Innocents’ vault.

Raphael had Sister Maria.

“She’s nothing, Father Murray,” Father Quinn had said when she had disappeared from the club. “She was a nun who easily shed her chastity. Like all women, she is a product of Eve. Weak and easily tempted. She was disposable. I hope he killed her slowly.” Father Quinn placed his old hand on Father Murray’s shoulder. “We will get them. Our day with the Fallen will come. The Lord will soon show us another path.”

Father Murray pulled at his hair. He didn’t care if Sister Maria was dead. He cared that Raphael had bested him again.

His skin itched with fury. His muscles twitched with the need to do something. To go after the heathen. Father Quinn had to reconsider his stance. Before Father Murray could see sense, he jumped out of his chair, the buzz from the whiskey in his blood taking the wheel. He stormed down Purgatory’s barren hallway until he arrived at Father Quinn’s door. Without even knocking, Father Murray slammed his way through the high priest’s quarters. He stopped at the desk. Father Quinn was changing his robes, his bare chest on display. Father Murray’s cock hardened as he looked at the man who had been his teenage savior. The man who had rid him of his own demon.

Father Quinn paused in his dressing. Father Murray knew the high priest must have returned from cleansing a child.

“Father Murray.” Father Quinn’s voice was neutral in tone, but Father Murray felt the shivers race down his spine at the angered expression on his face. “You weren’t invited in here.”

“We have to get Sister Maria,” he snapped. Father Quinn dropped his shirt to the floor. The zipper of his slacks were open, his underwear’s band visible underneath. “He can’t have her. He needs to be stopped. I’m sick of them winning! Sick of their sins and evil ways.”

Father Murray panted after his tirade. Father Quinn was deathly silent, until, “Come here, Francis.” Father Murray lost his breath as Father Quinn stepped back from his desk by a foot. The high priest’s cock hardened under his slacks. With Father Murray’s attention still on him, Father Quinn pulled out his length. “In front of me, demon.” Father Murray felt the demon inside him scuttling away to hide. But he ignored the rushing of his evil-tainted blood and moved to Father Quinn. Turning, Father Murray bent over his high priest’s desk, lifted his robes, and pulled down his pants. His hands lay flat on the old wooden desk before him. He felt Father Quinn take hold of hips, and he held his breath as Father Quinn pushed inside him. Father Murray’s eyes rolled back. This was what he needed. Like when he was a boy, he needed Father Quinn to rid him of his evil, keep the devil at bay. Sweat beaded on Father Murray’s forehead as pleasure began to build in his groin. He fought back a moan, but the sound slipped from his lips. Father Quinn stilled. The older man leaned over him, and Father Quinn’s mouth met his ear. “I cleanse you of the evil in your soul.” He slammed into Father Murray. Father Murray cried out, but Father Quinn didn’t stop. Instead, he pushed on, Father Murray’s cock growing impossibly hard. Then Father Murray felt it. The agonizing rush of pain in his erection. He glanced down to see Father Quinn’s hands on his cock, a fine needle being pushed into the tip. Blood poured from him, lancing the evil from his flesh. His cock quickly lost its erection, and Father Quinn released inside him, purifying him of the ever-threatening darkness that would forever dwell inside him.

Father Murray laid his cheek on the wooden table, the needle still in his dick. Father Quinn pulled out, his holy seed dripping down Father Murray’s legs. Father Murray felt like he was fourteen again. An evil boy being exorcised by Father Quinn.

He’d saved him.

Father Murray loved him.

Father Quinn came to stand beside him, cock spent. Father Murray stared up at him. Father Quinn’s hand pressed to his cheek. “There, Francis. The darkness is defeated for another day.”

“Thank you, Father,” he whispered, voice fractured with the heady cocktail of pain and pleasure. Father Quinn reached down and pulled the needle from Father Murray’s soft cock. Father Murray knew there’d be another scar to add to his already ruined flesh. But they were scars of triumph over evil. Of his ongoing battle with the devil.

One that his high priest would never let him lose.

Father Quinn held his hand out for Father Murray. Father Murray kissed his fingers, and Father Quinn rewarded him with a caress on the cheek. Kneeling down, Father Quinn stroked Father Murray’s sweaty hair. “You need to practice patience, my child. God will bring the Fallen into our arms again. You must be patient. They may have won this battle, but we will win the crusade.”

“Yes, Father.” Father Murray got to his feet. He tucked his throbbing cock into his pants and left the room. Dazed and light-headed, he made his way to his room, feeling calmer now that Father Quinn had silenced the demon in his soul.

Forcing himself to sit, Father Murray poured another whiskey. The fire roared before him, the hot flames matching his inner ambition. “One day, Raphael,” he said to the almost-ruined photograph. “I’ll destroy you.” Father Murray smiled. “And you will finally repent.”

Chapter Seven

Maria wasn’t sure how long she had been waiting in the day room. There was no clock on the wall. She glanced down at the Band-Aid on her arm. Peeling it back, she took it from her skin and stared down at the tiny mark where the priest, Gabriel, had taken her blood. She had no idea why. But she didn’t argue. What was the point?

You are not to leave his rooms again . . .

She wasn’t going home. It was done. God had shown her His decision through Gabriel.

It is decided.

Maria took a calming breath and thought back to the room full of men. She tried to make sense of what she had found. Were they all killers? Did Father Quinn and Father Murray know? And Gabriel, the priest. Was he facilitating this evil behavior?

Maria was losing herself to those thoughts when she heard the lock begin to turn. She held her breath, waiting to see who would enter, then an older man in a suit came through the door. “Ms. Maria?” he asked, politely.

“Yes.”

“If you’d like to follow me.” He turned and held the door open for her. Maria ignored her trembling legs as she rose from the couch and made her way across the day room and to the . . . butler? She thought he was a butler. A mansion of this size no doubt came with staff.

“This way, please,” he said. Maria self-consciously pulled at the t-shirt she wore, trying in vain to protect her modesty. The butler didn’t even give her a second glance, just dutifully led her upstairs. Did he know too? Know about the nature of the men he served?

Maria didn’t see anyone else as she passed through the mansion, through countless hallways adorned with paintings and furnishings that she assumed would be worth millions. Gabriel had obviously trusted that she wouldn’t try to run. She wouldn’t. She had no idea where she even was.

Finally, she was brought to a familiar door. The butler knocked three times. Maria’s heart pounded just as loudly as the butler’s hand rapping on the wood. She heard footsteps approaching from the other side. When the door opened, Maria had to swallow back her nerves. Raphael stood on the other side. His lean, muscled torso was bare, and he wore only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. His feet were bare too. Raphael’s cheeks were flushed and his dark hair fell over his forehead, the messy strands only emphasizing his incredible beauty.

“Sir,” the butler said, breaking through Maria’s thoughts. The butler walked away. Maria watched him go until he disappeared around the corner. When she turned back to the doorway of Raphael’s room, he was waiting.

“Little rose.” Raphael’s voice was low and soft, seductive. Confusion flooded Maria’s body. He’d told her if she escaped, if she ran, she would be punished. He didn’t speak to her as if she were to be punished. “Are you coming in?”

Raphael’s voice was as smooth as the silk that draped over his lean hips. A small smile was etched on his full lips. The look was devastatingly handsome. His dimples showed, and his long lashes kissed his upper cheeks when he blinked. He still wore the silver upturned cross in his left ear.

Maria made her feet move over the threshold. She heard Raphael shut the door behind her. Then she felt him move closer to her back. Her breath was labored, her feet rooted to the plush carpet beneath her feet. “Come,” he whispered in her ear, his sea-salty and fresh water scent cocooning her. He walked farther into the room. He paused when she didn’t follow. Raphael held out his hand. “This way.” His lip twitched. “I won’t bite.”

Maria put her shaking hand in his. His palm was warm. Maria’s heart beat an irregular rhythm as Raphael folded his hand securely around hers. It felt like the hold of a lover, protective, nurturing. Not that she would know, but from what she had observed and read it seemed familiar. Raphael led her to the closet. When he opened the door, she had to blink at what lay before her. This was the same closet she had been bound and gagged in, and yet it wasn’t. All of Raphael’s clothes were gone, and in their place was a rail of white floor-length dresses. They had thin straps, and slits up their floor-length skirts. Maria swallowed when she saw that they were slightly sheer. She looked away, and her eyes traveled to the bed in the center of the room. It was also dressed in white. The mattress and comforter looked plush and soft. White pillows lay at the top of the bed. Maria’s stomach rolled when she saw bright red roses in a vase on a side table. A lamp illuminated the room.

“Do you like it?”

Maria turned her head to Raphael. It wasn’t until she glanced down that she realized her hand still lay in his. She went to pull it away, but Raphael held on tightly. He moved before her, and Maria couldn’t look away from the mesmerizing sight of his golden eyes if she tried.

“I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

Maria knew she should have kept her mouth closed, but she had to ask, “Why?” Her gaze roved around the room. It was the prettiest room she had been in in a very long time. Her attention snagged on the roses again, and she had to fight back the tears the red blooms threatened to cause, the painful memories they tried to evoke. “You told me that if I escaped, if I left the room . . . there would be punishment. This . . . this feels like a reward.”

Raphael sighed and dropped his head. He looked up at her through impossibly long black lashes. He was perfection. She feared she would never get used to his stunning looks. “I was angry that you left,” he said and dropped her hand. Maria couldn’t help but notice how empty her hand suddenly felt. “I can get angry sometimes. But I’m trying to be better at controlling it.” Raphael’s lip curved up, a flicker of a smile ghosting on his mouth. “I thought there was no time like the present to start.” Raphael ran his hand over the back of his neck. To Maria, the move looked nervous. But she kept her guard. She knew she shouldn’t believe a word out of his beautiful mouth. “I had the staff make up this room for you while you’re here.”

Maria inhaled a shaky breath. “And . . .” She straightened her shoulders. “And how long will that be? That I’ll be here . . . with you?” She didn’t want to ask the real question—how long before he would kill her. Maria would rather face death blindly. She didn’t want to count down her days.

Raphael’s eyes narrowed for a second and his head lifted. He smiled at Maria, ran his thread-wrapped finger down her cheek, then turned to the clothes rail, dismissing her question. He lifted one of the identical gauze dresses and brought it to where she stood. “Change.” Raphael handed Maria the dress. She took it. “You must be hungry. I have dinner coming any minute now.”

Raphael left the room, and Maria watched him go. He turned and met her eyes as he closed the closet doors. She heard him move away. Only when she believed him to be out of earshot did she release a choked breath and drop to the edge of the bed. She searched around the room, trying to understand what all of this meant. She viewed the opulence of the room and furnishings, but she could still feel the phantom hands of Raphael thrusting her against the wall of the club and cutting off her air with unyielding hands. Maria sat on the bed, closed her eyes. And she prayed. Please help me, she silently begged God. Am I here to guide him to your grace? Am I here to find any good inside him that remains, to bring him into the light? Maria pushed away the memory of him choking her and embraced the one of him protecting her, of pressing her against the wall so his brothers couldn’t see her. A strange flicker of heat burst in her chest. Maria closed her eyes and felt that warmth spread over her body like a blanket. She smiled and tipped her head back. Maria knew in that second that it was the Lord. It was Him confirming what she was here to do.

Save him, she thought. You are here to save him. By any means. You are here to save his damned soul.

Maria heard a quiet knock on the door that led to Raphael’s rooms. It was quickly followed by the scent of food drifting under the closed closet doors. Maria’s stomach growled. But she wasn’t sure she could eat. Her stomach was in knots. She didn’t understand Raphael. He was violent, yes. But he had spared her life. If he had wanted her dead, he only had to have strangled her a few seconds more. And the way he was acting now . . . the kindness, the smiles, the room . . . He was making her feel safe.

Maria knew this would be the biggest test of her faith.

Hearing the door to Raphael’s rooms close, Maria quickly shed Raphael’s t-shirt and pulled the white dress over her head. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall. Maria swallowed. Most of her naked body underneath was concealed. But even though the material was more opaque than she had originally thought, she could still see the outline of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples. She turned and, with trembling hands, ran her hands under her hair and along her back. Relief surged through her when her skin was concealed by the neckline. It wasn’t high by any means, dipping low into a V, baring her shoulder blades. But it hid what so pained her, what her long hair disguised.

“Little rose?” Raphael said from the other side of the door. “The food has arrived. Come and eat.”

Maria glanced at herself in the mirror one last time and blinked. She could do this. She must. It was God’s will.

Maria opened the closet door. Music was playing from a room beyond the bedroom. Maria followed the sound of familiar hymns that she sang at church. Wordless versions, soft voices humming and harmonizing, only playing loud enough to drown out the stringent sound of silence.

When she walked through the archway that led to what appeared to be a lounge, Maria stopped. Raphael stood beside a large fireplace. A table had been set for two, with domed silver trays and tall candelabras in the center. Raphael was staring into the flames, unaware of Maria’s presence. So Maria watched him. He had not changed; he remained in the black silk pants, his chest bare. His dark hair had fallen over his eyes, obstructing her view of his face. His hand was in a fist as he leaned against the marble mantlepiece. He looked so young in the soothing orange glow. Innocent and pure. The true perfection of an archangel, just like his namesake.

In theology, the archangel Raphael was a great healer. Maria felt nothing but sadness at the irony. This Raphael only wanted to kill. The very opposite of what his name symbolized.

Raphael must have finally sensed Maria’s presence as he turned his head and caught her standing in the doorway. Raphael’s eyes widened, his lips parted, and Maria believed that, in that moment, Raphael was not faking his reaction to how she looked.

He roved his golden eyes over her body. Maria wasn’t sure if it was due to the heat from the fire or to his perusal of her in the white dress, but a faint blush burst onto Raphael’s stubbled cheeks.

“You look beautiful,” he rasped. Maria tried not to feel the compliment in her heart. But she had not been paid too many compliments her life. The deadly sin of vanity reared its ugly head inside her soul and made her feel nothing but shame at Raphael’s unexpected attention.

Maria ducked her head, averting her eyes from Raphael’s too-intense gaze, and smoothed her hands down the soft white material. Maria was used to the practice of custody of the eyes. Used to keeping her eyes to ground, keeping distractions at bay. She felt safer that way. When she thought of God and her duties as a nun, she didn’t think about anything else. The demons of her past were too close, hovering, waiting to strike. She liked this. Liked that, here, Raphael was in control. His control kept her bad thoughts away.

Raphael’s bare feet came into her vision as he stopped before her. “Lift your head,” he ordered.

Maria did. The pleased expression that shadowed across Raphael’s face at her obedience was a surprising balm to her bruised soul. He lifted his hand. Maria flinched, instinctively bracing herself for a strike. But Raphael pulled back his hand, regarding her with interest. “I won’t hurt you, little rose,” he soothed. Maria caught her breath and looked up. Raphael held a flower in his hand. A beautiful rose as red as the ones in her room. Her stomach fell again at the sight of the velvety petals, but she remained still as he carefully edged forward and tucked the stem of the rose behind her ear. Raphael’s eyes dilated, and she saw his jaw clench. He briefly averted his eyes, only for his smile to draw back onto his face. “There,” he said. “Now you’re perfect.” Raphael moved behind one of the chairs and pulled it out. “Please, sit.”

Maria did as she was told. She cast her eyes around the room as the introduction to her favorite hymn, “Abide With Me,” began to play through the speakers. Instant peace washed over her body. She didn’t realize she was smiling until Raphael said in a husky voice, “You like this song?”

Maria came back into the moment. The choir singing vocal harmonies on the track lit her heart and filled it with joy. “Yes.”

“It reminds me of my youth,” he said.

Maria was shocked Raphael had offered up that piece of information about himself. He didn’t elaborate any further. She didn’t know if it brought back fond memories or painful ones.

“Wine?” Raphael lifted the bottle of red wine and poured her a glass, swiftly moving on from the topic. Maria never drank outside of communion. But she was here to heal him. She would take her lead from Raphael. She would abide by his rules.

Maria took a sip of the wine. It was good. It tasted expensive. Raphael lifted the dome from the dish in front of her. “Eat,” he said and sat back. Raphael left his food covered and sat back in his chair. He sipped at his wine, keeping his eyes on Maria. Lifting her knife and fork, Maria began to eat. She realized she was famished, and she had no idea when she might next eat.

She ate in silence, the beautifully harmonized hymns and the crackling fire her only soundtrack. When her plate was empty, Raphael cleared the dishes and refilled her wine. Maria could feel her cheeks heat with the effects of the alcohol. But she welcomed the feeling the wine brought. It carried with it a numbness she relished, a lowering of her inhibitions.

Something she was sure she would need with this man.

“Tell me,” Raphael said, sitting forward in his chair. “Do you still want to play?”

Maria’s breathing paused at the question. But she quickly disguised her flicker of fear with a single nod. “Yes,” she whispered, placing her glass on the table. To save him, she would have to reach him on his own terms.

Lust.

It would have to be through the act of lust.

Raphael smiled, and Maria was sure his smile could illuminate the very darkest depths of hell. “That pleases me.” Maria nodded again, his approval making that familiar fissure of heat crack across her tight chest. “But we need rules, little rose.” Maria focused on hiding her rapid breaths. She kept her eyes down. It was natural for her to do so; she had done so for years, first as a postulant, then a novitiate. It helped disguise her fear.

“Maria. Look at me.” She did as he demanded. He smiled again, the effect on her sensibilities just as devastating as the last time. “You will be good at this, little rose. You’re already so receptive to me. To my commands.” Raphael braced his hands on the table. “But I suppose you’re wondering what I want from you? What I mean by ‘play’?”

Maria nodded, clasping her hands on her lap.

“Submission,” Raphael said, and Maria’s heart skipped a beat. “Your complete and utter submission to me.” Maria felt her cheeks blaze at the fire in his deep voice. “I want you, Maria, to hang off every word I say. I want you to give yourself to me in every way possible. Forget the world outside. Forget who you were before you found me at the club.” Raphael licked his lips. Maria’s attention was locked on his tongue as it lapped his mouth. “You will be reborn in these rooms. Under my instructions and care you will flourish like you never have before. I will take you to heights you have only ever imagined in your most vivid fantasies.” Maria’s eyes were wide as Raphael spoke these illicit promises. Her gaze dropped to his naked torso, the flames from the fire seductively dancing their light over his olive skin. She noted the tattoos that peppered his arms, chest, and stomach. The images of women caught in the throes of passion, gasping with pleasure through parted lips. Hearts wrapped in heavy ropes, being squeezed of their beat. Lovers entwined around one another in ecstasy. Maria stilled when she saw a bloom of roses covering the tops his shoulders. On one side they were bright red, like the one in her hair, their stems green and vivid. But the other . . . they were as black as ravens’ feathers, their thorny stems sharp and deadly as they crawled like toxic vines and wrapped around his heart.

The sword-and-angel-wing design was in stark contrast to the erotic art licking over the rest of his tanned skin. She wondered at its significance. The fact it was the only one out of sync with the other designs told her it was somehow poignant. And its texture seemed different. As if it wasn’t a tattoo at all, more seared into his flesh, burned as though metal had been pushed onto his skin and later framed in black ink, giving it the guise of a tattoo.

“I will make you feel, little rose. Feel things you have never even entertained.” Raphael rubbed his lips together. Maria had noted the move several times since her arrival in the mansion. He did it frequently. It was nothing but habit, yet it seemed sensual to her on every level, reeled her in like the tempting offer of salvation to a sinner. “You just have to say yes. I want your consent. Your consent, little rose . . .” He smiled. “And then your soul.”

Raphael took a sip of his red wine as if he hadn’t just bartered for her soul like the devil himself. But his golden stare stayed fixed on Maria, daring her to accept. Her eyes dropped under the power of his gaze and the heaviness of his offer. Maria saw her white dress. The color of purity. It didn’t escape her that Raphael had given her a dress in this shade. He knew she was a virgin. Her strength wavered for a moment.

Her chastity was her ultimate vow to God. It was the only thing that hadn’t been taken from her when everything else had. The only other time she had worn white in recent years was when she gave herself to the church, when she married herself to Jesus in Father Quinn’s presence. And here Raphael was, offering Maria pleasure she had never once desired.

But was her chastity a cure to Raphael’s insatiable lust? Was her purity the holy bread that would sate his ravenous appetite to kill? Is that why God had placed her in Raphael’s path? Why it was she and she alone who could be his one and only chance at redemption?

Maria recalled Raphael’s offer. Replayed every word he had spoken. Could she do this? Could she give herself to this man? Take him into her embrace?

She thought of her life as a nun. Of her beliefs, her calling to help others. She lived to help people in need. Who was more in need of help than a killer? A man who thought nothing of ridding another of their life. Did he not deserve salvation too?

That God-given warmth returned to her chest, giving her the answer she desperately searched for.

And he had asked. Despite all his sins and the evil actions she knew he would think nothing of displaying, Raphael had asked.

He wouldn’t take her without her consent.

But she knew in her heart that if she refused, he might kill her before she had a chance to appeal to his good. Before she could show him the love of others. Before she could show him he didn’t have to kill.

“Yes,” Maria whispered, almost as if God had taken control of her body and spoken for her. “I consent. I consent to your will.”

The room was deathly silent for several seconds.

“Good, little rose,” Raphael sighed. “You will not regret it.”

Raphael arose from the chair, placing his wine on the table. He offered his hand, a gentlemanly move. Maria placed her hand in his. She couldn’t help but note how small her hand was compared to his. Her stomach flipped when she realized just how quickly Raphael could kill her. He dwarfed her height and slight frame. Yet he guided her from the seat with the gentleness of a whisper.

Raphael led Maria into his bedroom. The red chair where he had brushed and dried her hair still sat at the base of the bed. Raphael guided her to sit in it. He walked around her and crouched down so he could meet her eyes. The lights in the room were low, the curtains drawn, keeping the dark night from creeping inside.

Raphael dropped his hand and began threading the string around his finger. He did it so naturally that Maria understood it was a habit he did without conscious thought. “You are mine now, Maria. Do you consent to this? Tell me one more time.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I consent.” It was the truth. She did consent. It was what was meant to happen. Of this she was convinced.

Raphael’s eyes flared. “From this point on, you will do anything I say.” She watched as his cheeks burst with redness. His hard chest tightened further, causing his muscles to become more pronounced. This power . . . her consent was bringing him pleasure. Raphael hissed through his teeth. His head fell back and his eyes closed. Maria watched his neck cord, the rose tattoos that climbed his throat dancing as if caught in a breeze.

Maria shifted on her seat as heat built in her spine. Maria was here for God. She was here because she was a nun and had been tasked with saving a soul. But what shocked her was the unfamiliar feeling of excitement that consumed her when she pushed her religious duty aside and simply became a woman. She had never had lovers before, had never even been touched in a sexual way . . . but the way her body vibrated with electricity when Raphael was close, his eyes rolling back in pleasure . . . Maria didn’t know how to comprehend it. It was unexpected.

It felt like awakening after a long slumber.

Raphael fought to breathe, a low groan slipping from his red lips. He licked at those lips, his tongue wetting his mouth. Maria had no idea what brought him such pleasure. But when her eyes dropped she saw him pulling the string so tightly that his finger was turning blue. She hadn’t meant to look, but underneath that finger was an obvious bulge in his pants. The thin material hid nothing; there was no modesty to be found under the black silk. Maria sucked in a shaky breath when she noticed the prominent outline of his erection. Her eyes widened.

Maria averted her gaze, dropping it to her clasped hands on her lap. When she finally looked up, Raphael’s eyes were on her, focused and wide with excitement. He edged closer and placed his hands on either side of her chair. Maria felt his hardness brush against her knee. She swallowed, too inexperienced to know what to do, how to act appropriately.

“From now on, you refer to me as Lord.”

Maria’s eyes snapped to Raphael in shock. “In this room, little rose. I am your Lord. I am your God and I am your savior. I am your teacher and guide.” He lifted his hand and ran his finger down a long strand of her hair. His finger, wrapped and choked by the string, ghosted past her neck, her shoulder, and along the curve of her breast. It wasn’t intentional, but she gasped aloud, her eyes fluttering shut. When her eyes opened again, it was to Raphael watching her as if she were the most fascinating creature on the planet. “You won’t speak unless I tell you to.” His instructions were heavy, but his voice was delicate and soft, a feather lying upon a bed of nails. “You’ll keep your eyes to the floor when you’re around me.” Raphael’s finger came underneath her chin and guided her head upright. “Unless I want you to watch me. And make no mistake, there will be many times I will.” Maria stayed silent. His commands were burrowing their way deep into her heart. His stringent tone made her feel as though her body were floating in the Dead Sea. It carried with it a heady sense of freedom she struggled to comprehend. Why did she like it so much? “Do you understand, little rose?”

“Yes,” Maria whispered and averted her eyes once more. Her heart kicked into a sprint when her gaze fell upon his hardness, his sizable length pushing against the fabric of his pants. She inhaled a shaky breath. Her sexual inexperience was never more obvious than in that moment.

“Yes what?” Raphael’s voice was harder than before, an aggressive edge to his deep tone. Maria felt a trail of fire race down her spine to the tops of her thighs.

“Yes, my lord,” she quickly amended.

Raphael froze, then brought his mouth to Maria’s ear. “My lord . . . that’s not what I told you to say, little rose, was it?” Maria panicked at her mistake, but before she could beg for forgiveness, Raphael let out a stuttered breath. “But I like that better. My lord. Your ruler, your savior. Your world.” Raphael traced the tip of his bound finger along Maria’s bottom lip. Her pulse fluttered in response. “Say it again.”

“My lord,” she whispered, Raphael’s deep inhale catching at her words.

“Good girl,” he said. “Doesn’t that sound perfect coming from your pretty little lips?”

“Yes, my lord,” she repeated. Raphael’s skin glistened with sweat, his muscles twitching with every obedient word she spoke.

“You won’t do anything without my permission, little Maria. And I won’t ask you anything twice. You’ll listen at all times. If I must repeat myself, there’ll be consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Raphael smiled a blinding smile, pleased. He loosened the string from around his finger, the cords in his neck disappearing along with his strained voice. “If we do anything you don’t want, you’ll simply say ‘red rose.’ And I will stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Raphael stood and circled her on the chair. Maria wondered what he was doing, until she felt a brush combing through her hair. “Each day after you’ve eaten breakfast, you will shower. You will wash your hair, wear one of the dresses provided. Then you will sit on this chair and wait for me. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will take care of you, little rose. I will brush out your hair, dry it, and dress it prettily with a rose.”

Maria hid her bewilderment at why he would want to do such a thing. Why he would bother to care. But she kept silent. She hadn’t been given permission to speak.

Raphael brushed her hair until all of the knots and tangles had been freed. Maria stilled when he began to hum, a soft melodic tune that sank into the very marrow of her bones. As the brush smoothed out her tresses, Maria’s stomach fell. She recognized the song he hummed quietly to himself. It sounded so natural coming from his lips she wasn’t sure he was even conscious he was doing it.

“Ring a-round the Roses.” The tune Raphael hummed was “Ring a-round the Roses.” The childhood song simultaneously filled her with both sympathy and dread. Sympathy for the man who hummed a nursery rhyme so sadly it made tears prick in her eyes. And dread for what the nursery rhyme was about.

Death.

He was humming a child’s song about death.

Clearly not seeing her distress, Raphael lowered the brush then he came before her and guided her to stand. “But it’s late tonight and you’ve had a long day.” Relief flooded through Maria, yet an odd niggling at the back of her brain made her frown. She was relieved. She was exhausted. And she was overwhelmed with the thought of what lay before her. But, despite all of that, there was a part of her that seemed to be disappointed.

Maria put that down to her need to help this man. Help him fight the darkness inside.

Raphael led her to her room. He stopped at the door and brought her hand to his mouth. Never taking his eyes from her, Raphael brushed a kiss on the back of her hand. “Sleep, little rose.” Raphael turned away. But he then placed his hand on the door. “These stay open. Don’t you dare close them. I want to be able to see you at all times.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“Yes, my lord.”

Raphael closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sleep well, little rose.”

Maria moved to the bed and pulled back the comforter. She turned the lamp off. But from her bed, she could see Raphael in the main room walking around, heard him locking the main door so she couldn’t escape again. She watched him move to his bed, remove his pants, and climb into bed. The almost-darkness prevented her from seeing his most intimate parts, but she was breathless knowing he lay bare just across the room.

Sleep didn’t find Maria easily. She felt as though she had just closed her eyes when she was awoken by a pained roar. Maria froze, immediate fear keeping her paralyzed. But moans and shouts of “No” drifted in from the main room.

Raphael.

Forcing herself to move, Maria sat up and peered into the main room. Raphael was clutching at the black sheets of his bed with tight fists, thrashing from side to side as though something were pinning him down, hurting him. Maria threw back her comforter and tiptoed to the edge of her room. Her hands braced on the doorframe, and she ignored the trembling that was threatening to take control of her body.

Maria’s eyes strained in the almost-darkness. She caught Raphael’s shadow thrashing and calling out muffled, untellable cries of pain. The scared edges to his voice struck her heart like an arrow, shredding it apart. Raphael’s pain was evident in his voice. His hoarse cries were a physical representation of what pain pulsed and tortured him inside. Maria silently crossed the room and peered over to where he slept. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her chest as she looked at his face. Tears. Tears were tumbling down his cheeks. His beautiful face wore a grimace, teeth clenched and neck corded with tension.

Maria found it difficult to breathe. Mother Superior had always told her she would make a good nun because of her empathy toward others. Right now, as she looked at the man on the bed who was being torn apart by his dark dreams, she knew her Mother Superior was correct.

As Raphael let out another horrific cry, Maria made herself return to the closet, heart in her throat. He wasn’t ready for her touch, for her comfort. She had to let him lead. He had to come to her when he was ready. And she would be waiting.

Everyone, even the most sinful of men, deserved to be cared for. That was exactly what she would do.

So instead of offering Raphael the comfort he so desperately needed, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor. Maria curled her arms around her bent knees and let the tears fall. Because she knew that kind of pain. She knew the demons that came crawling into one’s consciousness in sleep. The nightmares that felt so real one relived the horror and agonies of dark moments over and over again.

As Raphael let out another tormented groan, Maria laid her head back against the doorframe and cried. She had lived with the pain of her past for years, no one to understand how it consumed her, threatened to destroy all the progress she had ever made. If she was an empath, it was born from experience and personal trauma.

As Raphael’s screams and wails carried on long through the night, Maria wondered if maybe he would understand. Wondered if he could feel sympathy for others or whether that was a part of his soul that was lost. Could he love? Was he capable of that emotion?

When the rooms finally quieted, Maria rose and tiptoed to where Raphael now slept soundly, his sheets haphazardly wrapped around him, preserving his modesty. His brow was damp, and dark circles pitted beneath his eyes. Maria unconsciously reached her hand out, her fingers grazing the soft strand of dark hair that forever fell over Raphael’s eyes. She pulled her hand back, but didn’t move. Her feet were planted to the ground. There was an ache in her chest that compelled her to keep vigil beside this man, this killer.

Because Maria had never met anyone like him. She’d never met anyone who shared the ailment of nightmares that seemed so real they were debilitating. As Raphael rolled to his front, Maria’s eyes fixed on the scars that littered his back. She closed her eyes and could feel the burning of her scars too.

Is that why I’m here? Maria silently asked God. Because I understand? She opened her eyes and looked at Raphael. One dweller of dark, one dweller of light, brought together to collide? To share the burdens of their pasts . . . to heal?

As warmth flooded Maria’s chest, she knew it was the truth. She climbed back into her bed, and she found sleep.

Her duty to Raphael would begin come morning. She didn’t dwell on the flicker of excitement in her heart. She simply placed herself in God’s knowing hands, and fell asleep.

Chapter Eight

Maria awoke to the sound of food being brought into the rooms by a member of staff. She blinked into the lightening room. She stretched her muscles and sat up, just in time for Raphael to appear at her doorway.

His dark hair was damp; he must have already showered. His golden eyes were bright, and if Maria didn’t still have the evidence of dried tears on her cheeks, she would never think that she’d witnessed his nightmares.

Maria’s blood spiked in temperature as she dropped her eyes the minute she broke through her sleep and remembered the rules. “My good little rose,” Raphael praised. Maria felt that praise deep in her bones. “But you can meet my eyes until you’ve eaten and showered.” Maria did as he said. “Come.”

She followed Raphael into the room where they had eaten last night. A domed dish was waiting for her. Raphael was holding a mug of coffee in his hand, the strong, comforting smell settling some of her nerves. He must have already eaten.

As with the previous night, Raphael pulled her chair out for to sit. She ate quickly and in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. She did it every day at the monastery. Raphael cleared aside the dishes, then offered his hand and guided her into the bathroom. Raphael moved her hair from her shoulder and said into her ear, “When you come out, the rules will apply.” Maria nodded, closing her eyes against the shiver his warm breath brought to her neck. “Do you remember what you are to do first?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then go.” Maria’s legs were weak as she showered. A new dress was waiting for her in the bathroom, casually hung over the door. After washing her body thoroughly and shaving it of all its hair, she changed into the dress.

Maria’s pulse beat a heady rhythm as she opened the door. As promised, Raphael was waiting for her. He sat on the red chair and wore the same black silk pajama pants as the day before, his chest bare. He rose from the seat and silently stood behind it, waiting. Maria dropped her eyes and sat down, hands on her lap. Raphael immediately began brushing her hair; “Ring a-round the Roses” quietly hummed from his lips. The haunting sound echoed deep in her heart, sending shivers down her spine. Maria’s body was tired, but her mind was wide awake as she wondered what would happen in the coming hours.

She breathed in and out. Whatever awaited her, she was ready. God was with her.

The hot air from the dryer traveled through her tight shoulders, relaxing the muscles as Raphael’s soft singing voice created a soundtrack. She closed her eyes and relished the moment. When Raphael had brushed the final strand of her hair, he came around to face her. She kept her eyes down.

“Lift your head.”

Maria did as commanded, only to see Raphael move to a new vase of roses sitting on a set of drawers against the opposite wall. The roses this time were a deep pink. Maria wondered where they were coming from. Taking the biggest flower, Raphael brought it over and threaded the thorn-less stem behind her ear. When he moved back, the small smile he wore dropped, and he ordered, “Get on my bed.”

Maria’s breathing deepened at the sharp order. She held her hands together as if they were still tucked in her nun’s robes. She quickly got to her feet. Raphael wouldn’t want to be kept waiting. The carpet was soft on her heels and toes, the color a vibrant blood red. Then red gave way to black as she arrived at the side of the bed. She saw Raphael’s feet beside hers. He didn’t say a thing, just waited for her to climb onto the mattress. Maria sat on the edge and kept her head downcast.

Raphael disappeared from sight. When he returned, a spark of nervousness skittered over Maria’s body. “Lie down in the center of the bed.” Raphael’s voice was husky. The deep timbre echoed in her ears and drifted inside her every cell. Maria shifted back and lay down in the middle of the mattress. She kept her eyes downcast, but when the bed dipped she knew Raphael had approached. The black bed linen smelled of his sea-salt scent. It cocooned her where she lay, oddly chasing away some of her remaining unease.

“Tell me,” Raphael said and straddled her lower legs. He didn’t touch her, but that didn’t stop Maria’s heart beating fast at having him above her. “Has anyone ever touched you before?” Dark images of chains and black-as-midnight claustrophobic spaces assaulted her mind. Like aversion therapy, she was thrust back five years. Her skin broke out in ice-cold sweats, and she could feel the deathly weight that used to crush her chest. She could feel her body moving in its small confines, panic taking control. Her eyes closed and, despite trying her hardest to fight it, she was suddenly falling deeply into darkness. Tumbling back into that hell from which she thought she would never escape. She was trapped. The walls closed in as her fingernails snapped as she clawed at the metal walls—

“Open your eyes.” Raphael’s sharp demand wrenched her from her inner nightmare and back into the dimly lit room. When her vision cleared of its blurriness, of the hot tears that were threatening to spill, it was to see Raphael’s bare torso hovering over her, his golden eyes fixated on her face in overt interest. Maria fought for breath, but her lungs were refusing to function. Her fists clenched into the bed sheets just to feel something to ground her. “Breathe.” The minute Raphael’s stern edict poured from his mouth, Maria’s body stilled and her lungs began to clear of their thickness. She kept her eyes on Raphael’s gaze and breathed.

Simply breathed.

Raphael cocked his head. An expression of intense curiosity danced across his beautiful face. “Interesting,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He dropped his attention to her neck and, with the lightest of touches on her chin, guided her head to the side. “The pulse in your neck fluttered so fast when you couldn’t breathe.” The tip of his finger brushed over the still-racing pulse. “Your neck is so soft, the skin so fair, I could see every single movement.” Raphael’s nostrils flared. “It was beautiful. You have the most perfect neck, little rose.” He kneeled again, leaving Maria in a heavy state of confusion. Never taking his eyes off her neck, he amended his original question. “Have you ever been touched, sexually?”

Maria felt her pulse race again. She swallowed, her inexperience creeping through, when she saw his erection twitch in his silk pants. Raphael’s eyes snapped to hers and narrowed in displeasure. “I don’t want to have to ask you again, little rose. Remember the rules. I won’t tolerate them being broken.”

“No, my lord,” Maria answered quickly, earning an approving nod from Raphael. That commendation lightened the crushing weight in her chest. “I have never been touched.”

“Mm,” he pondered, then reached behind him. When he faced her again, he held an object in his hand. It had a black stem, and red feathers of varying lengths and widths on the end. Maria’s lips parted as Raphael threaded the feathers through his fingers. The string that bound his finger was firmly in place, his index finger sporting a faint blue hue. Maria was hypnotized by the slow motion of the soft feathers being caressed by Raphael’s calloused hands. “I’m going to touch you, little rose. We’re going to begin our playtime.”

Raphael’s hand dropped to her ankle. Maria jumped at the feel of a man’s touch on her virginal skin. But Raphael’s hand was soft, warm. It slowly began to journey north, leaving goosebumps in its wake like a harsh winter wind kissing a bared neck. But just as Maria grew used to Raphael’s hand on her skin, he pulled it back. Heat flooded to Maria’s core. She felt her cheeks blaze as she squeezed her thighs together at the unfamiliar tingling between her legs. Raphael crawled over where she lay. Maria kept her eyes downcast like she was supposed to do.

“Look at me.”

Maria took a deep breath as her eyelids fluttered and she met Raphael’s dilated gaze. His head dipped low, and he traced his nose from the base of Maria’s neck to the edge of her jaw. She gasped at the feel. Her toes curled, and she did everything in her power not to move. When Raphael’s nose moved over her cheek, his lips ghosted to her ear. “I’m going to make you come, little rose. Come so fucking hard.”

Maria’s eyes squeezed closed as her chest tightened at the crassly spoken carnal promise. The vow sank into her rushing blood and, like coal, heated her body from within. Raphael smiled as if he knew the effect he had on her. He moved until his face was merely an inch from hers. “I’m going to watch these cheeks bloom and flush with red like the little rose you are.”

Raphael waited. He waited until Maria’s breathing fell in sync with his. Then he was moving his hands down her body, fingers crawling reverently toward her feet. When he straddled her thighs again, he took the feathers in his hands. He licked his lips, then lowered the feathers to her feet. When the softness touched her skin, Maria gasped and involuntarily shifted her foot. Raphael stopped. Maria didn’t lift her eyes. Electricity surged through her body, as if her very being were made of live wires and static sparks. It brought all her dormant synapses that had long been repressed to life. “Don’t move,” Raphael ordered.

“Yes, my lord.”

A low groan came from Raphael’s mouth. Maria almost clenched her thighs together at the illicit feeling the sound delivered to her core. But she resisted, sucking in a deep breath. She wasn’t allowed to move. The feel of the feathers returned, only this time they were on her calf. Maria tried to resist her need to move, to react to the feel of the feathers tickling her skin. “My good little rose.” His flattery made something in her stomach flare and send a wave of happiness to her heart. Any conflicted thoughts were pushed away when her dress lifted at the sides. Maria’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. “Breathe,” Raphael reminded her. But the feathers were now caressing her lower thigh.

This is what he needs, she reminded herself. It is what you need to do save him.

Raphael shifted, the feathers disappeared, and suddenly his hand was at the strap of her dress. Delicately holding the material between his finger and thumb, Raphael pulled the strap down. Maria’s skin sang as more and more of her was bared, relishing the sudden kiss of cold air. When the dress fell away and her breast was freed, the safe word hung on the tip of her tongue. She knew this was her path. She knew what she had been chosen to do. But it was so much—the foreign sensations, the too-strong feelings, and Raphael . . . Raphael over her, his body large and domineering. The effect he had on her senses, her heart . . .

Yet when the cool breeze in the room circled her flesh and Raphael hissed as though the very sight of her naked breasts was too much to bear, a sense of purpose centered her where she lay, assuring her she was exactly where she needed to be.

It’s okay to let go.

Raphael needs you. He needs it to be this way. He needs to trust you, want you . . . he needs to see you. See the light in your soul.

So she let go. She surrendered herself to Raphael’s expert touch. Maria felt her nipple harden in the cool of the room and under the attention of his golden eyes. His hand moved to her thigh, and he moved her dress up until she felt fresh air kiss the apex of her thighs.

Even in the room’s cold chill, her body began to welcome the fire. Every part of her was heated, her senses on high alert. So when Raphael brought the feathers to her breast, the soft strands licking at her flesh, Maria moaned, the sound startling and foreign to her ears. But Raphael’s ministrations didn’t falter even under her moans and surprised gasps. The feathers danced over her nipple until Maria found it impossible to catch her breath. Raphael pushed and pushed, circling and circling until she was a coil wound to its limit. Her mouth became dry as her lips parted. Eyes closed, she simply felt.

Pressure built at the base of Maria’s spine. She craved something. Something she couldn’t describe, something just out of her reach. She began to climb, her senses and breathing under Raphael’s command, but then he moved the feather away, denying her the forbidden fruit she craved.

“Eyes on me,” Raphael ordered. But the tone of his voice had changed. It was still demanding and unyielding, warranting no refusal, but it now had a dangerous edge. As if he were balancing on a delicate precipice of losing control and smothering her will. Maria obeyed his command. His pupils were blown, and he wore a feral, savage expression. The severe look should have marred his beautiful face. If anything, the wickedness that gleamed in his face made his beauty almost preternatural. “Watch me.” She couldn’t look away if she tried. He licked his lips. His stubbled cheeks were flushed with red. Raphael lifted the feathers, never breaking from her gaze as he lowered them to her thighs. Maria sucked in a breath, only for it to become trapped in her throat when Raphael used his free hand to gently part her legs. The pulse in Maria’s neck that Raphael was so fascinated by began to thump as fast as a drum. Raphael’s breathing sped up too, his toned and tanned chest beginning to glisten with a light sheen of sweat. Maria didn’t need to see if he was excited. She could tell by his flushed face and lowered lashes that he was as far gone as she.

He’s letting go. He feels you, feels the goodness in your soul.

In that moment, Maria felt something she had never experienced in her life—assurance that everything she had been through was for a reason. For this moment right now. To save this man and bring him back into God’s embrace. She was a vessel, the willing servant who would make it so.

The cool air in the bedroom caressed her open legs, kissing up her inner thigh and to her center. Maria moaned when the feathers followed the path the breeze had made. Her body jerked, her eyes widening yet never moving from Raphael as he brought the feathers higher and higher until they brushed over her core.

Maria cried out as the feathers passed over her clitoris. “Feel it,” Raphael said and circled the feathers over and over where she could barely stand its touch. Maria’s hands dug into the bedsheets, clawing at the soft material. She could barely focus. Her back arched against her will. In all her years she had never felt anything like it. It was all encompassing, overwhelming, yet provoked the most intense craving all at the same time.

Raphael wasn’t faring much better, it seemed. Cheeks flushed and breathing shallow, he never ceased in his maddening rhythm on her clit as he crawled over her. His scent wrapped around her, only heightening the moment, and his warmth engulfed any coldness that remained in the small space between them.

Maria’s gaze never moved from Raphael the entire time, locked into his stare. Pressure built in her spine, and it took everything she had not to move, not to rock her hips against the feathers torturing her and pulling her body apart. She couldn’t take the unfamiliar sensation, yet needed more—so much more. Silently pleading with her blue eyes, she begged Raphael for more. Embracing the feel and abandoning her worries and cares, Maria gave herself to this man. This man who was lowering his mouth to her breast.

Maria cried out, the agonized moan echoing around the room as Raphael’s lips wrapped around her nipple and sucked. Her legs began to shake as the feathers moved back and forth, around and around, Raphael’s hot tongue mimicking the action on her nipple. Raphael groaned, and the deep husky sound vibrated through her to her soul. She fought the insatiable need to thrust her hands into his messy hair. She fought the need to caress his olive skin, feel the muscles flex underneath her palm. Raphael’s eyes stayed locked on hers as she climbed higher and higher to whatever unknown peak the feathers and his tongue were elevating her to.

“Come.” Raphael’s growled command passed through her like an edict straight from God’s mouth to her heart. Maria’s body tensed, and she broke apart into a supernova of tiny little fragments—dispersed, shattered, and soaring into a blissful wonderment of peace. Her body jerked as a cry leaped from her throat, only to be caught by Raphael, who hovered above her, his thumb on her bottom lip, breathing in her cries with his quick inhale.

Maria didn’t want to come down. Not from pain or fear, but from the need to keep this feeling for longer, to bask in the glow a cluster of feathers and a hot tongue had brought her. But, unable to hold on to the new feeling for a minute longer, Maria began to float back into her body, weightless, renewed. Returning to the bed and the man who was stroking her hair, his body pressed to hers. As the pleasure dispersed, Maria felt changed. Like a sinner born again.

Her body trembled. She wasn’t sure if it was the aftermath of her first orgasm or the memory of how Raphael looked at her when he’d wrung her of her pleasure. Like she was the Madonna and he a lowly pilgrim in search of spiritual guidance. Guidance only she could give him.

As if he needed to touch her, Raphael turned her head with his firm hand on her cheek. Maria felt the quick reddening of her face at the seemingly sincere caress. Raphael smiled, and the effect was devastating to her opened heart. Because this smile seemed different to those given before. This one she saw reflected in his eyes as well as on his mouth.

He was pleased.

That strangely made her happy too.

He reached out his hand, and with a touch as timid as the feathers that had brought her her first glimpse of pleasure, he ran his finger over her cheek. “Just like a rose,” he murmured, then leaned over until his torso covered hers. Maria gasped when her exposed nipple brushed against Raphael’s naked chest. She didn’t know what he was about to do. But she didn’t expect the kiss he placed on the side of her mouth. A kiss that made her thankful she was lying down; she feared her legs would have buckled at the formidable effect it had on her forgiving heart.

“You are beautiful, little rose. I couldn’t have asked for anyone more.”

As Maria stared into his golden eyes, she believed she saw a flicker of good looking back. Just a spark of benevolence, a whispered promise of who this man could be with her grace.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

Chapter Nine

Her delicate neck. The blush to her fair skin. The glaze in her blue eyes.

Perfect. She was perfect. As Raphael looked down, he saw his dream brought to life. Imagined her eyes frozen open, no more blinks to be made. Her soft hair would brush his cheek as he lay on her chest. The aftermath would be so silent, not a single sound in the room—perfect bliss. The blush on her cheeks would remain even as the hours passed. She would remain in his arms and, in the aftermath, she would still be warm.

As Raphael drew back his head, he felt the brand of kissing Maria staining his lips. His cock throbbed in his pants, the silicone cage choking his erection until it ached. It was perfection. The strangulation, Maria’s warm body beside his. He glanced up to Maria’s hair. It was thick and full from her writhing around on the bed. But her rose was still perfectly in place.

Raphael placed his hand on her lower neck and traced down over her breast. The minute his fingertip touched her nipple, Maria gasped, and her eyes that were fixed on him suddenly glazed in need. For someone so virginal, so untouched, she craved his touch, was a slave to his fingers. Some strange, unknown feeling flashed in his chest as she watched him, eyes hooded and lips pink.

It made Raphael groan.

Not wanting to lose the flush to her cheeks, he brought his hand lower and lower, over the thin fabric of Maria’s dress, over her stomach and down to her bare pussy. Raphael’s dick twitched. His pretty little rose had shaved. Like the perfect submissive she was apparently born to be, Maria’s legs fell further open without her even being asked. Raphael stilled and flicked his gaze up to meet hers. He had yet to tell her to look away. He didn’t like his conquests to keep his gaze for too long. He should order her eyes to drop, and he was about to open his mouth to issue the command, yet he stayed quiet. The words simply wouldn’t come.

Maria was staring at him, lips parted and pink nipple hard. His little rose looked so pure. Pure and good as she watched him—a light in her eyes as she regarded his dark soul. An angel in bed with the devil. Raphael licked his lips at the thought. Never in all these years had he been with someone like her.

Untouched.

Unsullied.

Purely his for the taking.

Raphael couldn’t help but become awash with pride knowing she would never have anyone else but him. She would never be leaving his rooms. She would forever carry his scent on her skin. Be branded with his touch and kiss. Be his to own forevermore.

All of his kills were overused pussy, and unsavory to his tastes. But a kill was a kill, a fuck was a fuck . . . until her.

Until little Maria.

Maria clenched her thighs, causing Raphael to look down. Her pussy was wet, glistening with come brought about by his hand. Stroking his steady hands up her milky thighs, Raphael parted Maria’s legs so he could see her better. Maria softly moaned, hands fisting the sheets as the cool air lapped at her silky cunt lips. Raphael watched her cheeks flood with redness. Her pussy was as pink as the rose in her hair, and her clit was swollen and thick. Her hole clenched, and Raphael thrust his cock against the mattress as he imagined plunging inside. The cage choked his dick until he hissed at the heavenly constrictive pain. His eyes rolled back as his balls pulled tight, the cage restricting his blood, his tip throbbing. He breathed through the pleasure, inhaled a long breath as he fought the need to come. Raphael’s hands fisted, and the muscles in his neck grew taut. When he looked up, Maria was watching him.

Her hair. Her long blond hair was a halo on her pillow. An angel. His very own angel to keep.

Stop. He had to stop. He wouldn’t waste this kill with impatience. He wouldn’t waste the beauty in his bed, the gift the devil had brought to his door. He would savor her taste, consume her cries of ecstasy. He would relish each touch of her body beneath his dangerous hands. And he would collect her pleasure, day after day, week after week, until she was his and his alone. Until her smiles were unbarred and her love for him was uncensored, obsessive . . . until he was the very air she breathed.

Slow. He must go slow. His little rose mustn’t be scared away.

Running his hands along her inner thighs, Raphael reached her needy pussy and, with his thumbs, gently pushed her lips apart. Maria cried out at the simple touch. Raphael glanced up, checking her eyes were still on his. He didn’t like any form of disobedience from his lovers—she had to do exactly what he said. He wanted his little rose to memorize every part of this—her ruin, his ascension as her king. She would watch every part of his tongue plunging into her dripping cunt, of him destroying her innocence and crafting her to be the perfect little possession that he’d keep forever.

To Raphael’s satisfaction, her attention was totally fixed on him. Raphael shifted further up her body until his mouth hovered above her clit. Testing how desperate her need was for his touch, Raphael gently blew on her throbbing pussy. Maria’s eyes rolled and her hips twitched. But his good little rose didn’t move. Raphael’s stern commands had tied her to the bed with phantom chains. His will was the lock keeping her subdued. His words were the only key. A lock he had no intention of breaking open . . . yet.

Raphael brushed his thumb over her sensitive clit. Maria gasped, her perfect, untouched hole clenching, hungry for his cock. It would come in time. He had so much to show his little rose first. When he took her, she would be desperate for him to fill her. Mewling, panting with the need for him to tear her heart apart.

Raphael had to make her love him first. There would be no room for anyone else in her life. No God. No Jesus. Just him . . . her true savior, the man she would sacrifice herself for . . . just to please him. “Do you like that, little rose?”

Maria’s mouth moved but no words came out. Raphael stopped his thumbs. A flicker of annoyance shot through him at her lack of response. But Maria was a quick study.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “I . . . I like it.” Her voice was barely a whisper, stuttered and unsteady. But it was enough to sate Raphael’s need for Maria’s obedience.

“Mm,” he murmured and nudged her thighs wider, wide enough that the breadth of his shoulders kept them restrained. He realized his body’s width was a perfect fit between her legs. Maria’s thighs fought to squeeze together again. He smirked, triumph in his eyes. She was falling. Falling, madly and deeply, into his trap.

Licking his lips, Raphael massaged the folds of Maria’s pussy and flicked her clit with his tongue. The cry that ripped from Maria’s throat was nothing short of demonic. Her angel soul ravaged by his satanic ways. But Maria made sure she stayed still. Her eyes were frenzied, but her stare remained on him. Her fair skin was as white as an angel’s wings. The blue of her irises was the color of the Madonna’s clothes. But there was no Madonna to be found in the room. Maria was his soon-to-be whore, a whore for his cock and touch and every single move he made. A whore for him and only him, his perfectly obedient little rose. Raphael’s black heart filled with heat as Maria’s angelic skin began to wash with red . . . the color of sin, such beautiful, beautiful sin.

He would be her demise.

No one would ever touch her but him. She was his. She was never getting away.

As soon as Maria’s taste burst on Raphael’s tongue he stilled. His heart raced. Raphael didn’t understand the reaction, his muscles locked in paralysis as he tried to decipher the foreign feeling. There was a heat in his chest he didn’t recognize.

But when he looked up at her face, at the flush to her skin and the throbbing pulse in her neck, it all became clear to him. She was perfection. Of course she would taste that way too. It was his soul telling him he had finally found the one. It just affirmed to Raphael that she was it. He had found his lust’s perfect half, his sacrificial lamb.

Groaning at the wave of possessiveness rushing through his blood, Raphael licked along Maria’s pussy, from hole to clit. Her moans bled into the hymns playing in the background, a hedonistic harmony to the sacred melody. She was all he could taste. Her heat on his tongue was all he could feel. And he couldn’t stop. With every lick he needed more and more, insatiability taking ownership of his actions. Maria shook under his mouth, and when he looked up, he caught rabid desperation on her pretty face.

Lifting his head, he paused just long enough to order, “Grip my hair.” Maria obeyed so quickly it made him groan and his dick throb. “Pull,” he ordered darkly. Maria didn’t hesitate. As he sank his mouth back onto her cunt, her fingers raked at the strands. Raphael’s eyes watered as Maria, lost to euphoria, pulled at his messy hair and ripped at his scalp. Raphael ground his dick into the mattress as he devoured her, licked and sucked her clit until her cries were a worship song of her own. He felt her clit throb harder and harder in his mouth, until, with a final yank on his hair, strands coming free in her hands, Maria came, flooding onto his tongue. But Raphael didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He was addicted as he licked and lapped and swallowed her taste down, parched, as if he’d been lost in the desert for a month and Maria’s pussy was his blessed relief of water.

Maria jerked underneath him, and he knew she couldn’t take anymore. It only made him push harder, forcing her further and further toward the brink of oblivion. Raphael kept going, testing her submission, seeing how far he could push her until she defied his orders. It wasn’t until she whimpered, pained cries stammering from her shaking lips, that Raphael pulled back. His cheeks were on fire as he crawled over her fatigued body. Maria’s eyes were leaden, tears falling in streams down her cheeks. The sight of her undone, crying tears caused by his ministrations, made a burst of pleasure flood his balls. Seeing her spent and exhausted made him relax. With her gaze fixed on his, Raphael licked his lips, still tasting her on his tongue like the finest wine. Maria watched his every move, her pale skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. Raphael bent down and licked along her neck, lapping up a wayward teardrop that was trying to escape. There wasn’t a part of her that could run from him.

He would catch her. He always would.

When Raphael reared back, it was to find Maria staring at his chest, her tears waning and her breaths slowing. A strange sense of calmness washed over his body. Raphael paused, unused to the foreign feeling of peace traveling from his head to his toes. He never felt calm. Always itched for more. More sex, more kills, more death. In his fascination, Raphael reached down for her hand. As soon as their palms connected and their fingers entwined, he stilled with curiosity. She was shaking. A strange swirling stirred in his stomach, giving his skin goosebumps. Was she afraid of him? Maria’s fingers tightened around his. He studied her face. She was staring at their clasped hands. He felt a peculiar stutter in his chest when he followed her gaze.

Raphael hated to be touched intimately unless he ordered it. Unless it helped him get his kill. None of his victims ever touched him this way; he forbade it. But just as he was about to wrench his hand from Maria’s, her thumb gently ghosted over his palm. His heart started beating heavily. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t ripped his hand away, forced her to get on her knees and kiss his feet in forgiveness for her boldness. Ensured that she knew he wasn’t to be touched unless instructed. But when Maria’s thumb drifted across his palm again, Raphael groaned and he slammed her hand flat against his chest. He hissed at the intimate contact. It was a brand as searing as the Saint Peter’s cross the Brethren had plunged onto his flesh. His eyes rolled closed as he fought the feel of her soft hands on his bare skin. He was on fire, his blood rushing through his veins like lava.

It was painful.

Uncomfortable, yet he didn’t push her away.

As he looked down at her, seeing her blue eyes wide and her lips parted as she studied their joined hands on his chest, Raphael thundered past the impenetrable wall that shielded him from letting in weakness and rasped, “Touch me, little rose.” The minute the words had fled his mouth he felt his skin break out in shivers. Anger rose inside him at his foolish move. He was the one who did the touching. He was the only one in charge.

He opened his mouth, about to revoke his order. What was he thinking? No one touched him. They didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t stand it. He—

Maria’s fingers twitched, then, escaping the cover of his palm, began floating over his hot skin. The boiling anger that was threatening to break loose and potentially end Maria’s life cooled in an instant, ice water to a roaring flame as her timid fingers crawled over his pecs. Raphael was as still as a statue as her fingers explored. His muscles twitched under her touch. He could barely draw breath.

He was allowing someone to touch him.

Maria was touching him without his controlling her every move.

Raphael squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head when a familiar darkness pulled him under and threw him back into the torture room. With him. His hands running over Raphael’s bare chest and neck, fingers wrapping around his throat. He touched him. Always fucking touched him. Raphael couldn’t stand it. Wanted to rip those hands from their arms and throw them into the fire. “Submit to me, demon.” Rage and disgust built in Raphael’s body until he thought he would combust at the memory. He was touching his chest. Caressing his motherfucking chest. He had to get him off. He had to get him off!

Raphael’s eyes snapped open when a hand brushed over his pec. Reaching out, he grabbed the wrist and squeezed. A pained cry tried to break through his brain’s fog, but it didn’t penetrate the thick walls. Raphael had to kill him. He had to end him once and for all, make it so he couldn’t touch him again, choke him again, fuck him again.

Raphael yanked on the wrist, pushing the priest on his back . . . then Raphael froze, unable to move as fingers softly ran down his face.

“My lord.” Quiet words tried to push through the red mist clouding his vision. The priest’s fingers felt different. They felt soft. They felt smooth. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I shouldn’t have touched your cheek without permission.” The words kept circling his mind. The voice . . . the voice was different too. Like daggers, the higher-pitched tone was pushing its way inside his mind. “How can I make it up to you, my lord?”

My lord . . . my lord . . .

Raphael blinked, and his vision quickly cleared. Ready to attack, he slammed his gaze down to the person on the bed and wrapped his hands around their throat. He was about to tighten his hold, but big blue eyes were suddenly looking back at him. Raphael panted, trying to understand what was happening, where he was. These eyes were different. They were blue, not brown. His head snapped to the side when warmth spread on his cheek. A hand . . . there was a hand on his face.

“My lord.”

Raphael gasped as he saw Maria beneath him. His hands were around her throat, ready to strike. His lip curled as he fought the demon inside who lusted for the rush of a kill. All he had to do was squeeze. She was here for him to take, to kill, to make it so she couldn’t touch him again without his say-so.

“Get off me,” he snarled, and Maria immediately wrenched back her hand.

“Raphael?” His name on her lips caused a dull ache to burrow into his chest. A unrelenting ache he had never felt before. It was debilitating. It was disgusting. It repulsed him . . .

But for some reason, it made his pulse race.

Raphael ripped back his hands as if her throat were protected by a naked flame. He didn’t like the feeling of defeat, didn’t know how to react to it. He never hesitated in his kills. It felt like he was suffocating, like phantom hands were choking his lungs.

“It’s ‘my lord,’” he hissed and yanked Maria up off the bed by her arms. “You don’t call me by my name. Ever.” He pulled her over him. Her knees straddled his, and her tits pressed against his chest. Maria’s eyes immediately dropped. Obeying his command.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

Electricity buzzed through Raphael’s body, too fast and too strong for him to take. Maria’s hands were by her side, avoiding his skin. He imagined them on his chest again, on his face. No! His head twitched to the side at his inner war. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want anyone touching him intimately. Ever. He had to be in control. He needed to be in control.

Don’t submit. Never submit to anyone again.

The warmth on his cheek waned at that thought. But his body lurched. He wanted it back; he wanted the warmth from her hand back. He shouldn’t want it back!

Growling in frustration, Raphael wrapped Maria’s hair around his hand. He needed to feel the strands restricting the blood in his fingers. “Widen your legs,” he ordered. Raphael’s tone had dropped; it was harsher, demanding total obedience. Maria didn’t hesitate, causing the choking sensation in his lungs to grow stronger. He didn’t know why. What was this motherfucking feeling?

She widened her legs. “Pull up your dress.” Maria’s lips parted at the request. He dared her with his stare to refuse. But before she caught sight of his deathly gaze, she gathered the white dress in her hands and slowly pulled it up over her slim thighs. “Up to your waist,” Raphael said harshly when Maria stopped. She swallowed, but she hiked her dress higher, inch by inch, until the gauzy material was gathered at her small waist. Raphael’s skin ignited on seeing her so bare, seeing her so responsive to his orders. His groin tightened when he saw her pussy on display. His hand tightened in her hair. Maria’s eyes were focused on the mattress beneath her, yet his body began to heat from simply looking at her.

Maria brought warmth. Her touch had brought warmth to his face.

He was cold. He had always felt cold. In Purgatory, there was only ever cold and pain and screams. Not warmth and softness and smiles. He lived in darkness and coldness. It made him, raised him.

Darkness was who he was.

A growl built in Raphael’s throat. He didn’t like what she was doing to him. She had made him feel out of control. He needed it back. He had to put her in her place and make sure it never happened again.

The little rose needed to be schooled.

Raphael wound the rest of her hair around his other hand until he had her positioned, legs spread, in front of him, his hands holding the sections of her hair as if they were ropes. Winding them tighter and tighter until his hands were at her scalp, he used his purchase on her hair to tilt her head up. “Look at me.” Maria did. Raphael shook his head slowly. “You disobeyed me, little rose. You called me by my name. You touched my face. You got too brave.” Maria’s eyes were wide . . . but there was a quickening of her breath and a bright red flush to her chest. “No. . .” he hissed, realizing she was reacting positively to his harshness, his aggression. It only made his lungs squeeze harder. In this moment, she was meant to be scared. She was meant to fear his wrath.

Raphael wanted nothing more than to thrust her head down and make her pretty mouth take his cock in punishment, sucking so hard it shot excruciating pain to his suffocating balls. But he would like that too much. He needed to punish her. Needed to get her from underneath his skin. “You understand that you disobeyed me? Displeased me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Maria whispered, her voice meek.

Her meekness only made her effect on him worse. “You understand you have to pay the price of that behavior?” he snapped.

Maria’s cheeks burst into flames. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice had grown hoarse with anticipation. It took Raphael all he had not to groan at the sound of her addictive soft voice.

Painstakingly slowly, Raphael unraveled her hair from his hands until he had enough space to lie down on the bed. With only a thin clump of hair wound around each hand to control her moves, Raphael lay on his back. “Climb over me.”

He tugged on her hair, as if it were the reins of a horse. Maria shuffled forward until her knees were just above Raphael’s head. “Further. Knees on either side of my head. I want your cunt above my mouth. And that’s the last time I’m gonna tell you. Do not disobey me again.”

Raphael tugged harder on Maria’s hair to show her he meant it. With a small cry, Maria edged forward, shyness engulfing her face, a nervous blush coating every inch of her skin. Her nervousness made everything worse. It was fuel to his already raging flame. But he couldn’t stop. He needed to taste her, needed her on his tongue.

When she stilled, her pussy hovering just above Raphael’s mouth, he said, “You will lower yourself to my mouth. And you will take what I give.” He heard Maria’s labored breath. “You won’t move until I tell you. You won’t move your arms. You will keep them by your side. You can cry out.” Raphael let her slowly absorb the rules. “And I want to hear every second of your pleasure. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord. I understand.”

He was out of control. He couldn’t stop, he was governed by his need and this woman. Do not kill her, he told himself as his hands itched to take her life and rid himself of the strange feelings taking him over. Of her and her blue eyes and warm palm on his cheek.

Pulling Maria down by her hair, Raphael took the first taste of her pussy. Fire soared through the fibers of his muscles as soon as her flavor burst on his tongue. He should stop. Stop and kill her now. Cut off the strange effect she had on him with one snap of her neck, and find another to fulfill his fantasy. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She was too perfect to dispose of. Instead he took her like a man starved, licking and sucking and groaning deeply with every cry of ecstasy she expelled above him. Her thighs shook from the pressure of being unable to move. Her arms were by her sides, and apart from the shudders of pleasure that sailed through her from Raphael’s relentless tongue, Maria stayed exactly where she was meant to, only making him crave her more. The feel of her hair wrapped around his hands, the taste of her cunt, and her submission to his orders caused Raphael’s cock cage to strain so tightly he could feel the blood and cum being trapped in the restraints.

Maria’s cries were a constant song as he pulled at her hair and devoured her clit. Body tense and a scream ripping from her throat, Maria came, her wetness filling Raphael’s mouth. He didn’t stop. He licked and licked until Maria convulsed above him, unable to take anymore. He stilled, yet she still didn’t move.

That acquiescence pleased him more than she could ever know.

Raphael’s chest rose and fell in rapid movements. The room grew quiet; the only sounds were the haunting hymns and harshly exhaled breaths.

He needed to get out from underneath her. Needed to stop the constricting of his chest. It hadn’t lessened. The claws were burrowing in deeper, imbedding themselves in his flesh.

He couldn’t stand this new feeling. He wanted it gone from inside him.

He shifted down the bed and brought himself to his knees. His cock was throbbing, the pain almost bringing him to the brink of euphoria. Maria’s head hung low, her body weak from exhaustion; a veil of sweat coated her fair skin, and tendrils of her hair coiled over her red cheeks. Yet Raphael did not let go of her hair. He couldn’t. Not yet. His hands simply refused to let go. The fire inside him flared at the sight of her so ruined by his mouth. His touch.

He sat taller, proud. He had done this. His control, his instruction. Her complete submission to his every word. Seeing her like this, a ravaged mess, made her more beautiful than ever to his eyes.

“Relax,” Raphael said. Maria’s body sagged on command. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy at seeing her so fucking undone. “Lie back.” Her body was lifeless as her arms and legs sank into the soft mattress. Raphael wasn’t prepared for the effect seeing her so still and spent would have on his already destroyed and fucked-up mind. Every muscle in his body was still as he became transfixed on her heavy eyelids and her flushed pink mouth. He looked down and blinked at the hair in his hands. He had to see it through. Maria had to stay. She was his one. Raphael ignored how his heartbeat sped up seemingly in agreement. He ignored the new tightness that had taken root in his chest with the forbidden touch of her hand on his face.

“Sleep,” he rasped, realizing Maria awaited his order. Maria’s soft lips tilted up with a whisper of a smile. He felt his heart miss a thud at the sight, at the slight ghost of a dimple that caved in the side of her cheek. In seconds her eyes were shut and she fell into a deep slumber.

She was sleeping in his bed. No one ever slept in his bed but him. He should have demanded she go back to her room. He opened his mouth to do so, but no words came.

Kill her. Kill her now.

Raphael fought through the urge to strike, to crawl to Maria’s body and wrap her hair around her neck. To pull it tighter and tighter until her lips parted and she fought for her next breath that would never come.

Raphael saw it before him. He saw it so clearly it was as if it were real. “No,” he growled when Maria moved her leg, hurtling him back to the here and now. “No.” He dropped her hair to the bed. Forcing himself to back away, Raphael stepped onto the plush carpet. His breathing was rough, and it took all his will to leave her in one piece on the bed. Hands fisted, he rushed into the bathroom and yanked down his pants. His back hit the wall as he closed his eyes and tried to calm down. But it didn’t help. He didn’t feel. Didn’t ever want to feel.

Turning, he took his cock in his tight fist. His teeth gritted together and his neck corded, head thrown back as he squeezed. As he gripped his flesh so hard it brought him to his knees. The agony was furious, sending bolts of lightning pain through his body until he bit his tongue so hard he drew blood. But it was heaven, pure utopia as the torture and torment devoured his skin, his muscles, his bones and his blood, a veritable inferno of agonized rapture. Raphael moved his hand up and down his cock, rubbing the engorged flesh. He bit back a roar of release as he came, the pain of his seed spilling from his dick’s silicone prison enough to make him blanch, blood draining from his face. Raphael collapsed forward, his palms slapping flat on the tiled floor. His pants were around his ankles, and his cock throbbed so painfully that he had to clench his jaw just to keep hold of consciousness.

But then he smiled. He smiled widely, a quiet rough laugh escaping his lips. He laughed at the excruciating pain. It was decadent. It was perfection . . . it was all that he was worth. Raphael jerked, the last of his release dripping down his tense thighs.

When he’d gathered his composure, he staggered up off the floor. Kicking his soiled silk pants across the room, Raphael walked slowly to the mirror, hissing in pain with every step he made. The agony in his groin was a million needles stabbing into his skin. Meeting his reflection, Raphael saw his darkened golden eyes and messy dark hair. He rubbed his finger around his lips. He could smell Maria on his body. Taste her. She was everywhere. On his skin, in his mind . . . in his midnight, venomous soul.

He’d kissed the side of her mouth. He never kissed. It repulsed him. “What the fuck are you thinking?” he spat to his reflection, lip curling. “Pull it together. You’ve waited your whole life for her. For this moment.”

Raphael pushed the touch of her hand on his face from his mind, and gave himself over to his sinister, cold heart. His blood cooled, and the same numbness he lived with every day took its hold.

Treading silently on the carpet, he followed a path to the bed. He stopped beside the high mattress of his four-poster bed and watched Maria as she slept. Her sullied white dress was in a state of disarray, breasts and cunt freed and open to his hungry gaze.

Raphael climbed onto the bed and gently crawled to where she lay. Stopping at her side, he leaned over and splayed his hands above her body. As if yearning for his touch, her spirit attracted to his midnight soul, Maria shifted toward him and bared her neck. Raphael, consumed with his fantasy, tipped his head to the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if his little rose had been sent from heaven or hell. To either repay him for what God had let happen all those years ago, or punish him in the most fucked-up way.

Maria exhaled a soft sigh, the warmth of her breath dancing over his skin. Raphael brushed back a piece of hair that was still stuck to her cheek. His hand moved down until his curious fingers arrived at her throat. He stroked along the soft skin, feeling the silkiness under his touch. He felt her pulse under his thumb, steady and strong. Then he threaded his hand around her neck. Maria’s head tilted up in sleep. “Yes, little rose,” Raphael said, his voice a mere whisper. “Such a pretty, pretty neck you offer me.” Raphael lifted his other hand and brought it to her throat. As gentle as a whisper, his fingers circled her fragile bones. Raphael’s nostrils flared at the stunningly beautiful sight. He squeezed slightly, allowing just enough pressure through his fingers to give him a taste of what her total submission would bring, but not enough to leave a mark or rouse Maria from sleep.

She moaned softly, her back arching. Her bared breasts rose with her arch, her nipples hardening. Excitement rushed through his veins. She might not know it yet, but Maria liked his hands around her neck; she craved it. She was born for him, to award him this gift. As if he were the bright sun, his little rose curled into his soothing rays. He allowed Maria to sleep in his bed for a short while, just long enough for her sweet scent to infuse his sheets. And all the time, Raphael kept his hands around her neck, just . . . imagining . . .

“You won’t defeat me, little rose,” he whispered into the stark blackness of night, hungover from the strange sensation her touch brought to his chest. “I will best you, own you. Then I will kill you. Of that, you have my solemn vow.”

Chapter Ten

Three weeks later . . .

Uriel stood and drew back his hood. Raphael rocked on his feet. He didn’t want to be in the Tomb right then. He wanted to be back in his room. What was Maria doing at that moment? Was she obeying his order to wait for him on his bed, kneeling and eyes downcast?

“Raphe.”

Raphael lifted his eyes at the sound of his name. Sela stood before him, regarding him curiously. “You close?” Sela removed his hood and hung it in the closet. Raphael, by rote, did the same. A strange pull in his gut was making him feel off kilter. Maria . . . she was acting strangely today. Her blue eyes were dull, her skin paler than usual. She obeyed his commands, but there were no smiles on her face, no gasps when he sucked her clit. When she came, she barely cried out. Pains shot through Raphael’s chest as he remembered her eyes drifting to the side of the room, instead of being on him. Over the past few weeks, the way she looked at him had changed. She smiled. She smiled, and every time she did, his blood would heat and his lungs would squeeze. He rubbed his sternum. He still hated it. Still didn’t understand it. But he’d gone past the point of no return. When he thought of not brushing her hair, of not licking her tits and clit, that awful ache pulled in his stomach.

Was she hurt? He tried to remember if he had hurt her. His head throbbed. He didn’t know, didn’t think he had. He had watched her, trying make her smile. He made her come, yet the dullness in her eyes remained.

“Raphe!” Sela repeated. “Christ, brother, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I need to get back to my room.” Raphael brushed past Bara, Uriel, Diel, and Sela. Michael stepped in front of him as he reached the bottom of the staircase. His best friend’s ice-blue stare was locked on him, assessing. Michael hadn’t come to his room once since Maria had been there. Gabriel had told him to stay away and give Raphael the time he needed to make good on his kill.

Michael’s head tilted as he regarded him blankly. “She dead yet? It’s been weeks.”

Raphael’s jaw clenched when the tightness in his chest increased. “No. Not yet.” Raphael hadn’t even fucked her yet. She hadn’t touched his cock. He didn’t know why the hell he was holding off.

No, that was a lie. He needed her to want him. Crave him as much as he craved her. She had to walk to him, then into the kill, willingly.

Maria was breaking. Slowly. But today . . . something was wrong today, and it was torturing Raphael’s mind. It pissed him off.

His blood felt like pure gasoline as it pumped through his heart. His bones felt like ton weights with every step. And there was anger. Anger and rage ignited every cell in his body as he thought of Maria’s lack of pleasure. She wasn’t giving herself over to him today. She came, but her eyes weren’t rolling back in her head and her cries weren’t loud and high-pitched.

He needed those screams more than air.

Without another word, Raphael moved around Michael and raced toward his room. When he opened the door, he stood stock-still at the sight that greeted him.

Maria wasn’t on the bed.

Raphael’s eyes roved over the room. The lamp in his closet was on. He walked to the open doors. Maria was on the floor in the corner. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, and her head rested against the wall. Raphael blinked, feet rooted where he stood. Maria looked up, and he saw that tears were streaming down her face. Raphael’s hands balled into fists. He glanced down at his tense fingers. He didn’t understand the fury that was taking hold. The haunted look in her eyes made him want to kill. The confusion that plagued his mind was bringing his anger to the edge. He needed to expel that anger. As Maria’s face crumpled and light sobs left her mouth, an unfamiliar sense of pain stabbed through his stomach. Raphael’s lungs froze; it wasn’t the type of pain he enjoyed. It didn’t make his dick twitch or his eyes roll back in pleasure.

It was an ache he couldn’t shift. He fucking hated it.

Raphael made a move to walk toward Maria, to order her to get up, dry her eyes, and get on his bed. But as he approached, as he reached down to take her in his arms, Maria met his eyes and whispered, “Red rose.” Raphael froze. “Red rose,” she repeated, her slim body sagging with a sadness Raphael couldn’t identify with, didn’t even understand.

Emotions were a void in his life.

Maria had spoken the safe words. Why had she done that? Why the fuck had she done that? His jaw clenched, and she held herself even tighter. “I need tonight. I need to not do anything with you tonight.”

Raphael had no idea what to do. What to say. His hands clenched into fists again. He needed her underneath him. He needed her screaming his name. He had had her every day, tasting her pussy and drinking down her screams. “Please,” she begged, tears falling down her cheeks.

Raphael backed away from the door. He tried to tell himself to stay calm, that he had given her those words for a reason. He didn’t want her unwillingly. It would only sour his seductive game. But as he reached the center of his room, a familiar red mist clouded his vision. She had rejected him. His little rose had spoken the safe words.

She had stopped him.

She was meant to love him.

But right now her face was sad, tears were falling down her cheeks. And he had no idea why. He couldn’t read people like this. Didn’t understand them. Why did people cry anyway?

He wanted to understand. The fact that he couldn’t, didn’t have the ability to, no matter how hard he tried, only made his anger worse.

The red mist’s talons spread, devouring his face and neck, arms and legs. It rushed through his torso until it smothered his heart in black and made it thirst for death. Hearing another sob slip from Maria’s mouth, Raphael fled the room.

He slammed the door and locked it, trapping Maria inside with her tears and her safe words. He didn’t even register fleeing down the stairs and out into the frigid cold air until he was behind the wheel of his car and driving toward downtown Boston.

The car was silent but for Raphael’s heavy breathing. He gripped the steering wheel tighter with every mile he drove. His gaze dropped to his hands, hands that now knew every inch of Maria, how her skin felt, how her nipples beaded under his touch. How her fingers felt wrapped in his. He gritted his teeth thinking of her in the corner of the closet. Shifting his grip, he squeezed until all he saw under his fingers was not a wheel but a neck.

He squeezed it so tight that if it were a neck he would have snapped it, crushed the trachea and distorted the bones. This he knew. This he understood.

This he craved.

He had to have it. Had to sate his hunger for death.

The countryside was a blur of dark greens as Raphael raced to the sex club. He parked his car in the alleyway outside the club, deep in the shadows. Raphael let his feet and his dark need lead him through the entrance. He flashed his card and rushed up the stairs. He didn’t even care if the Brethren would be watching. In fact, he hoped they were. He would welcome the fight. Raphael needed the rush only death could bring—the more necks snapped under his desperate hands the better.

The smell of sex and cum hit Raphael’s nose first. Smoke was heavy in the air, smoke that disguised people’s identities. People who paid a small fortune to be whipped and spanked and eaten out while tied up with ropes and chains. Raphael wasn’t playing his usual role tonight. He wasn’t calm and suave, casting seductive looks and luring willing pussy into his trap. Tonight he was savage. He was untamed and ready to fuck and kill and erase Maria from his head. Maria with her pouring tears, perfect long hair, and whispered pleas. Saying no to him and his mouth, his tongue, his hands on her body.

Raphael didn’t have to wait long to get what he wanted. The blond he was scheduled to kill weeks ago cut through the crowd, her eyes fixed on his. She was dressed in a leather bra and panties, her fake tits bursting through the straps that did nothing to conceal her figure. Her panties were made of two leather straps that wrapped around her inner thighs and hips. Her pussy was free and bare, her ass too. Raphael couldn’t even remember this bitch’s name. As she stood before him, her arrogant chin tilting up, she smiled. “Pollyanna not giving you what you want anymore?”

Raphael ignored her stupid words, reached out and cupped her naked pussy. It was already soaking wet. Good. Less work for him. With his other hand, Raphael gripped her stringy, peroxide-ruined hair. The strands were straw under his fingers. They were nothing like Maria’s. Hers were silky and thick and smelled of vanilla and rose. Bitterness and rage boiled in Raphael’s gut at the offensive smell of lavender. He yanked the bitch’s head back, relishing the surprise in her eyes. The trafficking slut moaned; she liked it rough. Perfect. So did he. Raphael waited for his cock to become strangled in its cage, coveted the sting and the burn the cage would push onto him. But it didn’t even stir. Not even a flicker.

In that moment he gave himself over to the rage threatening to consume him.

Even through his red lust, Raphael saw they were pulling in a curious crowd. Members waiting to watch him bring this bitch to heel. To make her scream, wound her leathery skin, before fucking her so hard she wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. He knew he had to get her to a back room. Gabriel’s teachings about stealth and privacy were too ingrained for him to forget.

With his hand still in her hair, Raphael pulled the bitch, mewling and moaning at his aggressive dominance, through the disappointed crowd and into a private room. Raphael slammed the door and dragged the bitch over to the wooden horse that sat in the center. The triangular device was perfect for what he wanted. He lifted her onto it, her legs straddling either side, and chained her hands to its attached shackle. He tied weights to her ankles to keep her in place. Pushing a ball gag into her mouth, he stepped away and stared at her back. The skin was still red from where someone else had flogged her.

Raphael walked to the wall of flogs and whips and picked out the thin leather strap. He cracked it in his hand, the deafening snap echoing off the walls. The bitch moaned at the sound and her hips rolled, pushing her clit against the pointed wood between her legs.

“Red rose,” Raphael bit out. “‘Red rose’ to stop.” Just hearing those words slip from his lips drove his need to kill harder and harder, until death was all he could think and see and breathe. Though he had no intention of stopping; the safe words, this time, were useless. This bitch wouldn’t be leaving the room alive. Raphael smirked. She trafficked little kids to men for sex. His hand tightened on the strap. Raphael was a killer, a fucked-up heathen with an endless black hole as a heart and a Satan-tainted soul. But even he, evil made flesh, knew this cunt deserved to die for messing with kids. He knew all too well what that life felt like. She need to die.

Painfully.

Brutally.

Perish under his sadistic hands.

The bitch nodded her agreement of the safe word. But in her eyes was excitement, not the shyness or meekness that lay in Maria’s blue gaze. Raphael’s jaw clenched just remembering Maria. Then he thought of her tears. Those fucking tears he didn’t understand but made his stomach ache. “No,” he hissed to himself, forcing himself to push Maria from his head.

He wound the strap around his hand three times, and his lip curled in anger. It felt nothing like Maria’s hair wrapped around his palm. “Fuck!” he screamed as Maria invaded his head again.

Raphael’s always calm hands began to shake as he recalled Maria fisting the bedsheets as he ate at her pussy, drinking down her addictive cum. Roaring out loud, he slammed the strap across the bitch’s back. It landed with a crack. She cried out, and Raphael watched a welt burst on her too-tan skin. Her deafening scream soared to his groin. He hit her again. He pictured Maria on the wooden horse. Her crying, pushing him away. She needed to be punished. He hit her again and again until the slut threw her head back and she came, rubbing her clit on the wooden horse. He stilled. The bitch’s cry of ecstasy was nothing like Maria’s. It wasn’t breathless or soft. It was crass and loud and grated on his fucking nerves.

Raphael threw the whip aside. He pulled down the zipper on his pants and took out his soft cock. He moved it to the bitch’s mouth. “Lick it,” he ordered. “Make it hard.” The bitch moaned in excitement, her cheeks flushing, hungry, starving for his dick. She smiled when she saw the cage that kept his huge cock contained.

“Mm,” she moaned. “Yes.” Raphael fed his soft cock to her waiting mouth. His jaw clenched when her tongue slipped out and licked along his slit. He stared down at her mouth and experienced tongue. But the more she licked, the softer he got. His free hand fisted at his side, then reached out and gripped her hair. He rammed his dick into her mouth, making her take it all, hard and unyielding. Her hips rolled again, her barely spent clit searching for another chance to come. He thrust into her mouth, faster and faster. Waiting for the cage’s silicone bars to squeeze his flesh until a pit of agony swallowed him whole, pushing him into delicious darkness. But he felt nothing. His balls didn’t ache. No blood rushed to his groin.

He wasn’t even getting hard.

“No!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the padded walls in the room.

Yanking his cock back, he released the bitch from the horse and pulled her by her hair to the wall. “Wait there,” he ordered. The bitch licked her lips, her pupils blown with anticipation. Raphael took a dildo from a drawer and pointed to the rubber-coated bed in the corner of the room. “Lie down.” She did. He handed her the dildo. “Fuck yourself.” Raphael pulled his shirt apart, the buttons dropping to the ground. He took hold of his cock and squeezed as he watched the dildo slip inside her wet hole. She started off slow, teasing, but it only turned him off even more. “Faster. Make yourself come.” The bitch did as he said, fucking herself like she needed cock as much as she needed to breathe. Raphael pumped his cock at the same pace, but fuck all was happening. The red mist that had been controlling him since he left the manor built and built until he was nothing but pulsating, walking rage. He edged closer to the whore and yanked her hand and the dildo out of the way. The dildo hit the floor. Raphael lined up his cock with her hole.

“Finally,” the bitch hissed, spreading her legs as far as they could go.

Raphael wrapped his hand around her neck. Her pulse was racing under his thumb, beating so fast it was jumping from her skin. But his cock showed no flicker of life. Nothing. His tip ran down her slit, and he roared in rage. It was her fault. It was the little rose’s fault. He needed to fuck. To kill.

It was all her fault for ruining him. For the tears. Why the fuck had she been crying?

“Fuck me already.”

Raphael stilled, his thoughts wrenched away from Maria’s pretty pale face and the freckles on her nose, and he was brought back to this room. To this bitch who was pressing her rancid pussy against his cock.

“Fuck me,” she hissed. “Or I’ll get someone who will. Someone who can actually get it up.”

Raphael smiled slowly. But it was anything but friendly. Raphael squeezed at the bitch’s throat. She moaned. But he kept going. He squeezed her neck tighter and tighter, watching the veins begin to rise under her skin. Her eyes widened when she tried to breathe. But Raphael kept smiling, coldly, triumphantly. Taking his hand from his dead cock, he brought his fingers to her neck and smothered her every bit of skin. The bitch began to struggle. And for the first time that night, a bolt of something hit his groin. But it wasn’t enough to make his cock swell. It wasn’t enough to fuck this bitch as she fought to live. He squeezed and squeezed, her eyes growing bloodshot with the pressure. Her hands slammed to his forearms, her long red nails raking at his skin, trying to prize him off. Scratches on his flesh sliced open, blood sprouting to the top. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Had no intention of fucking stopping.

“Die,” he rasped, and he saw the moment his words registered with the slut. “Die, trafficking bitch.” Raphael laughed when her legs started to flail, when she tried to buck him off, her eyes widening at his words. Her hands were frantic as she scratched and clawed, as she tried to break free. Her face grew bright red. Raphael squeezed harder and harder . . . then with a crack, her bones snapped and he felt her trachea collapse.

The bitch’s eyes were locked on him; they would never blink again. Raphael panted and caught his lost breath. Releasing her from his grip, he glanced down at his cock. It was still soft. Fury like nothing he had ever felt engulfed him. He pulled up his pants, stuffed his cock into them, and grabbed hold of the still-warm dead bitch on the bed.

Raphael headed for the back door and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway that led out into the alley. Once outside unseen, he threw the bitch in his trunk. He was on the road and heading back to the manor in minutes. But his blood was too fast and too hot as it rushed through his veins. Lava was all he was made of. He made a fist and sent it plunging into his dick. His jaw clenched, but there was no reaction. No hardening. Slamming his hand on the steering wheel, Raphael released a deafening growl. His foot pressed on the gas, and he soared out of the downtown streets. In the back of his mind he told himself to calm down. Gabriel would kill him himself for going too fast and potentially drawing the attention of the cops. But Raphael didn’t give a fuck. Right now he was nothing but fire and frustration, motherfucking flames. He tried to picture the bitch struggling for breath, her eyes when he’d told her to die. He should have been rock hard. Should have been able to sink his dick into her overused pussy and come perfectly in time with her very last breath.

But he hadn’t. All he could think of was Maria. Maria with her long blond hair and innocent gasps of pleasure. Her tears. Her fucking tears that he didn’t understand.

“Bitch!” he snarled. “Little rose BITCH!” Raphael’s car skidded as he pulled to an abrupt stop outside of the manor. He flew out of the car, grabbing his camera from the glove compartment. Yanking open the trunk, he aimed the camera at the dead bitch and took the picture that would be joining his wall. He tossed the camera into the back seat, pocketed the Polaroid, and raced up the stone steps. The minute he was through the door, he made for the stairs.

“Raphe, your order has arrived.” Sela was smiling at him. Raphael ignored him. “It’s fucking beautiful, brother.” Sela frowned, then looked down at Raphael’s clothes. But Raphael didn’t stop. He had made it only a few steps when he met Gabriel walking down. For the first time in years, the sight of Gabriel’s priest’s shirt fucking offended him. Raphael tried to brush past him, but Gabriel got directly in his path. His brother’s blue eyes drank him in. Gabriel studied Raphael’s open shirt, his clawed arms and chest and cheeks. Blood. The bitch had drawn blood all over his skin.

“Where have you been?” he asked, his voice stern.

Raphael smiled coldly, his cheeks aching with the forced pleasantry. “The bitch is dead.”

“You killed her already? Then why didn’t we celebrate?” Bara was at the bottom of the stairs. All of his brothers were there, looking up at him with confused faces. Apart from Michael, who just regarded him plainly, as usual.

Turning back to Gabriel, Raphael said, “The trafficking bitch is dead.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “You went back to the club? I told you not to go back. The Brethren⸻”

“I don’t care what you said. The cunt is dead. Contract fulfilled.” Raphael held up his car keys. “She’s in the trunk of my car.”

“Give me the keys,” Sela said, his face hard and voice deep. “I want her before she goes to the crematorium.”

Raphael threw the keys at his brother. He could have her. Cut her up and do with her what the hell he wanted with her ugly parts.

“I wanna see too,” Uriel said, and he, Bara, Sela, Michael, and Diel all raced out of the front door.

“You were forbidden to return to the club,” Gabriel said. “They could have seen you. They could have captured you—”

“They didn’t,” Raphael said through gritted teeth.

“That’s not the point—”

Raphael went to push past Gabriel to get to his room, but his brother grabbed his arm. Raphael set the anger that was firing his every move free and slammed Gabriel against the wall. Hs hand slipped to his brother’s neck. Gabriel’s shocked eyes met his.

“Leave me the fuck alone, brother, and don’t touch me without my permission. I killed the bitch. And now I’m going to my room to get back to Maria. Don’t get in my way ever again.” Raphael threw Gabriel aside, feeling his brother’s shocked eyes on his back as he climbed the stairs and rushed to his room.

The second he was in his suite, he locked the doors and moved to the secret door that faded into the wall. He pushed through, shutting the door behind him and flicking on the lights. He moved to the printer, scanned the Polaroid, and printed out a larger copy. He pinned it on his wall. With the pen that sat beside the printer, he wrote the words “bitch” and “kid trafficker” beside the picture of her dead face, eyes wide open for eternity. Throwing the pen down, Raphael was about to leave the room when he stared at the shrine. At the gilded frame that awaited Maria’s picture.

How perfect she was going to look.

His anger dipped as he walked over and, in his head, saw her captured image. The candles would be lit, a rose would sit in the vase. She would be so beautiful in death.

But the image was distorted when tears fell from her eyes and down her cheeks, ruining the imagined picture. Her bottom lip trembled and her skin drained of color. “No,” he hissed, fists clenching. “No!”

Raphael stormed from the room and raced into the bathroom. He threw off his clothes and stared at himself in the mirror. His muscles were strained, and his traps were high from the tension flowing through his body. He fisted his cock over the cage and squeezed. His golden eyes were fixed on his reflection. But nothing was happening. He pulled and tugged and hit his balls. But nothing worked. No blood. No constriction. No pain. He couldn’t get hard without fucking pain!

Raphael turned the shower as high and as hot as it would go. Scalding water pelted his head, washing the taste of the trafficking bitch’s putrid pussy from his fingers and body. Then he stepped back, hair slicked over his forehead and face, and directed the red-hot water over his dick. He threw back his head and groaned as the water scalded his skin, but when he looked down, he wasn’t hard. He backed away from the shower and stumbled, dripping wet, along the tile floor.

What was fuck was happening?

Raphael curled his hands into fists and let his building rage loose. He swiped his arm along the top of his drawers, sending bottles and the mirror crashing to the ground. He yanked out the drawers, his clothes flying across the room and the wooden drawers smashing against the wall. He walked to the fireplace and threw his fist into the picture above it. He did it again, and again and again until his hand was bloodied and the plaster of the old wall underneath collapsed.

He didn’t hear Maria come up behind him. He didn’t see her watching him destroy his rooms. He didn’t even think of her until a gentle hand landed on his back. Raphael swung around, seeing nothing but death before him. Maria’s tear-stained face broke through his fog. “You,” he snarled darkly, and stalked toward her. Maria stumbled back, trying to get out of his path. But Raphael was in a fury, unhinged, one rush of anger from killing anyone who dared get in his way. Maria’s back hit a wall, and he crowded where she stood. “It’s your fault.” He squeezed his defective dick. Maria’s eyes moved down to his hand. “You cried,” he growled, slamming his hand against the wall above her head. “You were crying and said ‘red rose.’ Why were you fucking crying?”

Raphael stepped back and smacked his cock again, but nothing happened. His flesh wasn’t expanding and pressing against the cage. The agony he needed didn’t come. Raphael’s legs weakened, and he had to hold onto the bedpost to keep upright. He tried to breathe, to keep his composure. But this was who he was. He killed and he fucked. He fucked and he killed. They were synonymous to him. One didn’t exist without the other. He pictured hands around necks and scratches on his skin. Pain. Always pain. It had always been pain. The whips . . . the lashes . . . being held down and—

Raphael’s head snapped back as a burst of pleasure shot through his body like a bullet to his heart. He sucked in a quick breath and felt his cock spring to life and push against the silicone cage. Raphael’s hands dug into the wood of the bedpost . . . and he looked down.

“Maria . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice cut like shattered shards of glass. Raphael’s eyes grew leaden at the sight of Maria’s small, delicate hand holding his cock, the flesh swelling second by second. She didn’t move her hand. Just held his dick still as if it would burn her if she stroked it. As though feeling his eyes on her, Maria looked up, her gaze nervous and her skin pale. Her hand shook. But the familiar warmth that Raphael craved was ushering out the panic from his body. “Keep it there,” Raphael ordered as he gripped the bedpost tighter. Maria didn’t move her fingers, just let his cock fill its cage and her hand until the pain Raphael needed began pulsing in his groin, bolts of lightning splintering up his spine.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, but when the strength returned to his legs, he sat back on the edge of the mattress. Maria went to move her hand, but Raphael reached out and kept it in place on him. He spread his legs and closed his eyes. Maria’s touch was warm—the perfect contradiction to the constrictive pain of the cage.

“I don’t know what to do.” Maria’s timid voice sailed into his ears.

Raphael opened his eyes to the sight of Maria before him, her white dress that showed her body’s small curves, and the yellow rose he had put in her hair that morning. Her hair was soft and smooth and fell in a blond waterfall over her shoulders and back. “Squeeze,” he ordered, his low voice revealing how little control he retained. “Squeeze as tightly as you can.”

A quick exhale leaped from Maria’s shocked, parted lips. Raphael’s eyes were on her, never looking away, as he said, “I order you to squeeze my cock as hard as you can. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Maria said, casting her shining eyes down, like the good little submissive she was. Her cheeks blushed, telling Raphael she wanted this. Wanted to touch him and make him come.

“Now,” he demanded. Maria’s fingers began to grip his length harder. Raphael hissed as the familiar needles of pressure began to gather in his balls. “Harder.” He bit down on his lip. Blood burst into his mouth, but he drank it down. Blood and pain and the feel of Maria choking his cock was paradise. “Harder. Harder!” he repeated as Maria’s hand began to shake with exertion. “HARDER!” Maria wrapped her second hand around him. His little rose suffocated him with all the strength she had.

But he needed to be on top of her. He needed her small body beneath him. Reaching out, Raphael yanked on Maria’s arm and pulled her down to the bed. He straddled her waist and hiked up her dress until it bared her pussy and her stomach. “Grab me. Choke me. Strangle the fuck out of my cock,” he snarled. Maria obeyed his harshly spoken order, gripping hard with both hands. When her grasp was almost bruising, Raphael leaned forward, one of his hands on either side of her head. She was panting as fast as he, and her cheeks were flushed. Her pupils were dilated as she watched his face. Watched the hedonistic pain cut through his body like a million daggers being plunged into his skin. “Move your hand. Rub me up and down. Jerk my cock.” Raphael leaned down and licked along Maria’s cheek, down to her chin, and then over her bottom lip. She released a soft moan. “Strangle my cock, little rose. Make it pay for failing me.” Maria pumped her hand up and down over the silicone cage. Raphael’s head rolled back and his eyes closed. Maria worked him faster, her grip tightened, and the cage began to constrict around him. His balls were starved of blood, and his cock’s head began to pulse with the asphyxiation of his flesh. Maria’s touch was frenzied as Raphael’s body thrived off the pain, every muscle throbbing, needing the relief only his release could bring. Then his jaw clenched, and, swallowing the blood that was trickling from his sliced lip, Raphael roared and came. His neck strained and his eyes snapped open, watching the white streams of his release decorate Maria’s unblemished stomach. Twitching, still coming, Raphael tilted his hips until his final spurts of semen coated Maria’s bare pussy. He groaned when Maria’s hole clenched as the cum hit her.

Raphael’s eyes were fixated on the cum covering Maria’s half-naked body. He groaned, then reached forward, rubbing the semen into her stomach. A carnal, primitive need drove him on. Made him rub and rub until his release had soaked into her skin. Then his hand moved lower, over her navel and over her hips. Maria’s breath hitched at his touch. When Raphael reached between her legs, he spread his cum onto her clit, then dropped to her hole. His eyes met hers and he slid his finger inside. Maria moaned loudly as he pushed his release inside her. A wave of ownership and possessiveness, so strong it made his chest ache, engulfed him. He pumped his finger inside her until there was no cum left on her body. Raphael withdrew his finger, and, making sure Maria was watching, her blue stare fixed on him, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked the combination of him and her off his skin.

Maria gasped. Heart pounding and pulse racing, Raphael lowered his mouth and licked along Maria’s inner thigh, along her pussy, and over her hips. His licked her stomach, lapping her navel—all of the places his cum had stained. He crawled above her, putting his hands on either side of her head. Raphael stared down at her face, at the innocent eyes looking back. At the pale tear-stained skin and freckles kissing her nose. “What have you done?” he rasped, shaking his head. “What the fuck have you done, little rose?” Exhaustion wrapped itself around him, pulling at his eyes to close and give his body rest. Raphael dropped beside Maria and took her hair in his hands. He lay on the mattress and stared at her pretty face.

He hadn’t been able to fuck.

He loved to kill and fuck. He lived for it. Was nothing without it.

Little Maria had interfered with his fun. His very purpose in life.

Raphael kept his eyes on her as he wound her hair around his hand. Excitement swirled in his stomach at the thought of eventually wrapping the silken strands around her neck. At fucking her as she whispered his name . . .

She was it for him until this was all over.

Like the little rose she was, she was blooming under his touch, his forceful instruction. Then, when it was time, she would wilt and die, petals falling, taking her pretty breaths and heartbeats with her. Raphael inhaled, sleep coming to claim him.

As he closed his eyes, he saw her in her coffin, clutching long stems in her hands, red rose petals crowning her head.

Raphael smiled.

What a sweet and decadent sight that would be.

Chapter Eleven

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.

Chapter Twelve

“It’s perfect.”

Raphael ran his hands over the clear glass. It was sturdy and heavy. He closed the lid and peered inside. A rush of excitement flooded his chest.

“No changes?” Sela asked, standing back to let Raphael inspect the coffin.

“No.” He shook his head. He could see it as plain as day. Could see Maria lying inside, dressed in white, roses in her hands and hair. “Have it brought to my rooms.”

Sela clapped Raphael on the back. “You getting close?”

Raphael tensed, his eyes still locked on the coffin. It had arrived. He had fucked Maria. Everything was falling into place. He should be close. But when he thought of the past week, having Maria in his bed every night, sinking inside her whenever he wanted, her moaning his name and crying out as she came, he felt a strange kind of hollowness in his stomach.

“Close,” he replied, and Sela smiled wide.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, brother.”

Raphael walked out of the room and climbed the stairs. He stopped on the threshold of his room. Maria sat at the window, staring outside. Her hair cascaded down her back. Today’s rose was pink. His chest tightened when he looked at her, and he cocked his head in confusion. The tightness came more and more these days. When he looked at her. When he came inside her . . . when she stood before him naked.

Something had changed in Maria since they’d fucked. She was different with him somehow. Her fear of him seemed to have waned. She touched him more. She smiled at him. She touched his face.

She kissed him.

Kissing . . . Raphael could still feel her mouth on his from that morning. He kissed Maria often. His cock stirred when he thought of her mouth on his. She had never been kissed before him. But what his little rose hadn’t known was that neither had he. Raphael fucked. He killed and he strangled. He never kissed. It was a mundane and useless exercise.

But he liked kissing Maria.

He’d become addicted to kissing Maria. He liked the way she moaned against his mouth. Liked the way she tasted. Liked the way her body went weak at his touch. Liked the way she looked afterward, her eyes dazed and pupils blown . . . worshipping him like he was her god.

He wanted to be her god. He needed to be her everything.

Raphael cut across the room, his feet silent on the carpet. When he reached the window where Maria sat, he pushed his hand into her hair and pulled her head back. Maria’s eyes clashed with Raphael’s. The hunger and need he saw there made him groan and crush his mouth to hers. He sank his tongue in deep. His little rose was addictive. He couldn’t get enough. He fucked her any chance he got and she loved it. Welcomed his every move. He wanted to spend a lifetime eating her pussy, fucking her hole, and making her come. But more than that, he wanted her hands on his scarred back, brushing over the brand on his chest. He wanted her arm over his waist while she slept, her head tucked into his neck.

“What are you looking at?” Hand still in her hair, he looked out of his window. It overlooked the front of the estate: the manicured grounds, fountains, and hedge maze. Even though it was cold outside, it was sunny and bright.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been outside. Since I’ve breathed in fresh air. Since I’ve felt the sun on my face.” Maria sighed. “I understand why I’m to stay in your rooms, my lord. I just . . . I just miss outside. I was always outside; I took a walk every day before I came here.” Maria smiled sadly. “After all those months in the coffin . . . I’m not so good at always being inside.”

Something pulled in Raphael’s gut. He dropped down opposite her on the window seat and watched her eyes drink in the vast gardens. When Maria turned to face him, she smiled. He released a quick breath at the sight. Her smile was debilitating to him of late.

Raphael got to his feet. “Get up.” Maria frowned but did as he said. She no longer looked at the ground when she was around him. None of his kills or lovers had ever had the audacity to look him in the eyes, not without severe punishment. She was breaking one of his main rules.

But he allowed it. He didn’t know why. He reasoned it was because if she trusted him, she would give herself to him more easily.

That must have been it.

Raphael walked to the closet, pulling Maria behind him by the hand. He took out a hoodie and sweatpants and handed them to her. “Dress in these.”

“Yes, my lord.” Maria, the perfect submissive, took them from his hand and dropped her dress to the floor. It took all his self-restraint not to fuck her right there against the window. But when Maria looked up at him through her long lashes, Raphael pushed her against the wall and devoured her mouth. He held her hands above her head with one hand and ran his fingers along her pussy with the other. He plunged his finger inside, swallowing her moans as she rolled her hips at his touch. His rose was a needy little woman, desperate for the pleasure only he could bring her. Raphael ripped his mouth from Maria’s, leaving her lips swollen and red. Making sure she kept his gaze, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked on the digit. Maria exhaled through parted lips.

Raphael released her. “Dress,” he said tightly. Maria did, although her legs shook. Pride filled Raphael’s veins at knowing it was his touch that did it. He kissed her again, tasting her on his tongue.

When Maria was dressed, he glanced to her feet. “I’ll be right back.” Raphael went to Lynn in the kitchen and asked to borrow her sneakers. She had an unopened box that she gave him. When he returned to Maria, he handed her the sneakers. “Hopefully they’ll fit.”

Maria put on the shoes and smiled. Raphael felt that smile down to his bones. “They’re perfect.”

Raphael took her hand and led her to the door. Her feet faltered when he opened it and pulled her into the hallway. He saw the shock on her face, but it was the following expression of excitement that made his heart beat faster. He led her along the hallways and down the stairs until they arrived at the back door. The second the door was open, the cold wind wrapped around Maria’s long hair. Raphael was a statue, captured in stillness at the sight of Maria smiling, tipping her head up toward the sun, her long hair blowing across her face . . . wrapping around her neck.

When she finally looked at him, he slowly took her down the graveled path that led to the gardens she had been staring at only minutes ago. They arrived on the terrace that overlooked the fountains and maze, and she sighed.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. Her cheek was ice cold against his.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she whispered. “So peaceful. Like paradise.”

Maria silently watched the wind blow through the trees. Raphael kissed along her neck, her cheeks, and around the shell of her ear. “You have permission to speak freely,” he murmured. “Until I tell you otherwise.” Maria turned her head, and the smile she wore made his dick stir. Raphael growled. “Here’s a tip, little rose. If you want to stay outside awhile, don’t smile at me like that.” He held her tighter. “Or I’ll take you back inside and fuck you. And you’ll never get outside again.” Raphael released Maria when he felt her body shake at his threat. He didn’t release her because she was scared. But because he saw the lust in her eyes. That look was a match to his already lit flame.

Maria walked to the stone barrier of the terrace. “Do you come out here often?” Raphael’s head tipped to the side at the sound of Maria speaking without command. Her voice sounded softer somehow, more . . . alive. When he didn’t answer, she turned to face him. Raphael nodded. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He didn’t recognize the buzz cutting through his body as he watched her. He didn’t know if he liked it. Maria nodded at his silent reply. “I’d practically live out here if this was my home. These stunning grounds . . .”

Her home . . . Raphael couldn’t move past that thought. Her home . . .

Stalking to where she stood in her baggy clothes and sneakers, he took her hand and guided her down the stone stairs to the gravel path that led to the maze and fountain. Maria squeezed his hand when they approached the fountain, the sound of water filling the surrounding air. They passed the maze, and Raphael wasn’t sure whether he would show her the greenhouse until they arrived at the door. Her hand tightened in his. An unfamiliar sense of doubt ran through him.

As if she could feel it, Maria hugged his arm and asked, “What is this place?”

Raphael clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Only he ever came in here. Not even his brothers touched this place. They knew better than to intrude. It was his and his alone. “Raphael?” The sound of his name made his eyes open and his gaze latch onto Maria. She is here. I want her inside. Without responding to her, Raphael unlocked the door and led her inside.

The heat of the greenhouse hit them first, a stark contrast to the blistering cold outside. Maria gasped when she saw what lay before her. Raphael hung back, releasing Maria’s hand as she walked slowly along the narrow path before them.

“Raphael,” she said, awed. Looking over her shoulder at him, she smiled wide. “Roses.” A lump formed in Raphael’s throat as she held out her hand and ran it carefully over the blooming petals. Over the roses grown by his hands.

Raphael made his feet move and followed her along the path, watching every single move she made. Maria turned and asked, “What is this place, my lord?”

Raphael swallowed the heaviness in his throat and touched the Eternity red rose that was fully bloomed. “Roses,” he rasped. “My rose garden.”

“Yours?” Maria said breathlessly, shock lacing her tone.

Raphael smiled. Maria’s cheeks bloomed almost as red as the flower still cupped in his fingers. “Mine.”

Maria looked around the garden. “You grow these yourself?”

Raphael kneeled down and checked the health of the stems and the soil in the ground. “Mmm,” he replied. His finger ran over the vibrant red petals. “I grow them from seed. I nurture them. I aid them to grow.” He looked at Maria. She had moved closer, as though drawn in by his gentle voice. Looking back to the rose, Raphael held the head in his fingers and moved it from side to side, checking its condition. It was perfect. “I guide it to bloom, bring it to life . . .” He dropped his hand to the stem and plucked the rose from the bush, ripping it from its home. He stood and turned to Maria, towering over her. “Then I cut them from their source.” Raphael took the pink rose from Maria’s hair and tossed it to the ground. He stared at the pink flower then pressed his boot over it, grinding it into the gravel path. When he stepped away, its petals were crushed and ruined. His eyes flared and his chest filled with satisfaction. Raphael tucked the Eternity rose behind Maria’s ear. The color suited her much better. “I make them all pretty as death begins to close in.” Raphael placed his finger under Maria’s chin and tilted it so she was looking right into his eyes. “Then it wilts and dies, losing its prettiness, its reason for living.” Maria sucked in a breath. He moved his cotton-wrapped finger to her pulse and felt it racing. “But there’s no sadness. The rose served its purpose, pleasing me for as long as it was alive.” Maria held her breath, eyes wide. Raphael ran his thumb down her soft cheek. “Then I start again. I replant. And wait for another to grow. The cycle starts again.”

Maria swallowed. Raphael bent his head and pressed his lips against hers. “Mmm,” he murmured. “You always taste so sweet, little rose.” He released her and walked along the path. He’d had yet to visit the garden that day. Raphael busied himself with checking the budding bushes, with monitoring the temperature and the filtration systems. When his eyes found Maria again, she was watching him closely.

His head cocked to the side. “Which is your favorite, little rose?”

A hint of a smile pulled on Maria’s lips. Raphael’s heart beat in a steady rhythm as he watched her close in on a particular rose. She looked up at him. “This,” she said. “This is my favorite.”

Raphael paused for a moment, a distant, stabbing pain piercing his heart. He cleared his throat and pushed the feeling away. He walked over to Maria. “The white rose.” She smiled and nodded her head.

“It’s so delicate. So beautiful. It makes me feel . . .” She shrugged. “At peace, I suppose.”

“It’s the rose of purity. Of chastity.” Maria’s cheeks flushed. He cut the rose and turned to face her. “It’s also the rose of death.” Heat rushed to his groin. He bit his lip as he pictured Maria in the coffin, holding a bouquet of the most perfect white roses. Maria bowed her head, escaping his gaze. His attention moved back to the white rose. “It was my mother’s favorite too.” Raphael’s finger gently ran over the white petals. But in his mind, he saw only a smashed vase and white petals being consumed by red blood. He heard the echo of screaming and shouting and—

Raphael crushed the white rose in his hand, destroying it. Its ruined petals tumbled to the floor, but he still held the thorny stem in his hand.

She placed her hand on his arm. Raphael looked down and went to yank his arm away. “Raphael,” she murmured.

“Against the wall,” Raphael ordered, voice strict and unyielding. Maria’s eyes seemed to fill with something . . . something Raphael didn’t recognize. Her eyes seemed . . . sad? Maybe. But before he could be sure, Maria walked to the nearby wall, taking her confusing look away. “Hands on the glass.”

Maria did as he told her. “Yes, my lord.” Her subservience caused his cock to fill with blood. The cage pulled tight around his flesh, turning him on even more, as always. Raphael stalked to where Maria stood. He wasn’t going to wait. He needed to fuck. He needed the white petals covered in blood, lying lifeless in the smashed vase, out of his head. Raphael pulled Maria’s sweatpants down by her ankles. He lifted the sweatshirt and bared her ass to his ravenous eyes. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip at the perfect sight.

Maria’s breathing was heavy. Raphael pulled his cock from his jeans, forgetting the stem still clutched in his hand. He pushed the tip of his dick between her legs. She was already wet. His little rose was always so wet and ready for him. Circling his arm around her waist, Raphael lined up his dick and slammed inside. Maria cried out, but like the good little submissive she was, kept her hands flat against the glass of the greenhouse’s wall. Raphael wasn’t gentle. He fucked her hard and fast. His chest grew tighter when the picture of those bloodied white roses wouldn’t leave his head. Maria moaned, and in minutes he felt her pussy contracting around his cock.

Her head tipped back and rested on his shoulder. Raphael looked down at her bared neck, at the offering, and wrapped his hand around it. That was all it took for him to roar his release, the pain of the cage still on his cock making him come in endless hot streams. He pressed his hand tighter around Maria’s throat. Her eyes met his, and the sight of that blue gaze, her offered neck, and his hand around her throat made him a savage. The wave of pure possessiveness that controlled him had him lowering his head and wrapping his lips around the skin on her neck. He sucked and sucked, leaving red mark after red mark on her pale skin. His thrusts still slammed into her, until he pulled out, breathless and having left a tapestry of bite marks on his little rose’s neck.

Maria’s head fell forward as she caught her breath. Raphael pushed her hair aside and kissed along her shoulders. He kissed her cheeks. Spinning her around, his dick still out and her pants around her ankles, he cupped her face. Her cheeks were red from pleasure; he knew his were too. He couldn’t catch his breath. Seeing the marks on her neck and his cum on her thighs, he couldn’t calm. Raphael smashed his lips to Maria’s. He ate at her mouth, ravished her lips, and dueled with her tongue.

He tore his mouth away on a gasp, groaning when he saw the red rose tucked behind Maria’s ear. “I can’t get enough of you, little rose.” His stomach flipped when a shy smile began to grow on her lips.

He groaned again and kissed her once more. When he went to tuck himself back into his jeans, he saw blood on her inner thigh. His hands faltered. “Are you hurt?” he said, dropping to his knees and running his hands over Maria’s thighs, smothering the faint trickle of blood.

“My lord,” Maria whispered. But Raphael was too busy searching for blood or marks. The cage. Was it the cage? It hadn’t hurt her before. Raphael froze when Maria placed her hands on his cheeks. He glanced up. His eyes widened, instant shock rendering him motionless. He was on his knees. He never got to his knees for anyone. Never again, not since . . .

Raphael let Maria guide his head upward to meet her eyes. Her hands were warm on his face. “I’m not hurt,” she assured him. “It was a thorn from the stem you still held. Just a small cut.” Raphael dropped the stem and laid his hands on her hips, his fingers traveling to the scars on her back. Her breathing hitched as his fingers traced the ruined skin. “I’m not hurt,” she repeated. “Stand, my lord.”

He was on his knees. He was on his knees . . . He’d vowed to never get on his knees for anyone ever again . . .

“Stand.” Raphael bristled at the command, yet he found himself obeying. His body moved to Maria’s softly spoken order.

His legs and arms began to shake. He’d dropped to his motherfucking knees! Everything assaulted his senses at once. The roses, the greenhouse, the white petals . . . Maria issuing him an order . . . him obeying. He inhaled sharply when Maria’s careful hands tucked his dick back into his jeans. She pulled up her pants and threaded her hand through his. “Let’s go back to the room.”

Raphael nodded numbly and, for once in his adult life, let someone else lead the way. Maria walked beside him, her hand never breaking from his as they crossed the gardens, entered the house, and returned to Raphael’s rooms. Maria locked the doors, then smiled at him, bringing their joined hands to his heart. He didn’t understand the empty feeling in his chest. The pit in his stomach. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t get the image of the blood-coated white roses from his head. He didn’t understand why his hands were shaking.

“Let’s take a bath.”

Raphael stared at Maria. They had never done anything like that before. They had never bathed or showered together. They fucked and he dominated. She did as she was told. “Come, my lord,” Maria said in a soft, enticing voice. Raphael followed her, an unlikely slave to her commands.

Maria broke from his hand only to run the bath. He glanced at himself in the mirror as the room began to fill with steam and the scent of vanilla from the bath foam Maria had poured into the water. His face looked pale . . . but it was his eyes that shocked him most. He didn’t recognize the look in his own eyes. They were wide. They were dull.

What the fuck was happening?

He looked down when he felt Maria unbuttoning his shirt. He swallowed as he watched her. His stomach swirled. She pulled the shirt off his arms and unbuttoned his pants. She rolled them down his legs and off his feet. Raphael watched, absolutely still, as Maria shed her clothes until she stood before him naked. She turned off the faucet, then held out her hand. Raphael placed his hand in hers, the strange numbness still in his bones. Only when they reached the edge of the large bath did he pull her to a stop. Maria turned his way, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Raphael reached for the rose in her hair. Taking it in his hands, he pulled at the petals, destroying the head. He threw the petals in the bathwater, watching as they floated on the top. He tossed the remainder of the flower to the floor and stepped into the hot water.

Raphael held his hand out to Maria, and she joined him. He sat down, the hot water blanketing his body. Maria sat opposite, facing him. Tendrils of wet hair curled over her neck. The bottom of her hair dipped into the water.

“Turn around,” Raphael said, and she did, pressing her back against Raphael’s chest. He moved her hair from her neck and kissed the bites he had made. The wave of possessiveness the bites caused was overwhelming. He owned his little rose. These bites showed the world that truth. Marked her as his.

Taking the sponge from the basket on the bath’s ledge, Raphael dipped it into the water and squeezed it over Maria’s hair. She tipped her head back and sighed in approval. Raphael was slow as he washed her hair, massaging his hands into the thick strands. The room filled with the sound of his voice when he began to hum the nursery rhyme that he always sung as he washed Maria’s hair. She melted against him. When the last of the shampoo and conditioner were out of her hair, he guided her back against his chest. He inhaled the vanilla and rose scent. As Raphael looked down at Maria’s naked body, flush against his, he watched red rose petals gather around her stomach.

His thoughts drifted back to the greenhouse. He picked up a petal and held it in his hands. Maria watched his every move. “Why do you like roses so much, my lord?”

Not taking his gaze off the petal in his hand, he said, “My mother was a botanist. She worked at the Arnold Arboretum.” Raphael spoke with no emotion in his voice. He didn’t feel any emotion to express. Maria asked him a question. So he answered it.

“She did?” Maria whispered.

Raphael became lost to fractured memories, and his vision blurred. “She always brought them home to have around the house.” He tried to grab onto the distant memory of a dark-haired woman leading him to the garden at the back of their house to tend to the rose bushes. Raphael felt the velvet texture of the petal in his fingers and remembered feeling them when he was young.

Maria inhaled a shaky breath. “My mom did too. Have them around the house, I mean. Red roses . . .” She smiled. From his position Raphael could just see her mouth. Her smile wasn’t as wide as it usually was. “Every time I see a rose, I’m reminded of her. Sometimes the sight pains me if I’m having a bad day. If I’m missing her more than usual.”

Raphael dropped the petal and watched it drift away into a mass of bubbles. “He strangled her,” Raphael said, the memory expressed as though the topic weren’t a tragedy. Maria turned her head, and her blue eyes clashed with his. Her mouth opened, then closed. Raphael stroked his finger down her cheek and down to her neck. He focused on the delicate bones. They were perfect. “He made me watch as he choked her with his bare hands.” Raphael remembered his mother’s eyes locked on his as she fought to breathe. “The vase she had been carrying smashed and split open the skin on her feet.” Raphael remembered the sea of blood his childhood eyes had watched cover the white petals that were spilled on the floor. “He took the blood-covered petals and stuffed them into her mouth, singing ‘Ring a-round the Roses’ as he did it.” He ran his hand over Maria’s hair as though he wasn’t talking of the vicious death of his mother. “Then he stood up and shot himself in the head.” Maria’s breathing became shallow. But Raphael was lost to the few memories he had in his mind. “I walked to where she lay. Her hair . . .” he said softly. “Her hair had fallen around her neck.” He smiled. She had looked so pretty as she stared at him without blinking, roses in her mouth. “It made me smile. Her face was calm. It was never calm. He always hit her, choked her. When he finally killed her, it was the first time I’d seen her at peace.”

Maria’s heart was beating fast beneath his hand. “Who was the man? Why did he kill her?”

Raphael frowned, trying to remember. “Her boyfriend? I didn’t have a father . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t think. I don’t know why he killed her. The priests never told me. I only remember bits.”

Maria searched his face. She swallowed. Raphael liked how her throat looked as she did. “My lord . . .” she said softly. “How many people have you killed?”

Raphael tried to think. He shrugged. “Many.”

Maria’s shoulders sagged. “Many . . .” she whispered.

Raphael stood and held out his hand. Maria threaded his hand through hers and he led her out of the bath. He didn’t bother with towels for them as he took her through the bedroom, through the small dining room and through the door to his private room. He flicked on the light. Maria gasped. Raphael let his gaze rove over his wall. The wall filled with the faces of his victims. Maria walked past him, and he watched her approach the wall. He felt his chest swell with pride. At the faces staring back at him, eyes wide open in death.

“Y-you . . . you killed all of these women?” Maria stuttered. “These pictures . . . they are all dead in them?”

“Just dead,” Raphael explained, recalling each one in vivid detail. “Their bodies were still warm.”

Maria reached out to touch the pictures, but pulled back her hand before she did. “Strangled?” she asked, tracing the red marks on their throats.

“All of them.” Raphael looked down at his hands and spread his fingers. He smiled.

When he lifted his head, he saw Maria had stopped dead in front of the wall. She turned to look at him. The blood had drained from her cheeks. “You killed her.” The picture was his most recent. “This woman, from the club.” Her hands shook. “When?”

Raphael licked his lips. His heart started to race at the way Maria was looking at him. In shock . . . disappointment? “Not long ago.”

“While I was here?” Her voice had dropped in tone. Her blue eyes began to shine. Raphael stilled. Was she going to cry? He didn’t like her crying. He couldn’t stand it. It fucked with his head.

“Yes.”

Maria stumbled back. Her back hit the far wall. “Did . . .” Maria met his eyes. “Did you have sex with her?”

Raphael curled his lip just remembering that night. “No.”

Maria went to turn her head again, then suddenly moved from the wall. “That night,” she whispered. “The night you couldn’t get hard.” Raphael’s jaw clenched. “The night I said those words. The safe words. Red rose.” Maria started shaking her head. “That was it, wasn’t it? When you left . . . you left to kill her. When you returned, you had scratch marks on your skin.”

“She was evil. She trafficked kids. She deserved to die.”

Maria ran her hands down her face. “All life is sacred.”

“It’s not,” he snarled, feeling his rage begin to build.

“It is!” Maria argued. Raphael raced across the room and took hold of her shoulders. He spun her around. “These women . . . These women raped kids, sold kids, whored them out for money.” Raphael couldn’t keep hold of his temper. He felt himself being forced to his knees, the priest’s hands across his chest, touching his cock, forcing him to the floor . . . Raphael hit his head to rid himself of the image. Maria stumbled away, but Raphael kept hitting his head. He needed the images from his fucking head. Images put there by people like the pieces of shit on his wall. By people who used kids, raped kids.

Fucked them, fucked them, fucked them! His hand was yanked away, and he moved. He pushed the person against the wall, ready to kill. “My lord, it’s me.” But he was lost to the red mist of rage. “Raphael.” A soft voice cut through his head, which was trapped in the torture room, being pinned to the floor by the priest. “Come back to me,” the voice whispered. “Come back to me.”

Raphael blinked, his chest heaving, and the room around him shimmered and his vision cleared. He was home. In the manor . . . and there was Maria. Maria before him, blue eyes shining with tears. Her hand slowly came to his cheek. “You’re here with me.” Raphael’s muscles twitched in exertion. “I’m here.” Raphael followed the rising and falling of Maria’s controlled breaths. She stepped closer to him, closer and closer until her chest was flush against his.

He groaned at her warmth. At the way she numbed the stabbing memories in his head. Soothed the ache in his chest. “It’s okay . . . it’s okay.”

Raphael held her close, wrapping his arms around her back.

“I am a novitiate, Raphael.”

Raphael stood stock-still as he held Maria. He didn’t know what that was, but his rose sounded serious. He pulled back to look at her face, and Maria took hold of his hands. “Before I came here . . . I was training to be a nun. I was close to taking final vows.”

Raphael’s eyes flared, and blood soared through his tight muscles, bringing them to life. “Chaste,” he said, excitement mounting in his chest. “That’s why you were chaste. Pure.”

“Until I gave myself to you,” Maria said.

Raphael thought of her moaning his name. Thought of her pale skin and slim body. Thought of the customized coffin and how Maria would look flawless within it, sleeping for eternity, forever in Raphael’s room. His shrine caught his eye, and uncontained excitement built inside him. She was in his arms. The one.

Raphael leaned forward and cupped Maria’s cheeks. “I am going to kill you, little rose. Do you understand?”

Maria’s eyes widened for a minute, before they closed and she took a long, calming breath. “Yes, my lord.”

“Look at me.” Maria’s eyes opened, and she fixed her gaze on Raphael’s golden stare. “Someday soon, I’m going to bathe you.” He searched her face; there wasn’t a blemish in sight. “I’m going to comb and dry your hair.” Maria’s chest rose and fell, her small pert breasts heaving. Raphael smiled softly, like a lover confessing his love to his betrothed. “I will anoint you with the finest oils.” He tucked his nose into her neck and inhaled her sweet scent. “Vanilla and rose. You wear vanilla and rose the best.” Maria’s pulse raced; he could feel it under his thumb. “I will lay you on the bed, little rose. And I will love you. I will worship you like the queen that you are.” Raphael’s eyes closed, his hands still holding her face. “I will kiss you, little rose. I will taste your skin, your lips, and your sweet wet pussy.” He opened his eyes, and he knew his pupils would be dilated at just speaking the fantasy aloud. “I will push inside you, capturing your moans and sighs with my lips . . .” Raphael’s cock awakened and filled the silicone cage. He freed one of his hands and ran it through Maria’s soft wet hair. “I will take this silky hair and roll it in my hands. I will tilt your delicate neck off the bed, then I will wrap your hair around it, around and around and around—three times.” Raphael felt his body grow lighter, weightless. “You will look into my eyes as I thrust deeper within you . . . and then I will pull tight.” Raphael placed his hand over Maria’s neck. “Your cheeks will flush and your eyes will shine. Your lips will part, but no breath will leave your mouth. You will give yourself to me, little rose. Your body will begin to lose its strength as I build your pleasure. Your back will arch, and you will come, come so profoundly that it is all you will feel. You will search for breath, but there will be none to find. And as your eyes begin to glaze, your heart slowing to an almost stop, I’ll come inside you, groaning your name.” Raphael felt the pressure build in his back. His eyes closed, his balls pulled tight, and with a loud groan, he felt himself spill against her leg. His body jerked in the aftermath. His neck was tight with the exertion of pleasure. When his eyes opened, he exhaled a shuddering breath. Maria’s cheeks were flushed and her nipples were erect. Raphael’s hand was still on her neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin as though it were a delicate petal. A white rose petal—Maria’s favorite color.

Raphael smiled, a loving, compassionate smile. “Your heart will cease to beat.” Maria’s lips parted and she released a short, soft breath. “I’ll hold you, little rose. I’ll hold you tightly in my arms, until you are no longer warm.” Raphael kissed Maria’s cheek. “I’ll place a rose in your hair—the best one from my garden. And you’ll have a bouquet in your hands. Twelve white roses for you to hold.” Raphael kissed her lips, tasting salt on her mouth. Tears were falling down her cheeks. He wiped them away with his thumbs. “You will be so perfect, little rose. So, so perfect. You’ll be nothing like these.” He flicked his hand to the pictures on the wall. He turned her to the shrine. “Your photo will take pride of place in this room.”

Raphael brought Maria to his chest. He held her head and body against him. His hands wrapped in her hair, and they stayed that way until he led her to bed.

“I wont abandon you, my lord,” Maria said against his lips as he kissed her goodnight. “I’m here for you. I am here to serve only you.”

Raphael’s happiness didn’t fade from his heart.

*****

“Beautiful,” Raphael said as Maria walked out of the closet. She wore a purple dress that fell to the floor. He had dried her hair, and it fell in natural waves down to her thighs. She wore golden sandals on her feet and a peach rose tucked behind her ear. Unlike the white dresses she wore in Raphael’s private room, this dress was opaque, not a touch of skin visible underneath.

Maria took Raphael’s outstretched hand. He pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her back. He lowered his mouth and kissed her, feeling her body go weak under his touch. When he pulled back, her lips were red. “Let’s go.” Raphael led Maria down the stairs and to the dining room. He felt her hand shaking in his as they approached the closed door. Raphael heard his brothers’ voices from the other side.

Maria’s face was pale. “They won’t harm you,” Raphael assured her. He brought the back of her hand to his mouth and kissed her soft skin. Maria exhaled and gave him a small smile.

Raphael turned the door knob and entered. Each of his brothers turned their way when he walked through. Only Michael was missing. He had received a Revelation and was out making his kill.

Maria followed behind. Gabriel got to his feet. He smiled at them both. “Raphe, Maria.”

“Gabriel,” Maria said softly.

His brother smiled at her and gestured to a seat. “Please. Sit.” Raphael led her to the table and pulled out her seat. Maria sat to his left, beside Gabriel at the top of the table. Sela sat to Raphael’s right. His brothers were quiet and watching them closely.

Raphael gripped Maria’s hand, bringing their joined hands to rest on the table between them. Bara smiled at the sight, sipping at his red wine. He cleared his throat. “Maria, we weren’t introduced before.” He nudged his head in Diel’s direction. “Our brother here temporarily lost his fucking mind and tried to kill you.” Bara put his hand on his chest, head bowing. “For that, we can only apologize.” He smirked at Diel. “We’re not all impulsive maniacs, I assure you.”

Diel’s blue eyes narrowed on Bara, and he shifted in his seat. Diel turned to Maria. “It won’t happen again. I’m calm.”

Maria gave Diel a tight smile. The staff brought the food through. When they each had a plate, Sela asked, “What do you do on the outside world, Maria?”

Sela’s eyes were on her body, roving over her arms and face. Raphael knew it wasn’t sexual. Sela was an artist. His obsession was body parts.

Maria placed down her fork. “I am a novitiate.” Her eyes flicked to Gabriel, then back to Sela. “I am training to be a nun.”

The air grew thick with tension. Uriel leaned forward, lips tight. “You know Father Quinn.”

“He’s my mentor.” Maria’s words were spoken with reservation. Raphael narrowed his eyes at her. Maria cleared her throat. “Father Quinn and Father Murray were the ones who sent me to find Raphael.”

Raphael froze. Every muscle in his body locked as Father Murray’s name circled his head. Anger boiled inside him. When Raphael looked up at the silent table, all of his brothers’ eyes were fixed on him. His chest pulled so tight he felt as if his skin would tear under his shirt.

Maria’s hand squeezed Raphael’s, but he couldn’t look away from the food on his plate to look at her. Rage was surging through his veins. He could immediately feel the floor of the torture room under his knees, Father Murray’s hand in his short hair, ripping it back until his neck ached. Stuffing his mouth with his cock, then pinning him down—

“I didn’t know . . .” Maria whispered, her voice shaking. “I didn’t know about the group they are a part of.” Her breathing hitched. “I don’t condone their behavior. Will never condone it.” Maria squeezed his hand again. When Raphael met her eyes, she was staring at him. Her face was pale, and there was a strange expression in her eyes. Raphael wanted to move from the table, fucking destroy anything in his path at the mention of that cunt’s name, the memory of what he did to him, but his chest filled with warmth the minute Maria’s gaze bored into his. A lump built in his throat. It was uncomfortable. Why did she make him feel such strange things?

“So,” Bara said, pulling Maria’s attention. Raphael’s redheaded brother smiled and gestured around the table with his wine glass. “You know who the Brethren cunts are and how they fuck young boys for fun.” Bara leaned forward. “But do you know what we do?”

Maria tilted her chin high. “I do.”

Diel’s blue gaze assessed her. “And?”

“I don’t judge,” she said plainly. Her gaze dropped for a second. “I was taken by a killer at sixteen. I was tortured, kept captive for months. I forgave him.”

“Tortured how?” Uriel asked.

Maria glanced at Raphael, then slowly stood. She lifted her long hair from her back and turned. The dress hung low. Raphael licked his lips as her back was bared. Sela quickly got to his feet. Raphael did too, standing in his brother’s way. Sela frowned and held up his hands. “I was just going to look.”

“Look from there,” Raphael said, backing closer to Maria. A wave of possessiveness took hold of him, braced him to protect her from anyone but himself.

Sela’s eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and glanced over Raphael’s shoulder. His dark eyes flared. “Sloppy work.” He smiled when Maria dropped her hair and turned to face him. “I would’ve done a much better job.” Maria’s face paled, but she kept her head high. Raphael felt a rush of pride at her reaction to his brother.

Maria took her seat again. Raphael saw his brothers watching her with interest. He didn’t like their attention on her. He pushed his hand into her hair and pulled her close. Maria immediately folded into his side. He kissed her head, and she sighed, her body relaxing. His body began to relax too.

“A toast,” Bara said, and held up his glass. Raphael took his and held it up. Maria hesitated, but then did the same. “To Maria, our nun in a den of sinners.” Bara smiled at Gabriel. “Seems you have one of your kind present for once.” He shrugged. “The scales are balancing.” Gabriel nodded, smiling at Maria. Gabriel lifted his glass in Maria’s direction then drank his wine.

Just as Raphael placed his glass down, the door behind them opened. Michael walked through. His usually tense body was relaxed . . . but he was coated in blood. His chest, bared by the shirt that was open to his navel, was soaked. His neck, his face, his fanged teeth—all covered.

Michael sat down on the opposite side of the table. His ice-blue eyes met Maria’s, then Raphael’s.

“Michael,” Gabriel said. “Is it over?”

Michael licked his tongue over his bloodstained teeth. Maria’s breathing was suddenly heavy. Raphael looked down at her. Her gaze was fixed on Michael. Her wide eyes tracked the blood on his face, his chest, and his fingers, his pointed fingernails stained crimson.

“He’s dead.” Michael clutched at the vial of blood around his neck.

“And?” Sela asked. Raphael’s heart began to race, waiting for the information.

“He screamed. I tied him to the wall by his arms and legs and drained him of blood. I pierced him over and over and drank from each wound.” Michael’s tongue traced over his teeth again. He shrugged. “He tasted average. His blood didn’t sing to me.”

“Michael,” Raphael said. His best friend turned to him. “This is Maria.” He looked to Maria. “This is Michael.”

“Hello,” Maria said shyly.

Michael stared at her blankly, then said, “You have nice veins in your neck.”

Raphael heard Maria’s quick exhale.

“You okay, Maria?” The question came from Gabriel.

“Yes,” she said, and Gabriel nodded at her.

Raphael didn’t like anyone nodding at her, or smiling at her. He didn’t want anyone fucking talking to her. He didn’t have long left with her, and he wanted her all to himself. His cock twitched, and he got to his feet, needing to be inside her, to remind both him and her that she belonged to him and him alone. Taking hold of Maria’s hand, he pulled her to stand. “We’re leaving.”

Maria turned to the table. “It was nice to meet you all properly and talk with you some.”

Raphael yanked her from the room and up the stairs. He needed inside her again. He was getting more anxious of late and he didn’t know why; his skin felt too tight when she wasn’t beside him, when he wasn’t inside her and making her his.

Being constantly around Maria was becoming the only time he felt calm.

*****

Gabriel stared at the closed door, hearing the rush of Raphael’s feet as he led Maria up the stairs.

“Well, that was interesting,” Bara said and refilled his glass from the bottle of wine in the center of the table. Gabriel kept his gaze on the door.

Raphael had seemed different. Gabriel recalled the way his brother had watched Maria, his golden stare seeming less troubled, less tense than Gabriel had ever witnessed in all the years he had known him. Gabriel frowned. He had nothing to compare it to, but he entertained the thought that the way Raphael looked at Maria—and she him—looked something like . . . love? Gabriel’s chest tightened at the foreign notion. He scanned his eyes over his brothers, who were animatedly talking to Michael about his kill. They smiled and they laughed, clearly not thinking anything of the way Raphael had held her hand, had always made sure a part of him was touching her—his arm, his leg, his hand clasped tightly around her fingers. Gabriel pictured them all in Purgatory, their faces as they returned from the torture rooms. The humanity and light that lived in their teenage eyes had diminished with every rape and pain-filled “exorcism” that the Brethren forced upon them.

Gabriel’s light had faded too.

They didn’t know eros—romantic, intense, and passionate love. Gabriel wasn’t sure any of them—even himself—would recognize eros if it were standing right before them.

But the change in Raphael . . . his hand holding Maria’s as if he never wanted to let go. And his easy smile. Gabriel had never seen that kind of free smile grace his face before. And the way she looked at him in return . . . as if he were her lifeblood. As if he were the air she needed so desperately to survive.

Gabriel’s heart broke for his brother. Because he knew that if Raphael was falling for Maria, if it was real love that was burgeoning between them—however unlikely—Raphael wouldn’t know it, wouldn’t recognize it for the miracle that it was. His brother was going to kill Maria. He didn’t have a choice. It was who he was. Raphael was going to kill the woman who, despite everything—her faith, her past, and Raphael’s plans for her pure soul—looked at him as if he hung the moon.

She would die.

Raphael was going to kill the potential love of his life. His soul’s other half.

Gabriel took a drink of his wine to rid himself of the choking lump in his throat. It was a tragedy. He looked at his other brothers and wondered how they would be if they too found someone they loved, someone who saw past their dark ways and simply loved them for who they were. Could they be healed? Could that kind of love save them, save their lost souls? Was that the answer? Love?

He sighed, shaking the farfetched notion from his head.

It was an impossible dream.

Chapter Thirteen

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.

Chapter Fourteen

Raphael raced down the stairs faster than he’d ever run before. His heart was pounding in his chest, which was pulled tight. So tight he could hardly breathe. Reaching Gabriel’s door, he shouldered into the room. Gabriel and John Miller looked up from the desk. “We have to go get her,” Raphael snarled, the anger that was building in him threatening to take control.

Gabriel got to his feet. “What? What’s wrong?”

“She left. She fucking left!” Raphael slammed Maria’s letter down on the desk. He had woken up to find her gone. The enraged feelings that had swept over him were foreign to him. He didn’t know how to handle them. Pain and rage. That was all he was made of in that moment. He hadn’t even bothered to dress; he’d just ripped through his doors and stormed into Gabriel’s office, needing only Maria, needing to find Maria. He didn’t give a fuck about modesty. His rose was gone.

Gabriel’s eyes scanned the letter. Raphael paced the room. Miller was watching him; he could feel it. But he didn’t care. He needed Maria back. His mind raced to the previous night. He had told her she would never leave him ever. Her in the coffin . . . in the bath . . . in his arms . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw each word of her handwritten letter in his head.

Raphael,

I will return to you. I want to say that first. I am not running away. I have gone to inform the bishop about the Brethren. As a novitiate sister of the Catholic Church I cannot have their atrocities on my conscience. The right people need to be told so they can be stopped.

I have seen what they have done to you and your brothers. No one should have to endure what you seven have—especially not innocent children.

When you read this I will hopefully be with the bishop. I will return to you as soon as I can. I will memorize my way back to the manor. I will not tell anyone where you live or anything about your way of life. You have my word.

Always,

Your Little Rose.

Gabriel placed the letter on the desk and ran his hand down his face. “What was she thinking?” He sank into his chair. Miller read the letter.

“We’re going to get her,” Raphael said. “We’re going to Boston and we’re bringing her back here.” He was fire lit from within. A burning effigy of rage.

“Let me make some calls. We’ll find out if she made it to the bishop’s residence.” Gabriel picked up his phone.

Raphael burst from the office and went to dress. He threw on sweats and a shirt. When he came back down, his brothers were in the dining room. “What’s happening?” Uriel asked.

“She went to tell the bishop about the Brethren.” Raphael poured himself a strong black coffee. He drank it like a parched man drinking water, ignoring the scalding of his throat as he drank the caffeine down.

His hands shook. He launched the mug against the wall, the china shattering on impact. Raphael paced the floor. But with every step, he grew more and more agitated. Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong.

“Have you told Gabriel?” Diel asked. His neck cricked from side to side under his heavy collar.

“He’s finding out where she is.”

The room plunged into silence, until, “You told her?” Raphael stilled and looked up. Sela was watching him. “You told her what they did to us? The Brethren?”

Raphael opened his mouth.

“I did.” Gabriel entered the room. “I told her what they had done to me. I didn’t say anything about you six.” Raphael stared at the floor. She knew. She knew what Father Murray had done to him. The scars, being pinned down . . . why he needed pain.

He struggled to breathe.

She knew, and she hadn’t turned him away. She hadn’t been repulsed. She’d held him, kissed him . . . let him inside her.

He was lost to his heavy, racing thoughts when Gabriel stopped in front of him. Raphael raised his head.

“I got copies of the security camera footage from Bishop McGuiness’s house.” Gabriel turned and headed back to his office. Raphael followed, as did his brothers.

Miller was beside Gabriel’s large computer screen. His face was pale. He turned the screen and pressed play. Raphael’s body was stone as he saw Maria, dressed in his clothes, enter the bishop’s home. Then there was nothing . . . until two familiar men walked through the gate.

“Father Murray,” Diel growled.

“Father Quinn,” Michael echoed.

Raphael’s heart thumped as he watched the screen. The van the priests had arrived in moved. “Where is she?” Raphael snarled, focusing on the screen. The screen switched to another camera.

“These cameras are protected. Someone had paid off the city to turn a blind eye to anything that happens there. Luckily we have people who can hack into anything,” Miller said, and the screen came to life. It showed the back of the bishop’s home. Nothing happened for several minutes, until the back door opened and Father Murray walked out, something in his hands. No, not something. “Maria,” Raphael snarled on seeing her in that cunt’s arms. Maria, his Maria, unconscious, being taken by the man who had made his life a living hell for so many years.

Raphael couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the blood rushing through his veins, making his muscles ache. He couldn’t stand the tightness of his breath or the inability to fucking breathe. His hands rolled into fists, but they were shaking as he watched footage of the van moving through downtown Boston, all the way to—

“Holy Innocents,” Bara said, and the tension in the room thickened.

“Purgatory,” Uriel added. “They’ve taken her to Purgatory.”

Raphael stood back and let the rage of seeing Maria unconscious, of seeing that cunt holding her and taking her to Purgatory, devour him, consuming every cell in his body until he burned like the depths of hell. Releasing a roar, he threw the screen off the desk, but the shattering of it against the wall did nothing to calm him down. He ransacked the office while his brothers stayed quiet.

They had Maria. They fucking had Maria! His Maria!

Sela stood in front of him, blocking his path. “Calm down, Raphe.”

“I can’t,” he snarled. His body was too pumped full of fury for him to calm. “They have her.” Raphael looked at Gabriel, who was watching him closely. “We’re getting her back.” Raphael hit his chest. “We’re fucking getting her back.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “And I’m killing Father Murray. Finally, I’m gonna kill that cunt for taking Maria from me. For touching a hair on her head.”

Gabriel held out his hands. “We have contacts who can go in and get her—”

“No!” Raphael said, cutting him off. He shook his head and pulled at his hair. He was coming out of his motherfucking skin. In that moment, he was death. He was the evil the priests had accused him of being every single day for years. And he embraced it. Devoured the darkness flooding his veins. “I’m getting her.”

“Raphe, listen—”

“No!” Raphael stepped forward and pointed at Gabriel. “I’m sick of hiding from the Brethren. This time they’ve fucked with what’s mine, and I’m going in and getting her. Not your contacts, not the men, not the mercenaries who got us out years ago. Me. I’m going in.” Raphael took a deep breath and felt a vicious smile pull on his face. “And I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill as many as I can . . . then I’m killing Father Murray, slowly, staring straight into that motherfucker’s eyes.”

“Raphe—” Gabriel began.

“He’s right.” Bara came to stand beside Raphael. “They deserve to die. I’m going with him.” He smirked and licked his lips. “You have no idea how many times I’ve envisioned walking into that place with a flame thrower and going to fucking town on those sadistic fuckers. They love all that fire-and-brimstone shit. I’m happy to deliver it.”

“I’m in too,” Diel said, and looked at Gabriel. “Collar off.” His eyes shone. “I’m about due for some uncontrolled fun.”

One by one Raphael’s brothers stood beside him, creating an army of killers. Finally, Michael came to stand by his right side, his arm brushing against Raphael’s.

Raphael’s chin lifted as he looked at Gabriel. “We’re going in.”

Gabriel inhaled a deep breath, then slowly came to stand beside his brothers. Raphael tracked his every move. When Gabriel was standing beside Uriel, he looked at Miller. “Get transport ready. Extra cars too. If they have kids in there, we need to get them out and take them somewhere safe.”

“You’re going too?” Miller asked him.

Gabriel met Raphael’s eyes. “We are the Fallen. A brotherhood. Where one goes, we all go.”

Raphael felt that unfamiliar tightness in his chest again as he looked at his brothers beside him. They’d been with him in Purgatory. They’d lived side by side in hell. Now they were following him back into the dark.

Gabriel turned to them. “Get whatever weapons you want. And get plenty. We have no idea what we’re walking into.”

Bara rubbed his hands together. “This day just got a whole lot more fucking exciting!”

Before they went to the arsenal in the basement, Gabriel said, “You know there’s a chance we won’t all come back.”

“We will,” Uriel said with a knowing smirk. “Your God surely wouldn’t deny us the right to fuck these assholes up once and for all. Not after everything they’ve done. He can be wrathful too. Maybe he needs a bit more violence in His life. All that holier-than-thou shit is just boring.”

“Don’t worry, Angel,” Bara said, smiling. “I’ll have your back if it gets messy.”

They raced down to the arsenal. As Raphael strapped knives and guns to his body, he kept Maria’s face in his mind. He’d get his little rose. He’d get her and bring her back to their home. And maybe the tightness in his chest would disappear. He didn’t like it. He didn’t understand it. All he knew was that he wanted her back. Needed her back. Had to have her back so he could once again fucking breathe.

Then he’d kill her. And he’d keep her in his room forever in the coffin that made her look so, so beautiful . . .

Then she would never ever leave him again.

*****

The Fallen waited in the shadows until night was at its darkest. From the cover of the trees, Raphael watched the entrance of Purgatory. There was a strange buzz in his blood. A heady tension in his veins. He felt someone watching him. Turning to his right, he saw it was Gabriel.

Raphael didn’t understand the strange feelings that were dominating his body. Every time he thought of Maria being with Father Murray, him hurting her and fuck knew what else, the tightness and breathlessness consumed him until he didn’t think he could stand it. Raphael closed his eyes. When he opened them again, just needing to get the fuck going, to storm through the metal door that they’d left through so many years ago, he felt Gabriel still watching him.

“You good?” Gabriel whispered to Raphael.

When they’d first left Purgatory, Gabriel had told them that Raphael, Bara, Uriel, Michael, Sela, and Diel didn’t see the world the way everyone else did. The six of them felt things differently—or, most of the time, not at all.

But Raphael was feeling things now. When he thought of Maria’s smile, of her touching him, warmth spread in his chest. And when he thought of her being hurt, a wave of such evil came over him he felt like the devil himself.

Raphael nodded at Gabriel. Gabriel sighed, then said to his brothers, “We won’t know how many are in there until we get inside.” Gabriel was dressed in black. They all were. But Raphael found it strange not to see his older brother in his usual dog collar and slacks. “From what I remember, there could be up to thirty, thirty-five members in the different rooms.” Raphael’s mind took him back to the candle room. The one where they were lined up and forced to suck Brethren cock, where they were pinned down and raped over and over until it became part of their everyday life. His lip curled in disgust, and the thick black tar of revenge clogged his every cell.

“I’ll go for the dorms,” Gabriel said. “If there are any boys in there, we need to get them out. Miller will have men waiting for them at the entrance once we’re inside. We’ll need to get them far away from this place.” The Fallen all nodded. Gabriel’s stare was steel as he met each of his brothers’ eyes. “No one goes anywhere alone. We don’t know what we’ll face, and we’ll need numbers. Understand? We’re not losing anyone tonight. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the brothers answered.

One of Miller’s contacts moved across the lawn and to the door of Purgatory. Raphael’s muscles twitched as the ex-military guy Gabriel had paid off silently opened the door. The Brethren wouldn’t even see them coming. Tonight, the Fallen would become the demons they had accused them of being.

“I’ve been waiting for this for years.” Bara got to his feet. He arranged his gun and flame thrower over his chest and shoulder. One by one the Fallen got to their feet, following suit.

Diel cricked his neck slowly from side to side. He turned to Gabriel. “Turn the collar off.” Gabriel hesitated, but he reached into his pocket and switched the power down to zero. Diel closed his eyes and took a deep breath at the sudden freedom. “Don’t turn it back on until it’s finished.” Diel smirked, and his eyes opened, lit with uncontained excitement for the kills he was about to make. He hissed in ecstasy as he shed his control. “Mmm . . . that feels fucking good.”

Gabriel stepped forward, still under the cover of the trees, and faced his brothers. “We don’t leave anyone alive. If we do, the repercussions could be dire.”

“No one will survive.” Michael spoke from beside Raphael. His brother was laden with knives and a belt of spare vials for the collection of his victims’ blood. These kills would award him a feast.

“No one lives,” Raphael echoed his best friend. Michael looked at Raphael, and in a rare occurrence he smiled, showing his pristine, sharp white fangs.

Fangs that wouldn’t stay white for long.

Miller’s contact moved away from the door and signaled to Gabriel and the others that the door was unlocked.

Raphael took in a long inhale and forced his breathing to calm. His heart was spurring him on, the beat fast and erratic with the promise of death.

“Ready?” Gabriel said. Raphael clutched the guns in his hands, knives ready in the waist of his pants.

Following Gabriel, they cut over the grass as one unit. Gabriel paused at the door, his eyes closed and his head bowed. Raphael knew he’d be saying a prayer to his God who never gave a fuck about them. Raphael’s eyes landed on that familiar metal door. Even with the heat of fury consuming his body, he felt as though he were being plunged into a vat of ice-cold water, knowing what was beyond it. The scars on his back pulsed, and he felt Father Murray’s phantom hands rubbing over his skin. Pinning him down and crowding his back. He shook. He shook with such a need for revenge that it was all he became.

Open the door. Open the motherfucking door!

When Gabriel’s head lifted, he opened the door. The burning smell of Purgatory, one that Raphael smelled each night in his sleep, assaulted him. Vomit crawled up his throat, but Raphael pushed it down and kept Maria’s face in his head. The bulbs flickered, and Raphael used the distraction to remind himself that death awaited them inside. Not their own, but that of their tormentors. The burning smell quickly changed from an offense to his fuel.

Raphael rocked on anxious feet as adrenaline soared through his body. His hand tightened around his gun. In the suspended silence, the Fallen met one another’s eyes. They were back. In a place they vowed to never return to. Energy pulsed between them as they gathered in a loose circle. Seven sinners ready to wreak havoc on the godly pretenders.

Bara smirked and readied his flame thrower, signaling that they were ready. That the Brethren’s day of judgment had come.

With a slow nod of Gabriel’s head, they began to walk through the hallway as one brotherhood. Careful walks turned into impulsive jogs, the jogs morphing into flat-out runs. And with every step, Raphael felt the lost screams he had left in this place track him down and join his crusade. Gabriel followed the hallway to where the old dorm used to be. The hallway to the dorm always felt colder than the rest. When goosebumps devoured his skin, Raphael felt thirteen again, staggering back after being stuffed with Father Murray’s cock. The image was almost his undoing. It was only Maria’s face in his mind’s eye that kept him focused. Kept him centered. Raphael’s eyes were wide and assessing as Gabriel opened the door. He heard Gabriel’s quick inhale.

“Move,” Gabriel ordered. Raphael peered over his shoulder. Nine sets of dead eyes stared back at him. Raphael’s stomach began to boil. His limbs shook at the sight of the half-starved, gaunt boys, sunken eyes staring at them from blank, untrusting faces. The boys were them ten years ago. Raphael felt his brothers around him, pulsing with uncontained hatred for the Brethren too. But Raphael couldn’t take his eyes off the boys. Was that what they had looked like when they were here? Sela rushed forward and carried one who had collapsed on the bed, who looked like he couldn’t walk. He had blood staining his white pants at his rear . . . Raphael felt the vibrating surge of fury begin at his feet and travel through his body when the boy’s vacant eyes latched on him as he passed.

“Move!” Gabriel repeated and charged into the room. He dragged each boy to his feet. Each one was a living ghost of the Fallen from the past. He heard his brothers hissing and cursing around him. They must have been thinking the same thing.

“Die,” he heard savagely snarled from the back. It was Diel. “Die. They will all die.” Raphael was paralyzed, watching Gabriel lead the boys to the entrance. The boys ran outside. The minute the last one had fled, Raphael came back into his body and let the fire consume him.

Just as Gabriel closed the door, a gunshot rang out down the hallway. Raphael spun, gun out. But Diel pushed past him, a dark smile covering his face. “Finally,” he growled. Diel charged, a twenty-inch knife in each hand. Raphael caught a glimpse of the red and black Brethren colors the priest wore. It was a flag to a bull. The priest who had fired didn’t even get a chance to re-aim at Diel; Raphael’s brother stabbed a blade straight through his forehead. Diel pulled the blade out of the priest’s head, and the priest’s body dropped to the floor, eyes wide open. Diel hissed in pleasure, then took off.

“Diel!” Gabriel hushed out. But the red mist he treasured descended over Raphael’s eyes, and Gabriel’s hissed orders became a distant hum as he gave himself over to his urge to kill. Blood rushing through his ears, Raphael ran in the direction Diel had gone. He didn’t feel anything. The fire inside him burned through any recognition of anything but the search for Maria and the Brethren. A blanket of gunfire sounded. Bara was beside him in seconds, flame thrower at the ready and a maniacal smile on his face. As they rounded the corner, Raphael fired as a line of priests dressed in black with red dog collars came at them. Diel attacked one after the other in quick succession. Michael followed Diel, stabbing and slitting throats as he went. Sprays of blood spattered Michael’s face—his best friend licked at the crimson-coated knives and the drops that ran onto his lips.

Another group of priests ran at them from the left. Bara turned and laughed as his flame thrower doused them all in fire. The priests screamed, the smell of burned flesh filtering through the stagnant hallways. The screams were a blissful symphony to Raphael’s ears, a salve to some of the gaping wounds that had never healed. Torn fibers in his chest began knitting together as priest after priest hit the ground. Finally, it was them prostrate at the Fallen’s feet.

Uriel ran through to the burning priests, stabbing and crowbarring their knees. Even through the cacophony, the sound of bodies hitting the ground was better than any hymn he’d ever heard sung at church. “Let them die slowly,” Uriel snarled as the priests began to beg for a quick death.

Raphael watched them screaming and begging for mercy. Their pain energized him, made him reborn. Raphael gave himself over to darkness. Bullets rained from his gun, and Raphael grew harder and harder as priest after priest dropped to the floor. It was carnage, and Raphael was a savage as he shot through skulls and hearts and heads, blood spraying his face—the most addictive warmth. Sela dropped down to the falling bodies, stripping them of ears and tongues and fingers with his sharp blades.

But Raphael broke from the pack and ran down the hallway that led to the staircase. He descended the steps. The familiar route caused images to flash through his head like a movie reel—candles, the smell of burning, sweat from the priests, cum and screams . . . Raphael ran to the candle room, the need to kill guiding his feet. As he slammed through the door, his feet ground to a halt.

Kids. Kids on the ground, naked priests above them. He saw red. Raphael raised his gun, about to shoot each of the priests, when he heard, “Let me, brother. These fuckers deserve to burn.”

Bara came from behind him, stalking toward the priests trying to escape. Before they could even take a step, Bara sprayed their naked bodies with fire, the flesh instantly starting to boil. Raphael heard Gabriel ushering the naked boys to their feet and rushing them from the room too. This time his eyes stayed on the priests. They screamed as they were set ablaze. They hit the walls and the ground, trying to put out the flames, but Bara doused them and doused them until their bodies were charred and unable to do anything but be eaten alive by Bara’s flames.

Uriel picked up a can of the gasoline Gabriel’s mercenaries had begun bringing inside. He uncapped the can and poured it on the ground. Raphael’s eyes stayed on the priests. He couldn’t tear himself away from their hair burning away and the flames ravaging their skin. His muscles twitched in satisfaction when he saw their cocks begin to burn. Their rapist, sinful cocks.

A flash of Maria’s face in his mind snapped Raphael back to the here and now. He raced back up the stairs and headed to the room he knew all too well—that they all knew far too well. The door was shut. He didn’t glance behind him to see whether any of his brothers followed. He didn’t care.

Adrenaline and anger leading the way, Raphael burst through the door. At the sight of the devices and torture machines, his skin went ice cold, but his blood was still scalding hot. He clutched his gun, ready to fire. But the door slammed shut behind him, and Raphael spun around.

Raphael felt bumps break out over his skin. He knew exactly who was behind him. His lip curled when he turned and met the eyes of the priest who had barricaded him in. But instead of rage, Raphael’s feet ground still on the spot and his heart began to beat too fast.

He was here. Father Murray was before him. Raphael began to drown in the memories of the past. As he stared at the face that was the star of his every nightmare, his body began to shut down. He couldn’t move. Could only stare at the man who had been his torturer. Who had pinned him down and fucked him over and over again. The priest’s brown eyes were locked on his. Raphael’s breathing came faster and faster, making him light-headed as Father Murray slowly bolted the door.

“You came,” Father Murray said. Daggers stabbed down Raphael’s spine at the sound of his deep voice.

“Take my cock.” Raphael flinched as the memories devoured his mind. “Beg, heathen. Repent, and I’ll stop.” But Raphael didn’t. Father Murray threw him on the ground and flipped Raphael over to his stomach, the priest’s hard cock scraping over the back of Raphael’s thighs . . . Raphael wouldn’t cry out even though his jaw clenched. As the pain of Father Murray thrusting inside him threatened to tear him apart, Raphael vowed he would never submit to this man.

Never.

Raphael blinked, tearing himself from the memory and back into the room. His chest heaved at the flashback. Hand shaking, he began to raise his gun, keeping Father Murray in sight. But as he went to fire the bullet that would finally rid him of his life, Father Murray said, “You came for her.”

Raphael froze, his finger stalling on the trigger. Raphael’s eyes narrowed. Father Murray smiled. “I knew you would. She’s your greatest fantasy come true.” He moved from the door and across the room, sticking close to the walls filled with knives and hammers and a thousand other weapons of torture. Raphael knew each one all too well. Knew how each one felt on his skin and stabbing into his flesh.

“When I saw her in the monastery, I knew she was the one for you.” Father Murray stopped beside a closed iron coffin. “You told me, remember?” Raphael felt the blood drain from his face at the coffin . . . at what Maria had told him about William Bridge. “After I fucked you for the fourth time. After . . .” Father Murray pulled the metal baton off the wall and held it out to Raphael. Raphael sucked in a shuddered breath. “After I fucked you with this.” Father Murray tilted his head. “Do you remember, Raphael? Do you remember how you told me who you wanted to kill and why?” He smiled. “Because that’s how your mommy died.”

The gun shook in Raphael’s hand. He unlatched the safety and re-aimed. “You haven’t asked where Maria is.” On cue, muffled noises came from inside the coffin Father Murray stood beside. Raphael’s eyes slammed to it. He heard her nails scraping against the metal, clawing to be freed.

Father Murray pointed to a combination lock on the coffin. “Drop the gun, Raphael. You won’t get inside the coffin unless you keep me alive. Drop the gun and I’ll let her breathe.” He shrugged. “There’s not much air getting in to the sinful novice nun.”

Raphael gripped the gun harder. He wanted to shoot him, to end him and free his own body from the traitorous paralysis that seeing the priest caused . . . until Maria started screaming again, and he dropped it to the floor without even thinking. Father Murray’s eyes flared at the act of submission. Raphael gritted his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. He didn’t submit. He didn’t motherfucking submit!

“Get on your knees.” Father Murray’s voice grated on his nerves, the order that echoed in his mind every day the worst torture of all.

Raphael stayed on his feet. He needed to see Father Murray bleed. Needed to see his eyes frozen in death. And he couldn’t submit. He wouldn’t get on his knees for this fucker. Not anymore. Not again. He wouldn’t let himself—

“She’s running out of air,” Father Murray said, cutting through his thoughts. The priest covered the tiny holes that were drilled through the metal lid, depriving her of any air inside.

Maria’s screams faded, and Raphael knew he wasn’t bluffing. Every part of him screamed not to obey. Then he heard pained sobs coming from the coffin. The ache in his chest returned as he thought about Maria trapped in the dark, trapped back in her very own hell. He was trapped in his. They were in hell together.

At that realization, Raphael dropped to his knees.

Father Murray moaned at the sight of the submission, but making sure Raphael was watching him, he entered the combination on the coffin’s lock and pushed the heavy, suffocating lid aside. Father Murray reached inside, and it took Raphael all the strength he had not to jump to his feet and charge, a spark of life slicing through his numb limbs at the thought of this cunt touching Maria. Raphael felt his muscles fill with blood. He readied to attack, readied to pull his knife from his waistband and run at the priest. But Raphael aborted the plan when Father Murray pulled Maria from the coffin, his hands under her limp arms. Her body was slumped over and unmoving. Maria’s eyes rolled in her head, but she fought through her fading consciousness to find Raphael. The minute she did, a heavy sob slipped from her mouth.

Raphael felt a fissure crack through his chest, so profound he gasped for breath. Seeing Maria limp and racked with pain destroyed him. He shook with fury, with unconcealed rage. Then he saw it, and everything moved into slow motion. Maria’s blanket of hair slipped from her front, and her chest was exposed. There, on her naked and bruised body, was an upturned cross, just like his, just like his brothers’. Her perfect skin was red and blistered, white where infection was starting to take its hold. She was deathly pale, and her lips were blue from lack of air.

Raphael hadn’t known he could have harbored more hate than he already did for the priest who had been his tormentor all his life. He was wrong. He was dead wrong. Father Murray had hurt Maria. He had inflicted on her pain so great she could barely keep her eyes open.

The priest had touched what what his.

Maria was fucking his.

Then the priest ran his hand down Maria’s naked front until he reached her pussy. With eyes locked on Raphael, he slipped his finger inside Maria. She didn’t even make a sound.

Fear from the past fell away like rain off a tin roof. Raphael was on his feet in seconds, lit with the wrath of hell itself. He charged across the room. But Father Murray dragged Maria around the coffin, using it as a shield, and placed his hands on her neck. Raphael’s feet ground to an abrupt halt. “I’ll snap her neck. Come any closer, and I’ll snap it in two. I’ll destroy your dream kill.”

Raphael tried to think what to do. But Father Murray said, “I told you to get on your knees.” Raphael did, every part of him screaming at him to fight back. His eyes were fixed on Father Murray as he walked toward Raphael, still holding Maria in his grip. Her feet dragged along the floor, body broken. When he stopped before Raphael, Raphael promised the priest death with his glare alone.

Father Murray smirked. “Pull down my zipper.” Raphael’s heart felt like it had stopped. Father Murray’s face morphed with ire. “I said pull down my zipper, demon!” His yell echoed off the walls, bringing the past to the present. His hands tightened around Maria’s neck as a warning for Raphael to comply.

Maria’s unfocused blue eyes managed to find Raphael’s. “No—” she whispered, her face contorting in sadness.

Father Murray cut off her words as he began to squeeze her neck. Raphael didn’t even pause as Maria’s face reddened at the priest’s pressure. He reached out and pulled down Father Murray’s zipper. Maria didn’t move her gaze from his. Raphael didn’t move his from hers. He wouldn’t let her die. He wouldn’t let this cunt take her from him.

Her gaze made him feel different from the last time he was in this room, in his position. She made him feel less alone.

When Father Murray’s zipper was down, Raphael saw his cock was hard. “Pull it out,” he said, his voice growing hoarse. Raphael’s hands shook, but he did as Father Murray said. Maria whimpered and tried to break away. But Raphael stared at the brand on her chest. She needed help. He needed to get her out of here.

Movement from behind Father Murray caught Raphael’s attention. He never averted his eyes. But when he saw long dark hair and dark eyes close in on the priest, Raphael attacked. Reaching to his waistband, Raphael pulled out his knife, and in one swift swipe he castrated Father Murray, his severed dick falling to the floor onto which Raphael’s blood, sweat, and cum had once dripped. Father Murray screamed and dropped Maria, but Sela was there to catch her.

Raphael’s vision shivered with darkness. Grabbing Father Murray by his hair, he dragged him across the room and slammed him against the wall. Teeth bared, he wrapped his hands around Father Murray’s neck. Raphael snarled in the priest’s face as he squeezed. Father Murray clawed at Raphael’s arms. But Raphael wasn’t aware of anything except Father Murray’s slowing pulse and his mouth gaping, trying to gasp for breath. Breath that Raphael was stealing, coveting as his own. He squeezed harder and harder, watching Father Murray’s face turn from red to blue. His brown eyes bulged and his hands grew weak, his body growing heavy.

Raphael didn’t speak as he drained the priest of life. He didn’t think of all that had been done to him as a child. He just relished the sensation of imminent death coming to an abusive cunt who deserved it. Raphael’s fingers were iron as he squeezed for the final time, feeling Father Murray’s trachea crush and his bones snap under Raphael’s incredible force.

Father Murray’s eyes were locked on Raphael, his head distorted to the side. Raphael threw back his head and screamed. He roared out every fucked-up thing that the priest had done to him. What he had done to Maria—

Maria.

Raphael dropped Father Murray’s body to the ground. Blood spurting from his groin pooled beneath him. Raphael moved to Sela and took Maria from his hands. Raphael saw his other brothers watching, all except Gabriel. Uriel began to pour gasoline on the floor.

“We need to leave,” Sela said. Raphael held Maria close to his chest. He grabbed a towel from a hook outside the torture room and wrapped it around her, then he raced for the door, following his brothers to the exit. But just as they reached the final hallway, a gunshot sounded.

Diel hit the floor.

Fear at seeing his brother torn down caused dread to cut through Raphael’s body like a bolt of lightning. He spun around to see Father Quinn. The exit lay just beyond where he stood. Father Quinn’s eyes were filled with thunder.

“Demons,” he snarled in their direction. Diel lifted his head, blood seeping from his shoulder. But the brother laughed a hysterical laugh. He stuck his finger into the hole, pulled out the bullet, and flicked it at the priest’s feet. Diel sucked the blood from his finger, leaving a stain around his mouth.

“I didn’t think it would be possible for you to become more evil, but here you are, before my very eyes, demons in the flesh.” Father Quinn raised his gun again. Raphael and his brothers did the same, but the priest froze, his face still with shock. As the priest dropped to the ground, Raphael saw Gabriel standing behind him, a knife in his hand. A knife coated in blood. Father Quinn’s gun clattered to the floor. Bara kicked it out of his reach. The old man’s eyes filled with horror.

Ignoring the priest scurrying along the floor, Raphael moved for the exit, Maria tightly in his arms. Uriel poured the final can of gasoline in the hallway and all over Father Quinn. Raphael flinched at the heavy smell. His brothers stopped on the threshold of Purgatory, and he surveyed their childhood hell for the last time. This time there was nothing left in him to feel. Father Murray was dead, and the place was about to be an inferno.

Bara lifted his flame thrower. “Shall I?”

Raphael nodded. But just as Bara went to light the gasoline and set the place ablaze, Gabriel held out his hand. “Wait.” Gabriel walked to Father Quinn. The old man looked into Gabriel’s eyes, pure hatred in his stare.

“You,” Father Quinn spat. “The worst of them all.”

“You tried to ruin our lives. You tried to tear us down and make us into nothing.” Gabriel took a long inhale. “But you only made us stronger.”

“You are killers. Murderers. One day soon, you will be punished by God.”

“That may be true,” Gabriel said. “But at least we won’t have to explain why we raped innocent little kids in His name.” Gabriel got to his feet, hovering over the high priest bleeding, on his knees. “You’re a sinner of the worst kind. The most un-Christian Christian I’ve ever met.”

Gabriel walked to the exit, his brothers standing by and waiting for him to lead them home. They were a true brotherhood, unlike the cunts in this damned place.

“You have no idea of the wrath that is coming your way,” Father Quinn hissed.

Gabriel stared at the priest, pulled a box of matches from his pocket, and lit one. Meeting the high priest’s widening gaze, Gabriel smiled, but it was anything but holy. “Go to hell, Father.” Gabriel flicked the match to the floor, igniting the gasoline into a raging line of fire. The Fallen walked from Purgatory, locking the door for the final time.

Smoke and the stench of burning flesh followed them as they fled across the fields to the waiting vans. As Raphael crawled into the back of the van, he cradled Maria into his body. Her blue eyes looked into his, and even through her insufferable pain, she smiled.

His chest had never felt so warm.

Chapter Fifteen

Raphael sat beside Maria as she slept on his bed. His muscles still ached from the doctor’s visit. Maria was hooked up to an IV of antibiotics. Gabriel had had to restrain him as the doctor assessed her naked body. Uriel and Gabriel had pinned him against the wall when he refused to leave and let the doctor work. But as the doctor touched the puss-ridden upturned cross on Maria’s chest and she screamed, Raphael had lunged. His vision had misted with red, and the anger inside him had torn him up from the inside out.

But soon Maria was sedated. “For her own good,” the doctor had said. “So she can heal.” Raphael had moved beside her and taken her hand in his. The string that he forever wore around his finger was firmly in place. As his fingers entwined with Maria’s, the warmth in his chest was back again. He wanted her to open her eyes. He wanted her to smile. Raphael believed the constant ache in his chest would go if she did.

Raphael listened to Maria breathe. He hadn’t even showered since they’d arrived back at the manor. “Heal, little rose,” he whispered into her ear as he lay down on the pillow beside her. “That’s an order. I won’t repeat myself. Do you understand?”

But there was no Yes, my lord to this demand. There was no obedience. Maria was too deep in sleep to open her eyes.

Raphael placed his hand on Maria’s hair. It was full of sweat and knots. He needed to clean it. He needed to brush it and dry it; it needed to smell of vanilla and rose. Then she would be perfect again.

Raphael’s eyes dropped to the brand Father Murray had seared onto her flesh. Raphael wanted to run his finger down it. He wanted to take the pain away. But as he looked at the brand, he couldn’t help but feel his chest grow tight. Not in anger, but . . . With the brand, Maria was now like him. She wore the sign of the devil on her chest . . . just like him. Just like his brothers.

Like she was one of the Fallen.

But as quickly as the tight feeling in his chest came, it was replaced by seething fury at remembering Father Murray’s fingers in her pussy. At his hands around her throat. Raphael ran his finger over her neck. Finger marks that didn’t belong to him were imprinted on her flesh. Blue bruises and red scratches marred her perfect skin. Raphael looked down at his hands. They were shaking. But as he stared at those hands, he remembered them wrapped around Father Murray’s throat.

Raphael licked his lips as his cock grew hard in his jeans. Father Murray’s eyes had met his, never moving away as Raphael had drained him of life. Raphael sighed as he recalled the priest’s slowing pulse, his blue face . . . and his severed dick, his blood gushing onto the floor. Raphael’s jeans were still stained with the blood. He wouldn’t wash them. He would frame them and hang them on his wall in his room so he would be forever reminded of the cunt he had killed.

Raphael heard the door to his room open. Michael walked in, still covered in blood. His hands were stained; Raphael knew his brother wouldn’t be washing them anytime soon. Silently, Michael walked into the room and sat on the chair next to the bed. His best friend smiled, his fangs still coated in his victims’ blood. He would have gorged on his new collection as soon as they returned home. Michael’s eyes were dilated from the adrenaline of the kills they had all made. Raphael knew his would be the same.

Raphael settled into the pillow again. Michael took out a vial of blood from his pocket and, dipping his finger into the open top, began to suck on the blood. “She going to live?” Michael asked.

Raphael met his brother’s watching eyes. “The doctor said so. But she’ll take weeks to heal.”

Michael nodded, then went back to his blood. The door opened again. Sela and Diel walked through. Wordlessly, they moved to the couch against the wall and sat down. Sela rested his head against the backrest. “I’m beat.”

Diel’s hands twitched on his knees. His eyes closed, and Raphael saw him taking deep breaths. It took his brother hours to calm down after a spree. Too much energy in his veins. It was a high they all struggled to come back from—Diel most of all.

Twenty minutes later, Bara and Uriel walked in the room. Bara cocked an eyebrow at everyone present. “Seems like we’re late to the party.” Bara and Uriel pulled chairs from the dining area to beside the bed, on the opposite side to Michael. Bara watched Raphael hold Maria with a smirk on his face. Raphael curled further into Maria’s warm body.

“You calm now?” Uriel asked.

Raphael nodded his head. Not one of his brothers had showered. All covered in the blood and guts of the priests. Bara opened his mouth to say something, when the door opened one final time. Gabriel paused when he saw his brothers. His blond hair was wet, and he was back in his black clothes and white dog collar.

Gabriel moved a chair beside Michael. His blue eyes tracked over Maria, checking she was okay. “You need anything, Raphe?”

“No,” he replied.

Gabriel sighed as he slouched into his chair. He winced as he sat. Then his hand ran down his face.

“So, Purgatory’s done,” Sela said from the couch.

Raphael and his brothers looked one another in the eyes. He felt something in his stomach relax. A pain he never knew he carried until that moment.

“Burned to the ground,” Michael said, then, frowning, looked to Gabriel. Gabriel’s face was pale and his eyes rimmed with red. Raphael didn’t understand why. “All that wasted blood.”

Bara sighed, then leaned forward on his chair. His eyes narrowed on his brothers. “So this is codependency.”

Raphael wondered what that was. Uriel, Sela, Diel, and Michael looked just as confused as he felt.

“What’s that?” Michael asked.

Bara shrugged. “No fucking idea. Heard Miller talking about it before. Said we all suffered from codependency.” He grinned. “Sounded fancy. Just wanted a chance to say the words aloud.”

“It doesn’t matter what it means,” Gabriel said, pulling their attention. “He never lived what we lived through.” Gabriel smiled. It was the first authentic smile Raphael had seen him give in years. “We’re brothers. We have each other’s backs.” Gabriel pointed at Maria. “And the back of anyone we take into our fold.”

Raphael looked at Maria sleeping beside him. She was so beautiful. He wanted her to wake up and speak to him. He liked her voice. He didn’t like that he wasn’t hearing it in his rooms. He wanted to feel her hand on his cheek. He’d once punished her for touching his cheek without permission. Now he would order it if she would just wake up.

Sela got up from his seat and lit the fire. The room filled with warmth, the sound of crackling wood and the smoky scent of burning logs. Raphael stared at Maria. When he looked up at his brothers, they were asleep. Raphael’s eyes grew heavy, and laying his head on Maria’s long hair, he fell asleep too.

*****

It took a week before Maria was roused from the sedation. Raphael held her hand as the doctor took her from the IV that kept her under and waited for her to wake. Her finger twitched first. Her lips moved, then her eyelids began to flutter.

Raphael gripped her hand tightly as her eyes opened. They were unfocused at first, and her breathing was too fast. He saw panic flash across her face.

“Breathe slowly,” Raphael said. The minute the order came from his lips, Maria stilled and rolled her head to face him. Her eyes quickly cleared as she saw his face. Her fingers tightened in his. And it came flooding back. The warmth in his chest that Raphael only ever felt when Maria was around. Only now it was spreading through his body like wildfire as Maria smiled, her eyes filling with tears. Raphael tried to breathe through the lump that was gathering in his throat.

He had no idea what was happening to his body. But he realized he had always felt cold. Until Maria, he had been devoid of knowing what warmth even felt like.

Now he had it, he wasn’t sure he could live without the addictive feeling.

“Raph—” Maria winced as she tried to speak.

“Shh,” Raphael ordered.

But Maria didn’t obey. Raphael’s body locked still when she clutched his hand tightly. “You . . . came . . .” she managed to whisper. She flinched again and looked down to her chest. The comforter lay over her body, but the top of the upturned cross was visible. Maria squeezed her eyes shut. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the soft skin. She smiled. Raphael climbed into the bed beside her.

As he lay down, pulling her closer to his body, the door to his room opened. Just as they had done every night after dinner, Raphael’s brothers came in. And they slept, all together, like they had done for so many years as children.

Maria’s eyes widened as Michael sat on the chair he had recently been occupying. Sela and Diel sat on the couch, and Bara and Uriel on the chairs beside her. Gabriel was the last through the door. “Maria,” he said, smiling wide. “You’re awake.”

Raphael watched Maria’s eyes glisten. He tensed at first, thinking she didn’t want his brothers in the room. But then she smiled, and he realized she was crying because she was happy. She was happy with them . . .

“Thank you,” Maria said and met each of their watchful gazes. “Thank you . . . for coming for me.”

They all nodded.

“It was fun.” Bara lounged back in his seat. “It was the most fun we’ve had in a really long time.” He sighed. “I say we make Brethren-hunting a thing. Like an annual event or something.”

Sela lit the fire, and Raphael listened to his brothers talk. Maria curled into Raphael, placing her head on his shoulder, listening too. As she fell asleep, he kissed her forehead, calmed by her rhythmic steady breathing.

When he lifted his head, he saw his brothers watching him strangely. None more so than Gabriel. But Raphael ignored their strange looks, closed his eyes, and went to sleep too. He didn’t know what their stares meant.

In that moment, he didn’t care.

*****

Another week passed. Raphael walked through the rose bushes in the greenhouse, checking the blooms. Hearing the door opening behind him, he turned to see Maria walking toward him. Five days ago she had risen from the bed. The upturned cross on her chest had almost healed, and her strength had almost returned.

He hadn’t fucked her yet. Raphael’s hands itched at his sides. Because he wanted Maria in his bed. He wanted her underneath him . . . and he wanted her hair in his hands. Raphael wanted to wrap it around her throat. He wanted to make true his greatest dream. He wanted to embalm her and keep her in his coffin, then she would never leave him again. He would always be warm.

“I knew you’d be here,” Maria said. The sunrise was bright behind her, the light framing her head. She looked like an angel. Maria ran her hands over the newly flowered blooms. When she stopped at the white rose, Maria plucked off a stem and held it to her chest. Raphael’s lips parted at the sight.

She walked toward him, stopping as she reached his feet. Raphael towered over her. Maria was in his clothes again. He liked her in the white dresses. But seeing her in his clothes did something to his chest. It made it ache. He had no idea why.

Her blue eyes stared up at him. Maria reached for his hand and brought it to her chest. “I told you I would return,” she said. Raphael watched his hand in hers. She took a deep breath. Looking up at his face, Maria offered the white rose to Raphael. “Here,” she whispered. Raphael frowned. Maria swallowed but held her chin high. “For me to hold in the coffin.”

His heart kicked into a sprint, excitement flooding his body. Maria nodded, answering his unspoken question. “I’m giving myself to you, my lord. All of me. I want you to have your dream. I’m going into this willingly.”

Raphael stared at her. Her blue eyes were steel with conviction. With the promise he never thought she’d give.

“Are you serious?” he rasped, unable to control his thumping heart.

“Yes.” Maria stepped closer, so close that her chest touched his. “Take me back to your room, Raphael. I’m yours. Have me forever, just like you dreamed.”

Raphael grabbed her hand and brought her flush against his front. He cupped her face. “You’re giving yourself to me?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

Raphael pushed her hair behind her ear, just admiring this woman before him. As the soft strands slipped through his palms, he began to hum. Maria curled into his touch, and in the morning light, a song spilled from his lips. “Ring a-round the roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes . . . we all fall down.” As his words trailed off, Maria took his hand and brought it to her lips.

We all fall down . . .

Feeling weightless with anticipation, Raphael turned and gathered what he needed, adrenaline fueling his every move. He gathered her favorite roses, then guided Maria through the greenhouse. She was silent as she walked, and Raphael studied her face. Her head was tipped up at the rising sun. His chest clenched when she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He could watch her face all day. Her outstretched hands brushed every tree and bush that they passed, letting the wet leaves kiss her skin. Winter was fading and spring was beginning to break.

But she wouldn’t get to see the new season. This glimpse of its birth would have to suffice.

Raphael stayed by her side as they passed the fountain and Maria stopped to dip her hands into the water. He stayed by her side as she crunched gravel under her feet as they walked the path that led them to the house. And he stopped in the doorway to the mansion and watched as she inhaled one single last breath.

Exhaling deeply, Maria turned to Raphael. “I am ready, my lord.”

Raphael held out his hand. Shivers raced down his spine as her cold fingers wrapped around his. This is how she will feel, he thought. In a few hours, she will be permanently cold. Raphael frowned, realizing he would miss the warmth of her skin. But the flicker of sadness left him when he thought of what he would gain. Her forever by his side. Unable to leave, always this young and this beautiful.

Eternally his perfect little rose.

Raphael led Maria toward the stairs. The staff were milling about, preparing breakfast. Raphael heard his brothers in the dining room. Maria pulled on his arm. “Can I see them?” she asked. “One last time?” Raphael nodded his head and opened the doors to the dining room. He would give her anything for the gift she was giving him.

“Raphe, Maria.” Sela lifted his mug of coffee in greeting. But then Sela’s eyes dropped to the roses in Raphael’s hands. One by one, his brothers focused in on the flowers.

They knew what they were for.

Raphael looked at Gabriel last. His older brother’s face had gone deathly white. “Hello,” Maria said. “I just want to say thank you.” She cleared her throat as they all listened to every word she said. “Thank you for all that you have done.” Her cheeks blushed, and Raphael felt his groin stir at the sight of her pink skin. She was his weakness in every way.

Maria lowered her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she lifted her head again, her eyes were filled with tears. An odd ache pulled in his gut. “I have loved getting to know you all these past several weeks.” She quickly wiped a falling tear off her cheek. “You welcomed me to your table. And you stayed beside us”—she smiled up at Raphael—“when I was hurt and healing.” Maria lifted her chin, her tears drying. “I haven’t had family in a very long time. Thank you for giving me a glimpse of what that feels like again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” Maria tucked her hair behind her ear and squeezed Raphael’s hand, which hadn’t let her go. “It has been a pleasure to know you all.”

The table was silent, until Bara raised his glass. “It has been a pleasure knowing you too, Sister Maria. As short and fleeting as our time together has been.”

Maria smiled at Bara, then turned to Raphael. “I’m ready now. Shall we go?”

Raphael nodded and began leading her out of the room.

“Maria?” Gabriel’s voice stopped them in their tracks. Maria turned back. Gabriel was on his feet. Raphael felt a rush of annoyance surge through his body at Gabriel’s interruption. But Maria stepped forward. Gabriel’s mouth opened and closed as if he didn’t know what to say.

“I chose this, Gabriel. This is my choice,” Maria said.

Gabriel met Raphael’s eyes. Raphael felt a sinking sensation in his stomach at the look on Gabriel’s face. He didn’t know what the look meant, but it made his skin feel cold all the same. Maria pulled Raphael from the room. Her eyes drank in every picture they passed, every ornament and piece of furniture. “I adore this house,” she said as they reached his door. “It feels like home.” Maria looked deeply into Raphael’s eyes. “You feel like home, Raphael. You are my home.” Raphael’s heart started pounding again. But it wasn’t down to the promise of what was to come, but the look on Maria’s face, the words from her soft lips.

Maria pushed through the door and began to undress. Raphael put down the roses and watched from his place across the room. His lips parted and his breath came quick. Naked, she turned to face him. Raphael’s muscles tensed at how perfect she looked. The upturned cross on her chest only made him more possessive of her.

Maria held out her hand. Raphael walked toward her, a moth to an open flame. “I’ll take your lead now, my lord,” she whispered. “I give myself over to you, heart, body, and soul. I give you my life.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, then led her into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet of the bath, and the room billowed with heat and steam. With Maria’s blue gaze watching him, Raphael shed his clothes and walked to where she stood. Tilting her head higher with his finger under her chin, he kissed her lips. It was a soft kiss, one that he felt down to the marrow of his bones. She was all he could ever ask for, the perfect star of his ultimate dream.

He carried Maria into the bath, pulled her back to his chest, and began to wash her hair. Rose petals swam around them, kissing Maria’s pale skin. “I like this,” she said, breaking the silence. “I like bathing with you. The petals, the vanilla and rose of the bath oil.” She sank back against Raphael’s wet skin. “Feeling you behind me, keeping me safe in your arms.”

“I like it too,” he whispered. Maria stilled, then turned her head. Raphael watched as she tried to read something in his gaze. Her hands pressed against his cheeks. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself when I’m not here.” Raphael’s stomach fell. “Tell your brothers about the nightmares.” Maria bowed her head. “Stop inflicting pain on yourself.” Her eyes shone. “Be happy. Try to be happy. You deserve it, Raphael. You deserve it more than you know.” Her hand tightened on his face. “Promise me.”

Raphael nodded. “I promise.” Taking Maria’s wrists, he stood and lifted her from the tub. He wrapped her in a towel, relishing every moment and calming his racing pulse with the vanilla and rose scent on her skin.

He led her to the chair and dried and brushed her hair, singing the song that kept spilling from his mouth. “Ring a-round the roses . . .” When her hair was clean and smooth, Raphael picked up the discarded roses and took them to the bed. He ripped the petals from the heads and scattered them over the mattress. He moved to the coffin and did the same—two beds of roses for his little Maria, his very own rose.

Maria watched him with a small smile on her face. She watched as he went to the stereo and pressed play. A single song on repeat. She closed her eyes. “Abide With Me.” Maria’s smile widened as she listened to the harmonizing voices. “My favorite song.”

Raphael bent down and kissed her cheek. “Your favorite.”

Maria’s eyes opened, and Raphael held out his hand. Just as her hand met his, Maria pulled him to face her. His head tipped to the side in curiosity. “My name was Sophia,” she whispered, cheeks flushed with pink. “Sophia Wells.” Raphael inhaled a shuddering breath. “I just wanted you to know that before . . .” she trailed off. “I am Maria. Sophia died when she was sixteen. But now there are no more secrets between us. You know me inside and out. I wanted to walk into this with nothing left unsaid.”

“Sophia,” Raphael murmured and cupped her face. She wasn’t a Sophia to him. She was Maria. Would always be his heavenly little Maria. As he stared into her eyes, Raphael thought of himself as a young boy. A name drifted into his head. A name he hadn’t thought of in years.

“Raphael, what is it?” Maria asked, holding onto his wrists.

“Adam,” he said, voice hoarse. Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Adam Connors.” He didn’t offer any more of an explanation. He saw by the tears building in Maria’s eyes that she knew what that name was—the name of a little boy who died years ago, when he was taken into Purgatory and was born anew.

Raphael now had no more secrets either. The slate between them was wiped clean. It only made this moment more perfect.

Maria let him take her hand and followed him to the bed. He went to lift her, but she dropped her hand to his cock. “Without this.” She traced the cage that made him endure such pain. “If I can have one request, it would be for you to make love to me without this.” Her hand traced up his stomach and his chest. “Just you and me. How it should be. Perfect.”

Raphael closed his eyes, but he found that he wanted it too. He wanted to take her bare. He unfastened the latch that kept his dick encased, and the cage fell to the floor. When Maria ran her hand down his length and his cock hardened, there was no pain. No ache or suffocation, just the feel of Maria’s soft fingers wrapped around him. He groaned. He had never felt anything like it. He didn’t think he would like it . . . but it was . . . He had no words.

“Perfect,” Maria whispered, and Raphael lifted her onto the bed. She lay on the bed of red roses, her blond hair a halo around her head. Raphael paused to capture the scene in his mind. He had never seen anyone look more beautiful than she did. She held out her arms. Raphael climbed onto the bed and slowly covered her body. He stared into Maria’s eyes, committing her to memory, just like this.

Then his lips were on hers. He kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her until her hips began to roll. Raphael groaned at the feel of his unsheathed cock rubbing between her legs. He broke from the kiss and moved his dick to her hole. The music played around them, Maria’s warmth wrapped around him, and, keeping his focus on her, he pushed inside her. Maria’s eyes grew leaden as Raphael groaned, taking her raw. When he filled her to the hilt, he paused. He stilled, eyes closed, relishing the feel of taking her without the cage. It felt . . . Raphael couldn’t explain. He was a sinner. He was going to hell. But he was sure this was how heaven would feel. Warmth and bliss and whole-body pleasure.

Raphael began to move. Opening his eyes, he memorized the feeling of Maria’s hands roaming along his scarred back. Her cheeks were flushed as he rocked inside her. Her blue eyes were bright, and her skin glowed with a sheen of sweat. She was perfection.

Shivers accosted his spine. Kissing her lips one last time, Raphael gathered her hair in his hands. Soft, silky strands caressed his palms. And then he began to twist. He twisted and twisted her hair until it was a rope of golden silk. Maria’s lips parted and she exhaled a slow breath. Then she lifted her head. Raphael’s hips jerked, and he pushed faster, his movements guided by the harmonized voices that filled the air.

He wrapped the hair around her slim, pretty throat. Once, it went around, his thrusts becoming deeper. Twice, it circled her neck, her pale skin flushing underneath. Gripping the hair tighter, he wrapped it around one more time, stalling for a mere second to see the picture beneath him. Maria, as captivating as Mary herself as she looked into his eyes, a smile on her face, cheeks pink and her hair around her neck.

Maria laid her hand on his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered and completely obliterated Raphael’s world. “I love you, my lord. I love you, Raphael. You are so, so worthy of love.”

Raphael groaned and pushed into her deeper. Her hand dropped to his holding her hair. And she guided him to pull. To pull her hair tighter and tighter. Raphael’s breathing grew labored as Maria’s hair closed around her throat. Her eyes widened as he pulled it as tight as his strength would allow. Her cheeks grew red as the air was starved from her lungs. Raphael thrust harder and harder, until Maria’s hands clasped around him and her back arched. He felt her pussy clenching around him, a silent moan on her parted lips. Maria’s eyes began to close as her hair deprived her of life. Raphael’s hands shook as he pushed and pushed into her, feeling the gathering pressure in his thighs and lower spine. Then, as Maria’s eyes fluttered closed, a final smile on her lips, Raphael came, roaring out his release as he smothered her throat with her hair. Raphael rocked into her until his heart began to calm. When his heavy eyes focused on her face, he stilled.

Maria’s eyes were closed, her hair pulled tight. He leaned down and kissed her lips. They were still warm. He rubbed his cheek against hers. He could feel the heat from the flush on her face. Raphael’s heart was a symphony in his chest as he looked at her and rasped, “I love you too, little rose. I’ll love you forever. You were designed only for me. The greatest gift I could ever receive.”

Keeping hold of the end of her hair, he laid his head on her chest, wrapping his arm around her waist. And there he lay, for the first time in his life completely content. He lay there until he caught his breath, playing with Maria’s hair in his hand. Moving from the bed, Raphael gathered her in his arms and walked her to the coffin. He laid her down on the bed of white roses, brushing her hair on the silk pillow with his hand until not a strand was out of place. He placed a small bouquet of white roses in her hands . . . and he smiled. He unraveled the thread from around his finger and laid it on her chest, over her heart.

He would have his little rose forever. She would never ever leave him.

Finally, someone to call his own.

As he stared down at her in the coffin, roses in her hands and hair, something inside him locked into place. A feeling so overwhelming he had to hold on to the coffin’s glass side to remain standing.

Maria . . . his Maria . . . She had shifted something in his dark soul, created something that was never there before. Eradicated some of the pain. Something cracked open in his chest, and he gasped at the new sensation flooding through his veins. He reached for her unmoving hand and, when he took a deep breath, for the first time in his life Raphael felt like he could breathe.

His little rose had brought him life.

Her life, for his.

*****

Gabriel lashed at his back so hard that his vision began to blacken. He thought of Maria with Raphael. Dying. An innocent soul who deserved to live.

So he lashed himself again, wondering when it would all end. The evil, the death his brothers so craved. What his life had become.

When his back was a bloodied mess, he put down the lash and ate Maria’s blood with a lump of bread. He would not let her sins be judged when she passed. He would take them on himself. She would enter heaven pure.

He had failed in saving her life, a fellow person of God, an ally of his faith. But he would not fail in saving her soul.

He would not fail. As the bread and blood passed down his throat, he felt her sin fill his already damned soul . . .

He would not fail.

Chapter Sixteen

Maria gasped, her eyes slamming open and a familiar sight greeting her. Her heart was racing in a heady rhythm as her gaze clashed with the golden stare she had come to adore. She looked down; in her hands was a bouquet of white roses.

She was in the coffin.

She was lying in the coffin, but—

“I’m alive,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from where Raphael had choked her with her hair. He had choked her. She had watched the pleasure on his face as he had wrapped her hair around her neck and made love to her so sweetly as he drained her life.

Raphael was watching her. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright. No, not bright. They were shining with . . . tears . . .

A lump clogged her throat. “I’m alive,” she whispered again. She moved her legs just to be sure she still could. Raphael leaned over the coffin and ran his finger down her cheek. Maria’s eyes closed at the soft feel. “I’m still alive,” she repeated and felt her chest lighten.

When she opened her eyes, Raphael lifted her from the coffin, the white roses she was holding falling to the silk beneath her. Maria watched the bouquet drop, the symbol of death no longer in her hands.

Raphael laid her on the bed and climbed over her. Placing his hands on her face, he crashed his mouth to hers. When he drew back, he said, “You’re mine. You’re mine, and you’re never leaving me. Ever.” His jaw was clenched as his eyes locked on hers. “You’ll be with me every day and never leave my side. You’ll live with me. You’ll bathe with me. We’ll fuck and we’ll never part.”

Despite his harshly spoken words, Maria felt the shaking of his hands on her face, heard the tremor of fear in his voice. She cupped his cheeks, then moved one of her hands to lie over his heart. “I love you too, my lord.” Raphael stilled, and his eyes flared. “I love you with my whole heart . . . my Raphael.”

Raphael exhaled a quick breath, and he kissed her again. His hands tangled in her hair. When he pulled away, Maria’s lips felt bruised. She pushed a falling strand of his messy hair from his forehead. “You didn’t kill me.”

Raphael glanced away, then put his hand on his chest. His forehead pulled down. He appeared confused. “When you were dying . . . when your eyes closed, I knew I would never hear your voice again.” He swallowed, and Maria held her breath. He took her hand in his and stared at their entwined fingers. “When I knew I wouldn’t feel you holding my hand, or sleeping beside me, hand on my chest, or have you in the bath with me, or in the rose garden—”

“Shh,” Maria soothed when his breathing became erratic.

Raphael sighed. “I wanted you to live.” Maria’s heart expanded in her chest, so big that it ached. “I wanted you beside me, alive. Kissing me, holding me . . . I need to fuck you, to wash and dry your hair.”

Maria laughed with happiness, and tears began to track down her cheeks. Raphael wiped the tears from her face. “Why are you crying?”

“Why are you?” she asked, smoothing a single tear from his cheek. Raphael reached for his cheek and looked at the teardrop in confusion.

She loved him. Maria loved Raphael more than she could ever have believed possible. Her bones ached with the need for this man, this incredibly lost and broken man . . . the man who had captured her heart and made it his own, his possession.

And she had his.

“You’re never leaving me,” he said.

Maria felt the order clamp around her heart, anchoring it to his soul. Holding his hand as tightly as she could, she replied, “Yes, my lord.” Raphael awarded her submission with the most blinding smile he had ever given her, which lit her body like a firework on the fourth of July.

“My little rose.” He ran his nose down her cheek and tucked his head into her neck. Lifting his head, he said, “You can’t ever die. I won’t allow it.”

Maria laughed, and kissed the man she loved. As they kissed and Raphael slipped inside her, no cage to cause him pain, she knew she was home. Maria knew, beyond all doubt, that she was saved five years ago to be here with Raphael. To heal his heart with love and walk by his side.

She wasn’t naïve. She knew he would still kill. She knew that was what he needed and who he was. But sex and death would no longer be intertwined. So she would love him. She would love him as no one had ever loved another before.

She would be the saint to his sinner.

The light to his dark.

The chastity to his lust.

But most importantly, she would love him and he would love her. They would heal the fissures of pain in their hearts.

And they would never let each other go.

*****

Maria knocked on the door to Gabriel’s punishment room. Raphael slept, exhausted by the day. Maria would join him soon, but there was something else she needed to do. She opened the door to see Gabriel huddled by the fire, blood spattered around him as he lay in a fetal position on the stone floor.

Gabriel hadn’t heard her. His naked body was covered in lash marks and blood. Cilices were tight around his thighs, the muscles around the blades twitching. Maria spotted his robe on a hook, so she took it and laid it over him. As the fabric touched his body, Gabriel jerked his eyes open. Pained blue eyes locked on Maria. Unfocused at first, he blinked, and his face turned paler than it already was. “Maria,” he said hoarsely, and his eyes squeezed together in pain. “You’ve come to haunt me. To taunt me for my sin.” Gabriel’s tears tracked through the sweat and blood stains on his cheeks. “Your spirit has come to plague me for letting you die.”

Maria’s heart filled with such sadness it was debilitating. She crouched down so she was level with his face. “I’m alive, Gabriel.”

He laughed without mirth. “I’m dreaming. Hallucinating. I’ve pushed myself too far.”

Maria squeezed his hand. “He spared me, Gabriel.” Gabriel seemed to stop breathing. “He couldn’t kill me.” The sadness in Maria’s heart was smothered by the blinding love she felt for Raphael. Every second she was away from his side, she yearned to be near him. He was her soul. He was her savior. He was now her sole reason for living.

Gabriel blinked, then sat up. Maria turned as he pulled on the robe. “He . . . saved you?” Maria smiled. Gabriel’s face filled with disbelief, then something like understanding settled in his haunted eyes. “He loves you.”

Maria nodded. “And I him. So much and so fiercely.” Maria laid her hand over her heart. “I never knew it was possible to love someone so much. He is my heartbeat and I am his. I was sent here for him. I was saved from William Bridge because somewhere in the world there was a young boy who was suffering in an underground hell, just waiting for my love to heal him.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t . . . I don’t believe it. I never thought him capable of love. Any of my brothers.”

Maria sat down on the chair. Gabriel stayed on the floor, too sick to move. “Gabriel.” He looked her way. “I believe that is not the only reason I was saved.”

Gabriel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Maria shuffled to the end of the seat. “I was taken by a serial killer at the age of sixteen. Now, in my twenties, I have fallen in love with one. I understand them, Gabriel.” She knew that was true. Sinners needed love too. They needed people to care for them and believe in them and help them from the depths of darkness that evil could drag them down to. Maria felt a strong calling deep in her soul. Everything she had been through was now explained. “And Gabriel, you have borne this burden too long on your own.” Maria regarded Gabriel sadly, nodding toward his wounds. “I believe I was sent here to help you too. A fellow person of God to help aid your tired soul.” Gabriel opened his mouth as if to argue. “I believe in your cause. In what you have your brothers doing—ridding the world of evil and sinful killers.”

“I can’t damn your soul, Maria. I can’t . . .” Gabriel shook his head.

“It’s not on you to make that decision, Gabriel. Raphael has asked me to live with him. He is my one true love, and I will be here. And I want to help you too.”

“I can’t, I—”

Maria took hold of Gabriel’s hand. “Release some of the responsibility to me, Gabriel. Let me help you. Let me assist. I know, in my gut, that this is my calling. I believe God sent me here, to the manor. I am strong, Father Gabriel. I can do this.”

Gabriel stared at Maria, then stared into the fire. “It’s not an easy life.”

Maria sighed. “Nothing about my life has been easy, Gabriel. I am war-torn, but I am strong and now have Raphael by my side. I love him and want to keep him safe; that is all the incentive I need.” Maria put her hand on Gabriel’s head. His eyes closed at the gesture. “This life is destroying you, Gabriel.” Her heart broke for this man. For how broken all the Fallen were. “Don’t let the darkness consume you. Take my help. Let me share the load of your pain.” When Gabriel lifted his head, she said, “You have six brothers, Gabriel. From this day on, you have a sister too. A fellow sister of the faith. You have a friend.”

Gabriel’s head fell. “I’m lost, Maria. I’m so lost. I pray, but God doesn’t answer me. I sin . . .” He looked into her eyes. “And I too have a darkness inside me. One that grows day by day. I’m . . . I’m so afraid that one day it will consume me too.”

Maria tipped her head to the side. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

Gabriel laughed, but it was stained and laced with agony. “Thirteen years,” he whispered.

Keeping her hand on his head, she said, “Then confess. Confess to me, a novitiate and your sister. Confess to me.”

As if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, Gabriel inhaled a deep breath and began. “Forgive me, sister, for I have sinned. It has been thirteen years since my last confession . . .” Maria listened to Gabriel purge his soul of his sins. Thirteen years and more of sins that haunted both his sleep and his waking hours. For hours she listened to him confess, and when it was done, she left him sleeping in his rooms, unburdened for the first time in so long.

When Maria returned to her room, and Raphael pulled her into bed, his arm tugging her in close, she closed her eyes and silently whispered a prayer: “Thank you, God. Thank you for giving me this man. Thank you for sending me here to these men. I will love each of them as you do. Without judgment, and as one of your own. I will protect them and guide them as best I can. And I will cherish the love you have given me in Raphael, my heart, my soul, my heaven . . . Amen.”

*****

His feet shuffled on the stone floor as he approached the wooden doors. He could barely walk, needing his wheelchair, but he refused any aid right now. The skin on his legs was tight and slowed him down. But anger fueled his every move. He had a new purpose in his heart, a new mission in his soul. God had kept him alive for a reason. Seven reasons.

As the door opened, hundreds of his brothers got to their feet and watched him move slowly to the altar. He heard the gasps and whispers at his ruined appearance. But vanity was a sin, one he cared not for. He reached the altar, and, taking over the pulpit from Bishop McGuiness, he turned to the congregation.

“Brothers,” he said, his words slurred from the damage done to his lips. “We are now at war. A new crusade.” He felt the excitement flow through the room. He held up his hand to calm them. “Holy war has been declared by us, the Brethren, against a group of evil sinners known as the Fallen.” Father Quinn smiled, his scarred skin pulling tightly at the movement. “And we shall cast them all to hell.”

Epilogue

Raphael kissed the center of Maria’s chest. The pain of the tattoo had finally subsided. The feathers of the toy brushed against her core, and her back arched at the maddening feel. Raphael’s tongue ran over each line of the Fallen’s symbol that Sela had tattooed over the upturned cross Father Murray had seared into her flesh.

“Spread your legs,” Raphael ordered, and Maria moaned. She did as he said and watched, biting her lip, as he sat up, ran his hands down her thighs, and took his length in his hand. Discarding the feather, he thrust inside her. As he filled her so completely, she thought—not for the first time—that she would never tire of this feeling. Of her lover and her soul’s other half pushing inside her and making them one. Raphael leaned forward and captured Maria’s mouth with his own. “I love you,” he rasped, and the sentiment still made her heart burst. She knew he had struggled to understand that what he felt in his heart toward her was love. He fought with understanding feelings that weren’t pain or displeasure, but he now understood love.

“I love you too,” she whispered, and Raphael groaned. His hips worked faster and faster until Maria felt shivers break out on her skin, felt her heart skip and her core build with pleasure.

“Come for me.” As soon as Raphael’s order fled his lips, Maria threw back her head and moaned her release. Raphael roared above her, filling her with his warmth. Maria held on to Raphael, and when she opened her eyes, she found him watching her intensely. “Stay,” he murmured.

Maria kissed his lips. “You’ll be with me soon enough.” She got out of bed and passed by the coffin that still sat in the room. Each night she would lie in it for Raphael, silent, eyes closed, holding a bouquet of white roses while he stayed above her and watched for a couple of hours. Maria used that time for silent reflection. In doing so, she gave Raphael what he needed too.

Maria made her way to the Tomb. Once she’d slipped on her robe, Gabriel gave her the scroll that held the name. “Ready?” he asked, and moved beside the bell. Maria nodded, feeling her body fill with purpose.

Gabriel rang the bell for his brothers. Minutes later, Maria’s heart raced as she heard the sound of feet descending the stone stairs. The Fallen put on their robes and came to where she and Gabriel stood. Maria glanced at Bara, Uriel, Diel, Sela, Michael . . . and finally, Raphael. He smiled when she caught his eyes, his stare molten as she stood before him, dressed in her red robe. Raphael stepped forward, a flush on his cheeks, and Maria smelled fresh air and flowers on his skin. Lifting a rose, he threaded it through her hair, tucking the stem behind her ear. Maria’s heart melted toward Raphael just like it always did. She knew that would never change as long as she lived.

As Raphael took his place next to his brothers, Maria saw the pride he held for her on his handsome face. Pride for what this moment meant to her, to him and all the Fallen. She was one of them now. She’d never felt so at home.

Raphael pulled up his hood. and Maria took a deep, reassuring breath.

“Ready?” Gabriel asked the Fallen. One by one they dropped to their knees, Raphael no longer fighting the act of submission—especially to her. She held such pride toward her lover too, he’d come so far.

Gabriel looked to Maria and nodded in encouragement.

Heart pounding, Maria stepped forward. She cleared her throat. “Brothers,” she said affectionately, looking at her new family, heads covered by black hoods. “Let us begin . . .”

The End

-X-

Playlist

Sanctify – Years & Years

Churchyard – Aurora

Ruin My Life – Zara Larsson

Bury A Friend – Billie Eilish

Someone You Loved – Lewis Capaldi

Sing Me To Sleep — Alan Walker

Lay By Me – Ruben

Walls – Ruben

What Happened To Us – Chris Klafford

Corpses – Saint Sister

Handmade Heaven – Marina & The Diamonds

Heal Me – Grace Carter

Strange Love – Halsey

I’m Shipping Up To Boston – Dropkick Murphys

Killer – Zeina

Kill Somebody – YUNGBLUD

There You Are – Zayn

Love Me Anyway – P!nk (Feat. Chris Stapleton)

Church – Fall Out Boy

Abide With Me – Katherine Jenkins

The Half – Ruben

Power – Ruben

1000 Nights – Frenship

When The Party’s Over – Billie Eilish

To listen, follow the link: Click Here

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my husband, Stephen, for supporting me on this crazy ride. Life with you, and our little man, Roman, means the absolute world to me.

Roman, I never thought it was possible to love somebody so much. You’re the best thing I have ever done in my life. Love you to bits my little smooch!

Mam and Dad, thank you for the continued support.

Samantha, Marc, Taylor, Isaac, Archie, and Elias, love you all.

Thessa, thank you for being the best assistant in the world.

Liz, thank you for being my super-agent and friend.

To my fabulous editor, Kia. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Hang Le, thank you once again for the most stunning cover.

Neda and Ardent Prose, I am so happy that I jumped on board with you guys. You’ve made my life infinitely more organized. You kick PR ass!

To Tillie’s Tribe, I couldn’t ask for better book friends. Thank you for all for everything you do for me. Thank you for reading my work, no matter the genre. I owe you everything.

Jenny and Gitte, you know how I feel about you two ladies. Love you to bits! I truly value everything you’ve done for me over the years, and continue to do!

Thank you to all the AMAZING bloggers that have supported my career from the start, and the ones who help share my work and shout about it from the rooftops.

And lastly, thank you to the readers. Without you none of this would be possible. Your support still blows me away every single day. We have each other’s backs, we’re our very own tribe. I cannot wait for the journey to continue!

Author Biography

Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.

After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.

After several years living in Italy, Canada and the USA, Tillie has now settled back in her hometown in England, with her husband and son.

Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.

When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than spending time with her little family, curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, and convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that last square of chocolate.

Follow Tillie At:

https://www.facebook.com/tilliecoleauthor

https://www.facebook.com/groups/tilliecolestreetteam

https://twitter.com/tillie_cole

Instagram: @authortilliecole

Or drop me an email at: authortilliecole@gmail.com

Or check out my website:

www.tilliecole.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue