Raphael (Deadly Virtues #1)(57)

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.