Raphael (Deadly Virtues #1)(72)

“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?