Raphael (Deadly Virtues #1)(73)

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.