Chapter 17 Katarina
KATARINA
By the next day, therapy sessions had resumed and business seemed pretty much back to usual in Hallow Hall. I supposed that the death of the institute's patron saint hadn’t really mattered that much, considering he was seldom in residence anyway.
When I thought about him going around town, soaking up praise and adoration from his parishioners and leading his church, with innocent, trusting women like my mother attending every single day, my blood boiled.
Now he’d never stand in the house of God and lie again.
Sister Vera marched through the building, heading for the floor where Pavol’s office was. I hurried to keep up with my sore ribs.
We reached Pavol’s office in record time. Sister Vera looked tense. Her utter dislike of me was beginning to show more and more every day.
“What’s wrong, Sister? What’s going on today?” I asked her, unable to stop myself from prodding at her obvious panic.
They hadn’t told the residents what had happened yet. They had left everyone wondering and afraid. Excellent mental health support. Maybe they’d tell everyone at some point that Vargas had passed, or maybe they wouldn’t even bother.
“It’s good that everything is getting back to normal after whatever happened earlier this week.”
Sister Vera shook her head. “The schedule of the institute is nothing for you to concern yourself with. Just get inside and don’t cause any trouble for once.”
“Yes, Sister.” I fought a smile as I walked into Pavol’s office. Riling up Sister Vera was always fun. Of course, she always got her revenge by delivering me to my dreaded sessions on time, but I had to take my fun where I could get it, or I’d go completely crazy for real.
I stepped into the room and stopped. The door shut softly behind me.
Pavol was a mess, despite a few days having passed since the dark night when Vargas had swung.
He sat behind a messy desk. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a distinct smell . . . vodka.
Massimo stood in the corner like a demon at the crossroads waiting for a stray soul to wander past.
“Father?” I forced out when Pavol failed to even notice me. He was sorting through the papers on his desk with increasing erraticism. He snapped his head up.
“Katarina, you’re here.” He stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You . . . It’s time for our meeting.”
Pavol nodded and reached for his tea flask. He opened it and looked inside, and then cursed. “Yes, I see. Well, we could have just canceled today’s session, but then I remembered that Father Lucciano is here.” He pushed up from the table and nodded toward Massimo.
“He’ll lead your therapy today. I’ve briefed him on the next stage of your exposure therapy.”
Then Pavol was heading out, gripping his flask as though his life depended on it.
The door shut behind him, and silence surged in.
I met his inky eyes, and a ripple of awareness moved through me. That kiss on the cheek last night felt like a flashing neon sign over my head, impossible to ignore. Shockingly intimate somehow.
He straightened up and prowled across the room. I could see him in the military. He moved like a man who knew how to use his body as a weapon. A deadly one. He had perfect confidence, and that was intimidating and . . . hot. Undoubtedly hot.
Hot, dangerous, and he was determined to have me.
Massimo walked past me to the door and turned the lock.
He’s a killer. How do you know he won’t change his mind and decide not to bother with your little deal?
“I don’t know. I have faith,” I murmured, only a whisper.
My heart beat harder, my pulse jumping in my veins.
I wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement.
What did I know about excitement? Like I’d told him, I’d never even been kissed properly.
Growing up with a religious single mother, I hadn’t wanted to make her ashamed by getting a reputation in our neighborhood.
The small community had loved to gossip, and since we were immigrants and without a man in the family, we already got more than our fair share.
I want to be all your firsts. That phrase had played in my head on repeat since he’d uttered the words that night. And I’d agreed . . . agreed like a fool without a single thought of how I would handle a man like Massimo Lucciano being my first anything.
I twisted to look at him.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Why was my voice so breathy?
He’s going to eat you whole.
“Making sure we won’t be disturbed during your session. It’s Pavol’s protocol.”
“But we aren’t having a session,” I pointed out.
Massimo stood in front of me and leaned against Pavol’s huge desk. “Aren’t we?”
I stared at him.
“Are you serious?”
“As a short rope and a long drop. Go and get changed.”
He jerked his head toward the screen in the corner.
I just stared at him, confused, shocked, and honestly, turned on. My mother would be ashamed of me for the rest of my life if she knew I was getting turned on by a devil wearing holy robes, about to perform some kind of twisted therapy on me as a treatment for lustful thoughts.
Just the thought sent blood rushing to my cheeks. My face had to be the color of a tomato.
“I don’t work for free, micetta. Clients pay a deposit, at least, before the deed is done.”
He let his gaze drop to my feet, pressed primly together in my grubby off-white sneakers.
He then dragged his eyes up my legs, somehow making my baggy sweatpants feel scandalous, up my body, slow and steady, until he reached my face.
There was nothing disappointed in that inspection.
It was . . . satisfied. I forgot about my glowing cheeks and ugly, ill-fitting clothes.
I forgot about my scraggly hair that hadn’t been cut in years, my ragged nails, and even the silvery scars that worked their way across my upper thighs.
I forgot all of that.
His eyes fixed on mine, warm and wicked. “Time to pay up, little stray.”
I found myself standing before I could overthink it. I walked to the screen and slipped behind it. Back there, I laid a hand on the medical gown I put on three times a week. Usually I felt disgusted at the idea of what was about to happen.
Pavol knew why I was here just as well as Vargas had. I wasn’t a real patient, I was a hostage, and yet, he’d insisted on conducting his perverted therapies on me three times a week for years. Because he got off on it. Because he knew I couldn’t complain. Because Vargas wanted me to suffer.
Now, though, slipping my clothes off, knowing Massimo was waiting outside, I felt something strange and new. A new association forcing itself over the trauma.
Something delicious simmered low in my belly as I stepped out to face him.
Massimo had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the screen, waiting for me to emerge.
“I can’t say I’ve ever cared much for medical fashion, but you—you make it look good.”
I had no idea what to do with that compliment, so instead, I stepped forward.
“Where do you want me?” I asked, then cringed when his grin widened.
“What a good question,” he said, and then nodded to the chair I usually sat in while Pavol did my fucked-up therapy. The TV was nowhere in sight.
I lowered myself onto the chair and watched as Massimo approached.
He stalked over and walked around me in a circle.
“Since last night, I’ve given your firsts a lot of thought,” he said in a low tone, sending a thrill through me.
Had that moment in the hallway last night felt as important to him as it had to me?
“Hands,” he instructed after a moment.
I swallowed a hard lump of nerves in my throat. I lifted a hand and let him place it into the restraint that was attached to the chair.
“You’re shaking,” he observed. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes. All the time,” I admitted.
He paused when he had one hand tied up and brought one of his to the top of my head. Then, he stroked my hair with a gentler touch than I’d have expected from a man capable of such violence.
“You don’t need to be anymore. You’ve given yourself to me. You owe me a debt, and to pay it, you need to be intact. Our deal makes you mine, and no one touches my things . . . except me.”
He tied my other hand to the chair but left the rest of me untouched. No feet straps, no head strap.
Then he knelt before me. He’d never looked more like a demonic priest than in that moment, flicking open his little bone-handled knife with practiced ease and cleaning the sharp blade against his cassock.
“Do you trust me, Katarina?” he murmured.
“No.” My answer was immediate.
He chuckled. “Clever girl. But soon you’ll realize I always keep my word. If I say you’re safe, you’re safe. If I say you’re dead, you’re dead, no matter what. I always keep my word.”
Then he put the edge of the knife to the neckline of my medical gown and cut a precise line downward, dividing the material into two flaps.
“I think we’ll burn this after today. You won’t ever wear it again.”
My nipples contracted, and my skin prickled. I was hyperaware of him as he set the knife down and switched his attention to the fabric. With deliberate slowness, he drew the two sides apart, baring my breasts to his greedy gaze.
My face burned hot, the feeling spreading down my neck to my chest.
He let his gaze wander across my breasts. The edges of the medical tape were only just visible, peeking around the corners of my ribs. My breasts swayed with my rapid breaths; I was so nervous I couldn’t stop gulping down air.
Massimo tilted his head to the side, a languid inspection, and then, in an almost involuntary movement, wetted his lips.
He looked hungry.
His huge hands came to my chest.
“Today, I’ll make you come, and take this first. The first man to show you what you’re capable of. The first of many firsts.”