Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Mercy
People talk about sexual tension, but they don’t know shit. They never stood in a dripping two-piece at the edge of a pool, nerves a livewire while spectators take bets on whether you’re about to fuck or fight the priest standing toe-to-toe with you.
Securing the floating board’s safety tethers seemed like a clever idea earlier.
Someone had to do it, and since I’m the only one in a swimsuit, I volunteered.
I’ll take any advantage in this battle of wills between Cisco and me.
Orchestrating a wet Bond Girl shot sounded like a good distraction to put him offside.
But now I’m standing here, and he’s standing there, looking all simmering, sexual, and forbidden in his clerical blacks.
At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I remember my own name, let alone my fighting form.
Rolled sleeves reveal his thick forearms roped with muscle and ink, scars on display as if he wants to remind us all that he was a monster before he ever prayed.
The line of his jaw is granite, a tendon flexing in the side.
I used to think that look he gave me was sheer disgust. I’m starting to think it’s more like he thinks I’m the devil—his devil—and I want to lick the sweat off his neck just to prove him right.
Except we’re not alone.
We’re surrounded by what sounds like half the abbey and three young, orphaned girls—all placing bets.
“Last chance to change into more appropriate clothes,” I offer, and nod at the circular floating board. “The tension rope I attached only prevents the board from flipping. But if you fall, your shirt could snag on the bolts.”
“I’m fine,” he clips, a little too fast.
Brows raised, I shrug and step to the pool’s edge. “Then let’s do this. Do you want to go first?”
“Ladies first.” He meets me at the edge.
The floating board is ten feet in diameter, made of bamboo with a rubber overlay.
One of the tethers I attached is for dragging the board to the pool’s edge so you can walk on it without getting wet.
Another tether connects the center of the board to the bottom of the pool in case of flips, keeping spectators safe.
Other training tethers reduce the board’s mobility, but I left those off.
Once we’re both on, we will unmoor, and the tension in the bottom cord pulls us to the middle of the pool. I step onto the board with the ease of a ballerina, head to the center where physics gives me an advantage, and spin to face Cisco.
I catch him staring at the water, his complexion a little pale. I don’t think he realized that once we’re in the middle of the pool, there’s no way of returning without getting wet.
“Looking a bit peaky there, Padre. Having second thoughts?”
His gaze snaps to me. “No.”
I love that he’s so competitive. Men like that make the best bed partners. They’re always trying to give you more orgasms, longer orgasms, more—
I’m doing it again. Shaking my head, I refocus on Cisco as he raises a bare foot to step onto the board. A shining glint at his waist alarms me.
“Stop!” I hold out my palm.
He retreats with a frown. “What?”
“You can’t spar with a belt on. Sorry, it’s the rules.” I point at a sign on the wall. “No sharps unless training specified.”
He glances at his team.
“Makes sense, mate.” Wesley shrugs.
A belt buckle isn’t exactly sharp, but it could be. It’s also an advantage for him to use it as a harness or restraint.
Muttering, he flattens his lips and unbuckles. Someone whistles from the Sinner bench. Probably Leila.
“Take it off! Take it off!”
I smirk over my shoulder. Yep, Leila. And from Zeke’s dark scowl, this is payback for him ogling me earlier. Those two are going to have great sex tonight.
Still muttering, Cisco tosses the belt and empties his pockets. Then he gives me an exaggerated “Do I have permission now?” type face.
“Welcome aboard, Captain.”
He steps onto the board with the effortless ease of a wild cat—or wolf. But the instant his full weight lands, the platform rocks. Instant destabilization.
I pretend to be knocked off balance, playing up the inexperienced angle.
“Whoops.” I windmill my hands.
His knees bend, and he crouches, hands out for balance.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yep.” I gesture at the mooring. “You want to release us, or shall I?”
“I will do it,” he mumbles, and carefully gets down on hands and knees to unhook the tether.
The instant we unlatch, the floating board glides toward the center of the pool. While Cisco is occupied getting to his feet, I quickly salute the orphans as we float past, loving how they giggle at my performance.
We reach the center, and I brace for the rebound, limbs loose and fluid. Cisco stumbles but is quick to regain his balance. Then we face each other, and a hush falls over the pool hall, anticipation vibrating in the air.
It takes a moment for the rocking to settle, which makes this the perfect opportunity to discuss match boundaries.
“Okay, Padre, what are the rules of engagement?”
His gaze dips to my cleavage—a flick, almost too fast to notice—then right back up.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to smile. This swimsuit isn’t made for big-busted women. The tight support pushes the flesh up high and over the V-neck collar. Every time we wobble, the girls do too. All part of my strategy.
“Standard rules,” he announces, accent dragging. “First to tap out or go overboard loses.”
“That it?” I tilt my hips, grinning. “No hard limits?”
“You wouldn’t respect them.”
“True. Safe words, then?” I purr. “Or is mercy off the menu?”
Our voices travel over water, and the crowd flares. Leila hoots. Orphans giggle. Someone yells, “Just kick him in the balls already.”
But my favorite reaction is the way his fists clench, and his knuckles blanch.
“You wouldn’t use a safe word,” he replies finally.
“You got me.” I pout. “I like it when it hurts a little.”
“Sì.” He gives my thighs a meaningful look. “Remember what this is.”
It feels like a reprimand, like a parental chide.
“Foreplay?” I wink.
It doesn’t achieve the desired response. Instead of getting flustered, he grows impatient. Lips pressing together, tugging at that scar.
He holds up his hand to Raven. “Three minutes.”
My eye twitches.
His calm demeanor isn’t giving off attack-dog vibes.
Was I wrong to assume his violence meant a physical attack?
If he genuinely wants to win, he’d have stripped his clothes, as they’d hinder him if wet.
What if he kept them as a barrier for my pummeling fists, because he never intended to fight me?
He’s going to be my punching bag instead.
“Are you actually going to spar with me?” I whisper low so that no one can hear.
“Do you know why the priest sits in the dark? Why we hide our faces behind the screen?” He doesn’t wait for my answer.
“Because in that moment, I am not a man you have to impress. I am a function. The Church trains us to be the filtration system for the soul. I am built to take the poison you are hoarding, Mercy.” His voice lowers to a deep baritone.
“You are toxic right now because you are holding onto shame, thinking you deserve to burn with it. Give it to me. That is my job—to drink the bitter cup so you do not have to.”
My face twists. “So, you’re just going to stand there while I hurt you?”
“I am strong enough to swallow your demons and not choke.”
Outraged, I hiss, “I’ve told you nothing about my demons.”
“Exactly.”
He stares at me, and I stare back. This is beyond a release of tension. This is him overreaching where he’s not welcome. I understand he’s trying to help, but it’s making this worse.
“I am not your project.” I start circling him on light feet.
He is forced to move in the opposite direction, or risk tipping the balance.
“I know.” He prowls around as light-footed as me.
“If you intended for me to win, then why offer me whatever I want as a prize?” I quirk an eyebrow. “Do you assume I’ll choose something easy like making you report to me, or for you to give up your phone permanently?”
His lips curve slightly. “I was going to offer that anyway.”
That smug, sexy look grates my nerves. “And what if I were to ask to take your bedroom?”
“You can have it anyway.”
“And what if I want to fuck you in it?”