Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Mercy
Cisco hesitates for so long that I think I broke him. The delay costs us the balance of our platform, and we both need to adjust our stances.
Once settled, he says, “You won’t ask for that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you said there is no us.”
“What if I changed my mind?”
“Have you?”
A beat of silence passes, and I forget that a crowd surrounds us. I search his eyes for signs he’s changed his mind about me.
“Are you guys going to fight or what?” Zeke groans loudly.
“Should I start the timer?” Raven asks.
I hold up a finger at her but keep my gaze on the priest.
“Last chance,” I purr, “to set your limits.”
He shakes his head. “No limits. Not with you.”
“Stop being so accommodating.”
“No limits,” he repeats. “Give me everything you’ve got.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him and the moral horse he rode in on.
How dare he be so goddamn supportive? So …
right here and visible, and out in the open.
I’m not used to a man who’ll brave public humiliation for me.
He’ll let me pummel him until he’s bloody and bruised.
He’ll let me break every bone in his body if he thinks it’s making me feel better.
He’s not even doing it for the glory or for the kind of kudos you get from being a martyr.
I’m the only one who knows the truth behind his motives, which makes this even more uncomfortable.
It’s almost like he cares about me.
Fuck him for being so perfect. How dare he? I want to drag him straight to Hell and back. I want to make him lose it, to tear off his collar. I want to hear him snarl my name and say fuck the rules. Fuck the Church. Fuck me.
But I’ll settle for wiping the floor with that smug face.
I glance at Raven and nod. “Start the timer.”
“Timer started. Three minutes!”
The crowd comes alive, shouting encouragement, whooping, and cheering.
Cisco doesn’t blink. His stare is all for me. But he’s too far away for a strike, so I circle closer to the center of the board, again forcing him to mimic me or risk balance.
“So, all that talk about wanting me in confession was a lie.” I strike out at his face.
He dodges easily.
“Ooh,” I coo. “Being my willing punching bag was also a lie.”
“No,” he clips. “That was instinct. Hit me again.”
I scoff. “I swear to God if you don’t fight back, I’m going to push you in the water. Be done with this.”
The conflict is visible on his face, but he says nothing. Inside, I am a roiling maelstrom of rage.
“You know what?” I ask. “I don’t think this has anything to do with me. It’s about you being in control.”
A vein pops in Cisco’s forehead. Yeah, that’s the way—challenge his control. Him and his pressed slacks and neat, trimmed hair. I’ll bet even ruffling it will drive him nuts.
I launch forward and deliberately make a clumsy hit so that I glance off and tumble toward the edge. A shriek slips from my lips, and as expected, he catches me.
“Oops.” I giggle. “That would have ruined the match.”
He tries to deposit me on steady feet, but I add the force of momentum to my weight and tip us off balance, toppling to the ground. Before we hit, he rolls and yanks me tight to his chest. Protecting me from impact? We land in a pile of limbs, him on his spine with me on top.
The wind is knocked out of him. “Oof.”
“You could at least pretend to fight.”
I slap him across the face, hard. His head whips to the side, red mark blooming on his cheekbone. Cheers erupt, but again, he does nothing except literally turning the other cheek.
“You’re infuriating.” I grab him by the shirt, lift his heavy weight, and shove him down hard until his teeth knock.
“That’s all you have?” He laughs. “The chickens are laughing.”
My knee snaps up hard between his legs, aiming for his groin. He suddenly blocks, thigh up and hips twisting.
“Seems like you lied about that, too, Padre.” I roll off him and climb to my feet. “You wouldn’t be protecting your cock if you weren’t thinking about using it again.”
“Instinct,” he grunts, pushing up.
He might act like he’s okay taking hits, but he’s not.
He’ll fight me soon enough. He must. Because if he doesn’t, then he’s telling the truth, and I don’t know what to do with men who tell the truth.
I have no playbook for that. I have weapons for hunger, for hate, and for hypocrisy, but I don’t have a single weapon for tenderness.
I snap my hand out, aiming for the same vulnerable spot. He deflects, just in time.
“Instinct?” I scoff. “I think not.”
Fire flashes in his eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the inferno of righteousness blazing inside of me.
He said it himself in his room—he likes to judge.
This is all for show. He’s a liar like the rest of them, and now I get to peel him apart in front of the entire abbey and finally, finally breathe.
“You men are all the same,” I grind out.
With that, I go at him hard. Strike after strike. Any time he deflects or blocks, I aim for the opening. Each time I add another dig at his integrity, pointing out his hypocrisy.
“What’s the matter, Padre? Did I find the bruise?”
Strike.
“You said no limits. You said give it to you. Is this how you swallow it? With your hands up?”
Strike. He deflects.
“You called yourself a filter. A function. Funny … I didn’t think functions got hard when taking confession.”
That lands. His head snaps back and blood sprays, but I don’t hold back. I go in for the kill. I pummel him fast enough, hard enough that his instincts force him to pull me into a boxer’s hug.
Now I’m close enough to whisper, “Tell me, Father—when you knelt in that pew after I left the booth, were you praying for me? Or were you praying because of me?”
He thrusts me off him. The board tips, and we both have to pause to rebalance. Fucker. He did that on purpose. He knew I was gaining traction.
Eyes wild, he wipes his mouth, sees blood, and then spits.
Desire blooms low in my belly. The priest is so goddamn hot when he’s ruffled. That competitive streak of his is dying to get out. Such a shame. He would have been such a good fuck.
“Ninety seconds!” Raven shouts.
I drop and spin, swinging my leg to sweep him off his feet. He and I careen to the side, but I grab his shirt and roll us just enough to stop from falling overboard.
“I’m not done destroying you yet,” I snarl in his ear and then nimbly bounce to my feet, adjusting my weight to flow with the balance board.
“Good.” He laughs loudly, pushing to his feet. Hair messed up, shirt untucked, white collar crooked. He lowers his volume, just for me. “You are beautiful when you want to destroy something.”
“So are you.”
I didn’t mean to say that, so I jab him in the eye socket. His head snaps back, but he holds his balance.
Fists up, I lean back and kick high. He captures my ankle beside his head and holds.
I hold too, bent back at the hips, balanced on one leg. I feel his trembling down to my bones. He’s close. One more push and I’ll see the truth.
Cisco’s eyes follow the line of my leg to my open thighs, rapidly darken, then slowly drag up to my face.
Intense, hungry eyes lock with mine, and his grip tightens to a cruel vice on my ankle.
My lungs heave in a sharp intake of breath.
This is not the same man who stepped onto the board with me. I’m not even sure it’s a man in there.
“Sixty seconds!”
Cheering escalates. Roars. The Sinners are the loudest, egging me on, wanting me to stop holding back and to make the priest eat his holy words.
“Hear that, Padre?” I yank my ankle, but his grip holds tight. “They want me to give you a mouthful. But you’re not ready for that.”
“Try me.” Guttural. Deep. Rough.
His fingers flex on my ankle. It’s the kind of reflex I’m trained to read, a tell that lets me know he’s about to let me go, not hurt me.
“You should let go,” I warn.
“Why would I do that?” he shoots back. “You might go and do something stupid like jump into the water.”
He registers my grin too late. I collapse my knee and drop to a stable, one-legged crouch.
My position jerks him forward, bending at the hips.
The next part happens so fast, it’s muscle memory.
One moment, he’s falling forward, the next I’m whipping my free leg up toward his neck, hands fisting his shirt, wrenching and twisting our positions.
Buttons pop. Fabric tears. Tattoos and tanned skin flash.
The board lurches hard, making it impossible for either of us to stop what’s happening—my scissor kick. My shoulder blades hit the deck, the impact jolting through me just as his face buries in my crotch. He drops to one knee to keep us from going over, one palm slapping against the board.
Breathing hard, hips flexed up, palms down on the board, neck killing me, but it’s worth it, I squeeze my thick thighs together, showing him who’s in control. I’ve snapped a neck like this before. One twist and he’s toast. Maybe.
Cisco is folded, bent at the waist, head forced down between my thighs, shirt ripped and flapping. Water splashes. The board shudders but holds. For half a second, he is frozen except for the hot breath heaving in and out against my smothered cunt.
Dark, smoldering eyes catch my breathless grin a split second before I crane my neck and glance at the crowd. Sinners smirk knowingly. Orphans’ eyes are wide. Sister Edith has slapped her hand over her mouth, scandalized.
“Girls,” I shout hoarsely, then wrench tighter as Cisco tries to pull away, holding him pinned. “This is called a Scissor Kick Chokehold.” I bite back a laugh and tighten my core as he struggles again. “This is how you serve humble pie.”
Peals of laughter erupt, and when I look back at Cisco, muscles screaming, our eyes lock. Hold. And then he bites me through the Lycra, hard enough to reach sensitive flesh. I gasp. Pleasure scorches me, seizing my grip instinctively.
Bad idea.
He reads it as a challenge and straightens his spine against the hold.
Broad shoulders flex. Big hands plant beside his knees, steadying us as the board tilts violently.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a fifteen-second warning.
Somewhere else, I hear a thread snap. Buttons ricochet across the deck.
He doesn’t even register it. His pupils have swallowed the brown, and something wicked and wanting promises retribution.
The crowd counts down from ten.
His large hands snap up to grip my bottom, fingers digging into my thighs—right over the cilice bruises and tighten. Pain lances up my legs, and I hiss.
But I don’t fold. I don’t tap out. I hold steady as the clock ticks down to four, and I see the realization dawn in his eyes.
I’ve put him in checkmate.
He must force a win, yield, or throw me overboard.
The change in the atmosphere is instant. Ice. Sharp. Like a razor blade in my lungs. His tattoos ripple, and his eyes grow wholly black—demonic.
“Two!”
Kill him or save him?
“One!”
I release my core, twist into a grapple that looks natural, and take us both overboard.