Chapter 30
Thirty
Cisco
My mind ceases to exist when Mercy traps my head between her thighs. The first inhale of her heady, feminine scent roars into my being, dragging hunger into my soul. One whiff, and my thoughts evaporate.
I ache. I want. I need.
Urges I’ve barely contained since meeting her take over me.
There is no God, no world, only the need to devour her, to eat her down to the marrow. It tugs beneath my skin. Buzzes and itches. Begs. Demands. Roars.
I’m not sure how I avoid slipping over. I only know that the idea of letting her go makes my insides howl with indignation. Over my dead body.
Then something happens, a sound, a shout, a taste maybe. I don’t recall because the cage breaks wide open and my devil crawls free.
No, not crawls.
Coaxed.
Someone—not Mercy—shouts something. It triggers a sharp, visceral sense of deja vu, of moving in water, stormy skies, and a dark hunger deep enough to drown in.
It fills my limbs with violence and destroys my mind. I look up, over Mercy’s hips, and hunt for the sense of familiarity.
Like me.
Whoever it is, whatever it is, they’re like me.
I thought I was alone.
This notion was the key to the lock on my cage, not the aching desire for Mercy. It is the realization that I am not alone… and that she is in danger.
Mercy’s eyes widen on me. I know she sees my devil in my eyes, but it’s too late for me to control it now.
Maybe she should see it.
Maybe she should run because now that it’s out, I want to ruin her with it.
But a good ruin. My ruin.
First, I will hunt down the other and devour it first. I will sup on their sin and add it to mine. I will—
Mercy torpedoes my side, and we careen overboard.
Icy water hits me like a thousand razor blades cutting into my flesh. Bubbles and chlorine burn my eyes, swarm around me, from me.
I see red hair, or is it blond? The color, the reflections, the ghosts take over, and I am not in a pool anymore. I am in the sea in Naples, fighting through waves and grasping at slippery limbs too thin to fit in my hand’s grip. I latch onto the rosary around her neck.
There, it breathes into my mind, filling me with relief. Doesn’t that feel better? Doesn’t that fill the spot?
A malevolent force swirls around me, kissing my skin, lifting my hair, humming and roaring.
Let her go.
She was only weighing you down.
Let her go.
I stop fighting, the rosary snaps, and Maria is gone … fading … growing smaller and murkier while I am sinking with relief.
I close my eyes against the anguish, stop fighting the waves, and I sink. Guilt weighs me down—I did it. I let her go…
But I wasn’t alone. The other was there too, whispering in my head.
How did I not know?
How could I forget?
My lungs burn with the need to breathe. I think about inhaling, even though I’m down here …
sinking. But then hands hook into my armpits and lift.
I go up, and she comes down. Soft, feminine, sinking, and settling before me.
Tarnished red hair floats around Mercy’s face like a halo, but it’s her eyes I am ready to worship.
She cups my jaw between her hands and stares at me in a way I never thought possible again.
It’s in the eyes, her beautiful blue eyes, that I find my mind.
I grip her head, fingers curling around her skull. I am trembling with the force of something stronger than hunger. Truer, deeper, maybe even blessed because this is what God feels like.
Mercy’s lips meet mine, and then we’re kissing. We are kissing, underwater, and free. My tongue is in her mouth, my legs are around her waist, and my lungs are on fire with every second I delay our resurfacing.
One more second.
I just need one more glide of tongues, salty and good.
She fists my hair, ripping strands until needles of pain shoot through my scalp and I gasp, stealing her breath. Suddenly, she is dragging me up, up, and up until we break the surface.
Air punches into my abused lungs, sweet and pure, but still nothing compared to the sensation of her lips.
Sound warbles into existence. Humidity rushes in. The water is warm again when I am sure it was arctic a moment ago.
Reality hits me.
What I just did.
What I sensed in the room. The whispered words I’d forgotten.
I don’t know what it means except that I thought I was the only one, but there is another.
“Cisco.” Mercy sputters, tugging my hand underwater to gain my attention surreptitiously. “Hey.”
I meet her eyes—Dio, such beautiful eyes—and a wave of aching hunger rolls through me. A shudder of need follows in the aftershocks, and I groan.
“Cristo—” I palm my erection through my trousers and wince as hot sparks of pleasure scorch through my nerve endings.
I let go and wince at the throb. It feels worse.
I grab it again and squeeze tight, strangling the demand into submission.
I forgot how torturous it feels to deny myself …
I forgot how good it feels. Tossing my head back, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through the pain.
It’s what I deserve.
Deal with it.
Thank God no one can see my hand deeper into the water … I hope.
Voices grow louder. Some concerned, some angry, some curious. Vaguely, I register that the Reverend Mother has arrived, and she’s not happy about the sparring match.
“And you two—” Her voice sharpens into clarity.
“It was my idea.” Mercy squeezes my free hand beneath the surface.
What have I done to deserve someone like her, to have her keep my shameful secret without jumping to conclusions, to give me a chance to explain.
Even now, I betray her kindness. She holds my hand in solidarity, but all I want to do is move it to replace my other hand, to force her fingers around my shaft. I can almost feel it now, her quick, furious tugs, pumping me. The visual slams into my mind, heightening my arousal.
“Father Angelotti?”
I open my eyes. Father. I am a priest. Not someone who should be entertaining sordid ideas. I don’t know who spoke the word to me, but I turn toward the deck.
Mercy and I are leaning against the pool’s edge, shoulders beneath the surface, my feet on the floor. The Reverend Mother, Thea, and Wesley are on the deck, watching us. The rest of the teams are ushering the nuns and orphans outside. Evacuating?
Everything is muddled, but I don’t think it’s about me. I don’t think they saw my devil the way Mercy did.
“Should I get Raphael’s staff?” Thea asks, noting my smarting cheek. It must be swollen from one of Mercy’s hits.
“No,” the Reverend Mother clips. She points her walking stick at them. “We don’t abuse divine relics for voluntary foolishness.” She casts her disapproving stare at us, at me. “Honestly, Father. I expected these kinds of shenanigans from the girls. Not from you.”
I want to apologize, but can’t. My mouth won’t work. The curse is still hungry and brimming beneath my skin, rattling the cage holding it down. It wants violence. It wants to feast on sin. But it will settle for sex. My cock throbs at that, and I flinch.
“You don’t look so good, mate.” Wesley peers at me from over his spectacles, brows drawing together. “You feeling alright?”
“Of course he’s not,” Mercy snaps. “I probably broke his rib or something.” To me, she adds, “This is your own fault for suggesting a sparring match.” She points at the boys. “And you lot for taking bets.”
“I’ll get the relic.” Thea pleads with the Reverend Mother, “It’s no problem, I’ll—”
“No!” She slams the cane down, splashing a puddle of water onto her black robes. “You two return to the archives and the gospel. We need that second verse translated.” She glares at Mercy. Flattens her lips. “I’m assuming this display means that you no longer deem Team Saint a threat to us?”
She shakes her head. Mumbles, “Technically, the sparring match was a way to prove to Jasmine she has no reason to fear them.”
“How?” The Reverend Mother scoffs. “By beating each other to a pulp?”
“The winner receives a prize. He wins, I go to confession. I win, he lets us screen his phone calls with the Vatican, and we get their unwavering allegiance—”
“You have it anyway,” I groan out.
Cazzo, am I sweaty? I feel sweaty.
“You didn’t let me finish, Father.” Mercy’s voice turns sweet.
She rarely calls me by that title, and I snap to attention.
“I was going to say,” she continues, “since your allegiance and phone were offered anyway, that you’ll be doing my laundry for the next week.”
“Who won?” The Reverend Mother asks.
Mercy snorts. “Of course I won.”
“Um.” Wesley sticks his pointer finger in the air. “I beg to differ, love.”
She glowers at him. “I did.”
“Um.” Thea adds her hesitation. “Babe … I think it’s a draw.”
“What?”
“Then it’s settled.” The Reverend Mother stamps her cane like a judge’s gavel. “It’s a draw. You both will follow through on your debts to each other, and I’ll hear nothing more of it again. Understood?”
She doesn’t wait for our reply and orders Mercy, “See to Father Angelotti’s injuries and then join us in the archives. You’d better hope you haven’t added to the orphans’ trauma.”
I should feel offended that she assumes I am the only one injured, but it’s true. Mercy isn’t even breathless from the fight. The Reverent Mother casts a final, withering glance my way and then spins in a whirl of black robes, her cane slamming extra loudly.