Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Mercy
Cisco just stands there, head tipped back, throat bared to my knife, and I hate him for it—hate the way he makes surrender look holy.
His shirt is open and useless, flashing me constant glimpses of his sculpted and tattooed stomach.
And God, that cock. I noticed it the instant he emerged from the water.
His soaked trousers still cling, and that thing is pressing hard and high against his zipper.
It only proves that I’m right.
I made this happen. I wanted him undone.
They can’t help themselves around you, Joan. My mother’s voice rings in my head. You destroy everything you touch.
“Answer me,” I demand. “What are you?”
He doesn’t blink. “You know.”
My breath catches. That’s not enough. I need him to name it. Otherwise, it doesn’t exist. That’s what he said, right?
“I know what I see, that’s all.”
But seeing isn’t always the truth. People see what they want to believe. Did I imagine it? Did I invent a demon, an excuse for my behavior?
“Tell me what you see,” he says.
“What I see—” My voice shakes, but I force the words out: “What I see now is a man driven past the edge because I put him there. I see someone fighting every ugly thing that I made him feel. You’re—” I swallow, mouth dry.
“You’re like this, and it’s my fault. You were trying to be good, and I didn’t care.
I wanted to see how far I could push you.
” A sharp, bitter laugh comes out. “I dressed like a slut and flaunted my body. God, I tried to smother you with my cunt because I know it’s been decades for you.
And on top of that, I publicly humiliated you.
I made you want things you shouldn’t. That’s what I do.
That’s what’s wrong with me. I ruin things.
I ruin lives, and I’m sorry. I know you’re struggling with something dark, and I still did that. What does that make me?”
My hands are trembling, palms sweaty, fingers flexing on the dagger’s hilt. I remember every time someone called me rotten, every time I leaned into the label just to feel powerful for a second.
I wanted Cisco to fall, just so I wouldn’t feel so alone in the pit.
That was my goal.
“Say it,” I whisper. “Please. I need you to say it. If you’re a monster, then so am I. Just tell me the truth.”
Cisco goes still like a rock. Every muscle, every ounce of air between us grows taut, and then he snaps.
He shoves past me, heedless of the dagger, and strides across the tiles.
A litany of Italian outrage spills from his lips.
He’s slipped into the dialect of his youth.
Still, his body language, the gesturing, the curse words—they’re enough to understand something about beautiful, infuriating women who think they can make a man think things he doesn’t want to think.
Red creeps up his neck, veins pop in his forehead, and he paces, gesturing between himself and the ceiling as if someone is up there.
“Did she hold a gun to my head?” he growls, jabbing two fingers at his temple.
“Did she say, ‘Think about fucking me.’” He makes an obscene gesture that is almost comical in his current disheveled state of arousal.
“‘And while you’re at it, Cisco, why don’t you think about binding my wrists with your collar so you can fuck me harder from behind. ’”
He thought what?
“Did she?” He glowers at the ceiling. “No, she did fucking not.” He shakes his head, pivoting. “She did not because she is not inside your head. If she were, she wouldn’t think she is a monster. She would know what—”
“Who are you talking to?”
Cisco stops, chest heaving, eyes wide and expressive. His throat works on a swallow. “No one.”
“Is it … a demon?”
“Vaffanculo.” The curse word releases another tirade directed at the ceiling. Cisco bites them off. Exhales through his nose, puts his hands on his hips, and stares at me. With brown eyes. Human, hot, and real.
“So … not a demon?”
“No!” He throws up a hand. Closes his eyes and counts down from five. Next, he looks at me, and he says more quietly. “No. It is me.” Another calming inhalation. “I speak to God. The curse. The devil. Anyone who will listen.”
I try not to move. This is the most honest I’ve seen him. It takes my breath away.
And he’s still looking at me as if he wants to do all those things he probably thinks I’ve forgotten. But I know. I heard. Now I can’t stop looking at the white strip of cotton hanging from his torn collar.
He rubs his lower lip with his thumb as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
So I look away. Down. Shit. Somewhere else. Look somewhere else other than his sculpted abdomen, contracting with every ragged lung fill. Definitely don’t look at the bulge—fuck me, it’s battling his belt for freedom.
Water springs into my mouth.
“Mercy.” It’s his confessional voice, not the soft, understated voice. The one that demands attention and always sounds right. The one I’m starting to think is just for me. “Whose hands are these?” he asks, lifting his tattooed hands.
I arch my brow. “Is this a trick question?”
“Answer me.”
“Obviously, they’re yours.”
He puts his hands on his belt, and my heart stops. “Whose belt is this?”
Um. “Yours?”
“Molto bene.” His words are praise, but his tone still sounds angry. I’m starting not to care because he’s unbuckling, and my temperature is spiking, and there’s a hot pulsing need in my lower belly.
Cisco slips the belt from the loops and dangles the leather strip between us.
“So, then,” he growls, “who took this off me?”
“You did.”
My gaze lifts, and he sees it in my eyes, the moment I realize where he’s going with this. His lips curve ever so slightly as he folds the belt strap in two and stalks toward me.
He stops toe to toe, leans into my space, and taps me on the shoulder with the looped strap. He almost says something, then clenches his jaw and exhales through his nose as if summoning patience. Finally, he lets it out. “Did you make me want to take it off?”
“I feel like I should say no.”
Brown eyes flash, and I know I’m doing my thing again, pushing his buttons, wanting him to snap.
“A woman cannot make a man feel ‘ugly’ things for her, capito?”
“Are you going to spank me, Father?” I purr. “Punish me for my behavior?”
“I’m starting to think I should,” he mutters. Then louder. “Pain and pleasure seem to be the only things you understand.”
I smile coyly at him.
His brows slam down. “But this is what you want. It would only give you more reasons to believe this bullshit about being rotten.”
That hits hard, directly between the ribs. “Fuck you.”
“So it’s true. This is why you won’t come to confession. This is why you say there is no us. Tell me I am wrong.”
Indignation waters my eyes. “How dare you!”
“I am right, aren’t I?”
“Is your curse your reason there is no us?”
His jaw clicks shut.
“Ha!” I jab a finger at his chest. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Another jab. “It’s not God. It’s not your vows.” Scorn drips from my tongue. “You’re just a scaredy cat who—”
Lips crash into mine and hold. The dagger slips from my hand, clattering on the tiles. Another tinkle follows—the belt. Cisco’s eyes widen, and glance down at our joined, unmoving lips. He’s shocked. I’m shocked. He did that—is doing that—kissing me.
Because he wants to.
And now he’s clamping his big hands on my head, pinning me in place, and pushing his tongue into my mouth. The deep and low groan he makes rattles in his chest.
Cisco doesn’t stop there. He kisses me hard, soft, deep, quick. He explores every part of my mouth with his tongue, licking my lower lip, along my teeth, plunging in deep, and around as if he’s staking his claim.
I’ve never been kissed like this.
I feel it with my whole body, in the way he pushes against me, how he pants and grunts as if he can’t get enough of me, in the way his fingers thread into my hair, explore my neck, curl around my nape.
It’s hot, passionate. Emotional. Overwhelming.
He’s inside me even when he is not.
Fuck me, I am found.
I pull back. At least, I try to. Cisco’s grip tightens, and every line of muscle on his body goes rigid.
“We should stop,” I pant out.
“No,” he clips. Just like that, he kisses me again until I force a break.
“You’re not thinking clearly.” I gesture at his erection. “This is some kind of side effect from your curse.” He bites my lower lip. “Whatever it is.” He licks my lip. “Which we should probably talk about.”
He growls, deep in his throat like a wolf. “Do not do this now.”
“People are waiting for us. Anyone could walk in. The children.”
“Stop it.”
“You promised you’d take confession tonight. The nuns are counting on you to be a priest.”
He lets go and steps back, fury emanating off his skin.
“You are making your bullshit again.” He raises his brows. “I know. I see.”
“If that’s what you need to think, then fine.” I play the victim card and grab my clothes. “I’ll dress in my room.”
Shit. I close my eyes. I have no bedroom to return to.
“I saw you, Mercy.” His breathing is loud and ragged behind me. “I saw you from the belfry.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I swipe the dagger and shoes. When I straighten, he gives my bruised thighs a pointed look.
“The other night,” he grinds out. “At your bedroom window. I saw you touch yourself. Saw you wrap your fingers around your legs and squeeze.”
Something ugly twists my face. “You watched me?”
He stares at me, tense and holding his ground, but fidgeting.
“Yes,” he admits. “I did. So I know how you feel, even if you pretend you don’t.”
A thousand thoughts race through my mind. Cutting retorts, cruel and hurtful ones like, Did you get off? Did you like what you saw? Did you fuck your fist while I looked at the church and fingered myself, wishing it was you?
But I say nothing. I just push past him and head toward the exit.
“Take my room,” he says.
I stop, hand on the doorknob.
“I’ll sleep in the church,” he adds. “You can take my room.”
I yank the door open and don’t look back.