Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Mercy
Iburst from the confessional and head directly for the exit, shaking, positively trembling with rage. Nothing I pass is recognizable. It’s all blurred shapes and flickering colors.
What a gullible idiot I am.
Just because he’s all “I’m a man of my word” doesn’t mean I have to be.
I even put the cilices on to curb my need. I tried to be respectful. Now every stride across the hardwood cuts deeper than it should. Stupid me thought that if he could be an adult about all this bullshit, so could I.
Stupid.
I reach the exit and yank open the oversized door. Wind howls, blasting rain at me for a glorious second, and then a force rips the door away from me. It slams in front of my face with a thunderous bang. I’m left stunned and staring at a large, tattooed hand splayed on the wooden surface.
I refuse to look at his face and lift my chin. “Let me out.”
“No.”
Turning, I meet two brown eyes blazing with fury matching my own. “Let. Me. The fuck. Out.”
He pulls a key from his cassock and locks the door. Click. Drops it back into his deep pocket.
“No,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure kidnapping is a sin, Padre.”
“If it stops you running off like a baby, I’ll take my chances with Hell.”
“Baby? Do I look like a fucking baby to you?”
He leans close, and his voice deepens. “You want to go out, piccola? Earn it.”
I lunge for the handle, but he grabs my wrist. We wrestle, hips colliding, teeth bared.
The scuffle moves muscles I didn’t plan on using.
Sharp pain slices across my left thigh, and I hiss.
I try to twist away from him, to hide the blood trickling down my leg, but he’s already crouched.
I’m nowhere near the size of a child, but that’s exactly what I feel like when he grabs my hips, jerks me into position before his face, and holds me still while he inspects my leg.
His breath hitches.
I wrench away and go for the door.
He’s on me in an instant, shoulder to my midsection, arms snaking around my thighs and hauling me off my feet as if I weigh nothing.
My stomach lurches as we rise, and I fold over him.
“Put me down!”
He strides back down the aisle, ignoring me.
I kick my legs and at once regret it. The maneuver slices metal deeper into my thighs.
“Basta!” Enough!
Crack!
Pain explodes on my left ass cheek. I make a choking sound and then dangle like a doll down his back, watching my hair sway with his gait. Stunned.
“You—you spanked me!”
He stops and growls, “And I will do it again, piccola. Only, next time, you will thank me.”
Piccola! That’s the second time he’s called me that. It means “little one.” Or “babe,” as in…
Heat licks across my skin. I hang there, feeling the sting from his palm bloom and spread to places that need no encouragement.
Cisco stands there too, breathing hard, fingers twitching as if he’s struggling to control his temper.
He shifts one giant hand to support my weight by gripping my ass.
The other hand nonchalantly slides into his pocket, and he continues walking.
The nerve. The fucking audacity.
“You think you can spank me?” I shriek. “I’ll spank you!” Engaging my core, I lift at the hips, arms raised high. He must think I’m trying to backflip off because he grips me tighter. Joke’s on him. I fold and descend with two hands. Thwack! “See how you like it!”
My hands are smarting, stinging, on fire, and yet he just keeps walking, big and unbothered. Blood rushes to my head. I go for a second spank, but he makes a turn, and my strike goes wide. I grab for balance.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, attempting to plump his rock-hard glutes. “Are you made from marble?”
I smooth my palms over his buttocks. People often say attractive men look like Michelangelo statues. I used to laugh and scoff—men like that don’t exist. Not now, not ever. But this … this makes me believe.
Cisco tenses at my touch, just for a heartbeat, and a sly thrill darts through me. If I slide my hand around his narrow boy hips to the front, I bet I’ll find out what else is hard. That’s when he kicks open a door, flicks on a light, and then the floor tilts.
Nausea lurches in my stomach, and my head spins as he flips me.
On the way down, I reach for his pocket, fingers grazing fabric, hungry for that key.
He’s faster. An elbow blocks my hand, and then I’m slammed down hard, butt-first, onto his desk.
My teeth rattle, and stars explode behind my eyelids.
His hands clamp onto my shoulders. “You good?”
My vision swims. I blink. “Yep.” A beat. “I mean, no.”
“Stay.”
“I’m not a fucking dog.”
“Mercy, you are bleeding!” His voice booms, crashing through the church like thunder.
His eyes are wide, black pupils devouring the brown.
And the white. The monster from the pool, right here in front of me.
He takes a step back, fists at his sides opening and closing.
The veins in his neck and forehead stand out.
His breath saws between clenched teeth. If I so much as flinch, he’ll either break me or fuck me, and I’m not sure which would be worse—or better.
“Stay,” he repeats.
“What if I don’t?”
He just drags an office chair over and sits, grabbing my knees as if he owns them. Lifting his gaze to mine—brown again, not black—he answers, “Then I make you.”
“I’d like to see you try.” I flick his hands off me.
A laugh huffs out of him. He slouches back and scrubs a hand over his incredulous face.
“Sempre la stessa, eh? You just can’t help yourself.
” He gestures in that passionate way of his, and then something happens.
It’s like a switch flips. Resignation. Maybe acceptance.
Every line of tension in his body releases, but his eyes turn hard.
His voice drops to a smooth baritone. “Bene. Now you see what happens when you test Il Giudice.”
He grabs my wrists with the force of an impenetrable vice.
I would have to break my bones to free myself.
Never conceding eye contact, he leaves one giant hand grasping my wrists while the other snaps to his throat.
He rips at the white collar, pops the hidden studs, and slides it free from the cassock.
He tugs my arms closer and looks down to wrap the starched cotton strip around my wrists. Once. That’s all the length allows.
My lips curve. “Not big enough to fit?”
“I will make it fit.” He wrenches it into a knot and jams the stubby ends wherever they’ll hold.
Nostrils flared, chest heaving, collar open and exposing more of his tattooed throat, he smirks. Proud of himself.
I’m … gobsmacked. I just let him … and now, I’m … I mean, I could find a way to…
My thoughts trail off as he dips his head to inspect my wounds, flicking my coat out of the way with impatience.
I don’t need to see the damage. It’s on his face.
“Cisco—”
He slices me a glare, silencing me, and then he shoves up the hem of my oversized T-shirt, revealing the full mess I’ve made of my thighs.
“Madonna mia,” he mutters.
Our scuffle tightened the knots on the fastening ribbons. When he pulls them, barbed metal lifts from my skin. I bite my lip to hide the pain, but he can tell anyway.
“Sorry.” He glances around for something and then gets up to rifle through the desk behind me. Shame washes over me. I can’t look. When he returns, I feel the heat of his body against my face. Hear the metallic snick of scissors opening.
“This might hurt.”
I nod. Swallow. “They’re not meant to be on for this long.”
“I know.”
Snip. Pressure around my left thigh evaporates. Snip. The right, too.
Cisco’s hand lands on my shoulder, and he shoves me backward so fast that my legs fling into the air. My eyes flip open, and I gasp. Can’t flail with bound wrists. I’m going to fall off the desk.
But then his hand is on my lower back, supporting me as he slides the cilices from where they were trapped beneath my thighs. Another muttered Italian obscenity leaves his lips. Once they’re out, he gently deposits me back to a sitting position.
I’m still reeling as he crosses to the trash basket by the vestment press and tosses away my chains.
“You can’t throw them out.”
My weak protest is ignored. Still with his back to me, he braces a hand against the wall and bows his head.
“Cisco?”
Black fabric pulls taut across broad shoulders. But no eye contact.
Scowling, I gingerly lift my T-shirt, revealing more raw, broken skin. Blood oozes onto the desk. It’s not deep enough for stitches. Looks more like the sort of gravel rash you get when falling off your bike as a child.
“I mean … it’s not that bad.” I try a nervous laugh. “I’ve had worse.”
He rounds on me, wild-eyed. “Worse?”
“Don’t look at me with those judgy eyes!” Heat flares on my cheeks. “You’re a fucking mess. Look at you.”
His lips part. “I am not the one bleeding.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Cristo santo, Mercy.”
“Blasphemy in a house of God?” I gasp. “I rest my—”
“Do you want me to gag you next?” He advances on me. “How much of you must I tie down for you to let me tend your wounds?” A plea enters his eyes. “Just let me care for you. Ti prego.”
Please.
The fight leaves me, and I turn away, but he grabs my jaw and brings me back. My eyes slam shut.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I know I’m being stupid, but it’s like my body is locking down. This is too much. Too real.
“Mercy, when I say look at me, you trust me to do it.”
I can’t.
He sighs and lets go.
“Piccola peste.” Little pest.
I hear his footsteps move through the room. Cupboard doors open and close. A faucet turns on as if through another door. A bathroom? More doors. Rustling. Glass objects tinkle. And finally, I hear the scraping of chair legs against a rug.
I open my eyes, and he’s sitting directly in front of me. Cassock still on, unbuttoned and crooked. Hair mussed up. Jaw clenched. Fuming.
He slams down something onto the desk and picks up a damp cloth, already focusing on my left thigh wound.
I reach for the cloth. “I can do that.”
Brown eyes flash. Two stark warning signs. No words, just a low, animalistic growl from deep in his throat. I think I see the black thing prowling behind the brown. What is it if not a demon?
“Fine.” I rest my hands on my lap.
He grunts, appeased, and dabs at my wound. Fiery pain explodes through me.
“Mother fucker!”
It’s not water. Alcohol. I pull away instinctively when he goes for a second dab. He grips my knee, holding me still.
“Hurt?” His eyes flick up.
“Of course it fucking hurts.”
“Bene. You like pain, so I will give it to you.” He dabs again. And again. Each time, it burns.
“Ow!” I jerk back for the tenth time.
“Piccola, this needs to be done.”
“I know.” I pout. “I’m not a baby.”
His lips twitch.
“Then count for me.” When I don’t reply, he pauses and locks eyes with me again. “You know how to count, yes?”
He drops the cloth, jaw tense. I heed the warning and start counting.
“No. In Italian,” he demands.
“Fuck you.”
“You are not earning this yet.”
A bolt of heat arrows down to my clit. My pulse quickens, and I have to bite back a moan. Just like that, he’s got me all bothered and needy again.
“Uno…” He dabs. Fire strikes.
I curse again, but take over counting. I get to ten, and he mocks me with praise.
“Brava ragazza.” Good girl.
I’ve never been more turned on in my life. At twenty-five, he says enough and tosses the cloth in the trash. Then he just stares at me, long and hard.
“Go on,” I grind out. “Get it out of your system.”
“This is my decision, not yours.”
“Counting?”
“Next time you need pain, you ask me.”
“Oh.”
“Understood?”
He doesn’t seem to care if I answer. That he’s leaving tomorrow is irrelevant. He goes and wets a fresh cloth in the bathroom sink, then returns to my wounds. Only water this time. No pain.
I watch him in silence, not sure what to make of him. I want to tell him this is none of his business, to scold him for destroying my one tool for controlling my anxiety, but with every second that passes, every drop of blood cleaned, his wildness eases.
When I’m with you, I feel peace.
His shoulders drop, frown lines disappear, and a softness enters his expression.
Something inside me settles too.