Save him, she thought. You are here to save him. By any means. You are here to save his damned soul.
Maria heard a quiet knock on the door that led to Raphael’s rooms. It was quickly followed by the scent of food drifting under the closed closet doors. Maria’s stomach growled. But she wasn’t sure she could eat. Her stomach was in knots. She didn’t understand Raphael. He was violent, yes. But he had spared her life. If he had wanted her dead, he only had to have strangled her a few seconds more. And the way he was acting now . . . the kindness, the smiles, the room . . . He was making her feel safe.
Maria knew this would be the biggest test of her faith.
Hearing the door to Raphael’s rooms close, Maria quickly shed Raphael’s t-shirt and pulled the white dress over her head. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall. Maria swallowed. Most of her naked body underneath was concealed. But even though the material was more opaque than she had originally thought, she could still see the outline of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples. She turned and, with trembling hands, ran her hands under her hair and along her back. Relief surged through her when her skin was concealed by the neckline. It wasn’t high by any means, dipping low into a V, baring her shoulder blades. But it hid what so pained her, what her long hair disguised.
“Little rose?” Raphael said from the other side of the door. “The food has arrived. Come and eat.”
Maria glanced at herself in the mirror one last time and blinked. She could do this. She must. It was God’s will.
Maria opened the closet door. Music was playing from a room beyond the bedroom. Maria followed the sound of familiar hymns that she sang at church. Wordless versions, soft voices humming and harmonizing, only playing loud enough to drown out the stringent sound of silence.
When she walked through the archway that led to what appeared to be a lounge, Maria stopped. Raphael stood beside a large fireplace. A table had been set for two, with domed silver trays and tall candelabras in the center. Raphael was staring into the flames, unaware of Maria’s presence. So Maria watched him. He had not changed; he remained in the black silk pants, his chest bare. His dark hair had fallen over his eyes, obstructing her view of his face. His hand was in a fist as he leaned against the marble mantlepiece. He looked so young in the soothing orange glow. Innocent and pure. The true perfection of an archangel, just like his namesake.
In theology, the archangel Raphael was a great healer. Maria felt nothing but sadness at the irony. This Raphael only wanted to kill. The very opposite of what his name symbolized.
Raphael must have finally sensed Maria’s presence as he turned his head and caught her standing in the doorway. Raphael’s eyes widened, his lips parted, and Maria believed that, in that moment, Raphael was not faking his reaction to how she looked.
He roved his golden eyes over her body. Maria wasn’t sure if it was due to the heat from the fire or to his perusal of her in the white dress, but a faint blush burst onto Raphael’s stubbled cheeks.
“You look beautiful,” he rasped. Maria tried not to feel the compliment in her heart. But she had not been paid too many compliments her life. The deadly sin of vanity reared its ugly head inside her soul and made her feel nothing but shame at Raphael’s unexpected attention.
Maria ducked her head, averting her eyes from Raphael’s too-intense gaze, and smoothed her hands down the soft white material. Maria was used to the practice of custody of the eyes. Used to keeping her eyes to ground, keeping distractions at bay. She felt safer that way. When she thought of God and her duties as a nun, she didn’t think about anything else. The demons of her past were too close, hovering, waiting to strike. She liked this. Liked that, here, Raphael was in control. His control kept her bad thoughts away.
Raphael’s bare feet came into her vision as he stopped before her. “Lift your head,” he ordered.
Maria did. The pleased expression that shadowed across Raphael’s face at her obedience was a surprising balm to her bruised soul. He lifted his hand. Maria flinched, instinctively bracing herself for a strike. But Raphael pulled back his hand, regarding her with interest. “I won’t hurt you, little rose,” he soothed. Maria caught her breath and looked up. Raphael held a flower in his hand. A beautiful rose as red as the ones in her room. Her stomach fell again at the sight of the velvety petals, but she remained still as he carefully edged forward and tucked the stem of the rose behind her ear. Raphael’s eyes dilated, and she saw his jaw clench. He briefly averted his eyes, only for his smile to draw back onto his face. “There,” he said. “Now you’re perfect.” Raphael moved behind one of the chairs and pulled it out. “Please, sit.”