He hadn’t been able to fuck.
He loved to kill and fuck. He lived for it. Was nothing without it.
Little Maria had interfered with his fun. His very purpose in life.
Raphael kept his eyes on her as he wound her hair around his hand. Excitement swirled in his stomach at the thought of eventually wrapping the silken strands around her neck. At fucking her as she whispered his name . . .
She was it for him until this was all over.
Like the little rose she was, she was blooming under his touch, his forceful instruction. Then, when it was time, she would wilt and die, petals falling, taking her pretty breaths and heartbeats with her. Raphael inhaled, sleep coming to claim him.
As he closed his eyes, he saw her in her coffin, clutching long stems in her hands, red rose petals crowning her head.
Raphael smiled.
What a sweet and decadent sight that would be.
Chapter Eleven
Maria carefully extracted her hair from Raphael’s hands. As quiet as could be, she crept out of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Her heart was racing with every step she made. She closed the door behind her. Turning, Maria caught sight of herself in the mirror. She didn’t move. She just stared at her reflection. At her mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She took a tentative step forward, and another. And as she drew closer to the mirror, she pushed the strap from her dress and let the fabric pool at her feet. Naked, she met her reflection. She ran her hands over her stomach and between her legs. She could still feel Raphael’s warm release kissing her flesh. She could still feel his calloused hand touching her, massaging the semen into her skin. Maria ghosted her fingers over her channel and felt her cheeks heat as though scalded by an open flame. But his semen on her flesh wasn’t what felt most sinful. That honor belonged to the thought of Raphael’s finger pushing inside her, a primal, savage expression on his face.
In that moment, he had claimed her as his own. Maria almost laughed. It wasn’t just this moment. For weeks now, Maria had been steadily falling further and further into Raphael’s arms. She had given herself to the killer—mind, body, and soul—because it was what God wanted. But with every pleasurable hour that passed in his rooms, each day in his arms, his mouth on her core, Maria could no longer pretend it was only God’s will that kept her in his bed. She felt a part of herself break away with the first orgasm he gave her. Felt that broken part of her anchor in his embrace. And he had kept her there, attached to his side.
She was no longer Sister Maria Agnes, but Maria, Raphael’s little rose.
Maria inhaled a shuddering breath. Lifting her hand, she stared at her palms, her fingers. She could still feel the echo of Raphael in her hands. She shook her head, recalling his need for her to hurt him. The despair on his face when he couldn’t grow hard. His anger as he backed her against the wall and slammed his hand above her head.
She had made him come.
Maria, with both hands strangling his penis, working it up and down, had made him come. And when he had . . . his face, as he looked down at her . . . it was as though she had offered him her soul on a gilded plate. He spoke her name like a benediction.
Maria . . . little rose . . .
Maria shuddered and closed her eyes, her skin breaking out into a million goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with a pair of golden eyes that had seared their way through her high walls and into her bruised heart.
Maria faced her reflection again, lifting her hand to the glass. “He is a lost soul, one who kills,” she whispered, yet she could only think of the pain he bore as he tore his room apart. As his face crumpled when he gripped onto the post, his body positioned as if someone were hurting him from behind. His back arched as though someone were lashing him, unleashing torrents of abuse. Tears sprung to Maria’s eyes when she thought of his back. Turning slowly, Maria faced the shower. Her hands shook at the thought of turning around. The entire day, since she had heard the butler mention today’s date, that date had plagued her mind, stabbed her heart and weakened her strength.
Maria’s feet were unsteady as she reached behind her and lifted her thigh-length hair off her back. The warm, still-damp bathroom air kissed her skin, the skin she never revealed. Turn, she silently told herself. This year she would do it. She was determined. This year she would face the pain of her past, allow the long-repressed memories to be exorcised, not locked away down deep. But when her arms weakened and she dropped her blanket of thick hair back into place, she knew she had failed again.