They had done that together.
Maria was just about to make her way back up the stairs when she heard pained cries and grunts from behind a nearby door. She heard the cracking of what sounded remarkably like a whip. Maria’s heart raced with unease. She knew she should have left, fled for the safety of Raphael and his room. But seeing the door slightly open, Maria followed the sound of anguished moans and peeked inside. Her face blanched; in the center of a stone floor, Father Gabriel sat, naked, his back bleeding from the stripes he was forcing onto his flesh. Maria jumped when the scourge he was holding whacked into his skin, splitting his back, blood sprouting from the wound. His head was bowed and he was breathless. His back was ruined . . . just like Raphael’s.
Maria’s mind whirled. Who were these men? What had happened to make them hate themselves so much? Cause themselves this much pain? She had no idea if the other brothers in the house were the same, but after seeing Raphael and now Gabriel force such atrocities onto themselves, she guessed they probably were.
As Gabriel went to strike himself again, Maria snapped. She rushed through the door and caught his wrist. Gabriel started, his head of blond curls whipping in her direction. His pained blue eyes widened. Maria’s stomach fell when on his thighs she saw cilices. One on each leg, slicing into the muscle. “Gabriel,” she whispered, sadness lacing each word.
At the sound of his name, Gabriel dropped the scourge and pulled back his arm. He scrambled to his feet and rushed across the room to cover himself with a robe. But Maria saw his skin—barely an inch hadn’t been scarred. Like Raphael, he had the same tattoo of a sword and angel wings on his chest.
Maria realized she had no idea what was happening in this house. With these men.
Gabriel turned, blood seeping through the flannel of his white robe. “What are you doing here, Maria?”
Maria ignored his question and picked the well-used bloodied scourge off the floor. She observed the seven thongs, knotted with ropes and boasting sharp blades. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Gabriel ran his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.” Maria needed answers. She needed to know what was happening in this mansion. Something in her gut compelled her to find out.
Gabriel looked up at her. He laughed without mirth. “You are with the Brethren. You wouldn’t understand.” He shrugged, his face showing an expression of blatant disgust. “Or maybe you would. Maybe you have seen the cause of this first hand.” Maria was shocked to see Gabriel’s eyes grow dark and intimidating. She never thought he would have such a side to him.
Then again, she didn’t know him at all.
Maria frowned, remembering his comment. Gabriel was watching her closely, a hawk on his prey. Maria shook her head. “Who? Who are the Brethren? What are you talking about?”
Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, but then a look of confusion took over his face. “The Brethren,” he said plainly. His eyes never left her; they narrowed as if trying to read something in her face. Before she could ask more questions, Gabriel stepped closer to Maria. He took the scourge from her hand. Maria noticed him wincing as he walked. The pain he must be in from the stripes and the cilices . . .
Gabriel placed the scourge in a closet, then turned to her, arms folded. “You work for Father Quinn.” His voice was tight with unshed anger.
“I . . . I don’t work for them,” Maria said. She wouldn’t do it anymore, even if they ever found her. Not after what she had just shared with Raphael.
Seeing a chair and table close by, she sat down, the fight dropping from her shoulders. Maria met Gabriel’s face, and she crossed her hands on her lap. “I’m a novitiate at Sisters of Our Lady of Grace. I am about to take final vows.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “A nun?”
“Or soon to be.”
He stood in contemplative silence for a couple of minutes then sat down at the other side of the table. Maria cast her eyes around the room. There was another table at the back, with a plate of bread on top. Maria saw vials of some description beside the plate, but Gabriel’s heavy sigh pulled her attention away before she could discover what was in them. “How . . . how did you meet him? Father Quinn?”
“He’s my mentor.”
Gabriel ran his hand over his face. He had large bags underneath his eyes. He looked tired and horrifically tormented. “Gabriel.” Maria pointed to his chest. “What is the emblem you and Raphael wear? Who are the Brethren? I’m so confused.”
Gabriel regarded her harshly for what seemed like an eternity, until he sat back in his chair, and all the fight left his tense shoulders too. His eyes glossed over, and Maria knew he was no longer looking at her, but lost somewhere in his head. She sat on the edge of her seat, a foreboding ache in her stomach.