As a young survivor of a killer, Maria took courage from these women. They died for their faith. For what they believed in. So Maria would believe in Raphael. While she still had air to breathe, he would become her religion. He would become her faith. He would become her only god and prophet and angel. And Maria would bestow upon him a kindness he had been robbed of his entire life. If he still chose to take her life, then at least she would die knowing she had tried her best to save his soul.
Just like Maria and Agnes, she would defend her choice with her life… even if it meant paying the ultimate price of all.
“Sleep, little rose . . . sleep . . .” Raphael murmured and kissed Maria’s cheek. As she curled into his dangerous embrace, she closed her eyes. For the first time in weeks, maybe even years, she felt a burst of holy light eradicate the constant tightness in her chest. And as she fell asleep, she thought of destiny. Of why God helped keep her from death five years ago when all the other captives perished. You, she thought and squeezed Raphael’s hand. You are my why.
And so she slept. With her head on Raphael’s chest, she slept and found peace. Neither stirred until the sun was high and bathed them in light. Kissing her lips as a morning greeting, Raphael pushed inside Maria. . . just him and her and a new kind of peace within their souls.
Chapter Twelve
“It’s perfect.”
Raphael ran his hands over the clear glass. It was sturdy and heavy. He closed the lid and peered inside. A rush of excitement flooded his chest.
“No changes?” Sela asked, standing back to let Raphael inspect the coffin.
“No.” He shook his head. He could see it as plain as day. Could see Maria lying inside, dressed in white, roses in her hands and hair. “Have it brought to my rooms.”
Sela clapped Raphael on the back. “You getting close?”
Raphael tensed, his eyes still locked on the coffin. It had arrived. He had fucked Maria. Everything was falling into place. He should be close. But when he thought of the past week, having Maria in his bed every night, sinking inside her whenever he wanted, her moaning his name and crying out as she came, he felt a strange kind of hollowness in his stomach.
“Close,” he replied, and Sela smiled wide.
“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, brother.”
Raphael walked out of the room and climbed the stairs. He stopped on the threshold of his room. Maria sat at the window, staring outside. Her hair cascaded down her back. Today’s rose was pink. His chest tightened when he looked at her, and he cocked his head in confusion. The tightness came more and more these days. When he looked at her. When he came inside her . . . when she stood before him naked.
Something had changed in Maria since they’d fucked. She was different with him somehow. Her fear of him seemed to have waned. She touched him more. She smiled at him. She touched his face.
She kissed him.
Kissing . . . Raphael could still feel her mouth on his from that morning. He kissed Maria often. His cock stirred when he thought of her mouth on his. She had never been kissed before him. But what his little rose hadn’t known was that neither had he. Raphael fucked. He killed and he strangled. He never kissed. It was a mundane and useless exercise.
But he liked kissing Maria.
He’d become addicted to kissing Maria. He liked the way she moaned against his mouth. Liked the way she tasted. Liked the way her body went weak at his touch. Liked the way she looked afterward, her eyes dazed and pupils blown . . . worshipping him like he was her god.
He wanted to be her god. He needed to be her everything.
Raphael cut across the room, his feet silent on the carpet. When he reached the window where Maria sat, he pushed his hand into her hair and pulled her head back. Maria’s eyes clashed with Raphael’s. The hunger and need he saw there made him groan and crush his mouth to hers. He sank his tongue in deep. His little rose was addictive. He couldn’t get enough. He fucked her any chance he got and she loved it. Welcomed his every move. He wanted to spend a lifetime eating her pussy, fucking her hole, and making her come. But more than that, he wanted her hands on his scarred back, brushing over the brand on his chest. He wanted her arm over his waist while she slept, her head tucked into his neck.
“What are you looking at?” Hand still in her hair, he looked out of his window. It overlooked the front of the estate: the manicured grounds, fountains, and hedge maze. Even though it was cold outside, it was sunny and bright.