Gabriel met Raphael’s eyes. Raphael felt a sinking sensation in his stomach at the look on Gabriel’s face. He didn’t know what the look meant, but it made his skin feel cold all the same. Maria pulled Raphael from the room. Her eyes drank in every picture they passed, every ornament and piece of furniture. “I adore this house,” she said as they reached his door. “It feels like home.” Maria looked deeply into Raphael’s eyes. “You feel like home, Raphael. You are my home.” Raphael’s heart started pounding again. But it wasn’t down to the promise of what was to come, but the look on Maria’s face, the words from her soft lips.
Maria pushed through the door and began to undress. Raphael put down the roses and watched from his place across the room. His lips parted and his breath came quick. Naked, she turned to face him. Raphael’s muscles tensed at how perfect she looked. The upturned cross on her chest only made him more possessive of her.
Maria held out her hand. Raphael walked toward her, a moth to an open flame. “I’ll take your lead now, my lord,” she whispered. “I give myself over to you, heart, body, and soul. I give you my life.”
He exhaled a shaky breath, then led her into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet of the bath, and the room billowed with heat and steam. With Maria’s blue gaze watching him, Raphael shed his clothes and walked to where she stood. Tilting her head higher with his finger under her chin, he kissed her lips. It was a soft kiss, one that he felt down to the marrow of his bones. She was all he could ever ask for, the perfect star of his ultimate dream.
He carried Maria into the bath, pulled her back to his chest, and began to wash her hair. Rose petals swam around them, kissing Maria’s pale skin. “I like this,” she said, breaking the silence. “I like bathing with you. The petals, the vanilla and rose of the bath oil.” She sank back against Raphael’s wet skin. “Feeling you behind me, keeping me safe in your arms.”
“I like it too,” he whispered. Maria stilled, then turned her head. Raphael watched as she tried to read something in his gaze. Her hands pressed against his cheeks. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself when I’m not here.” Raphael’s stomach fell. “Tell your brothers about the nightmares.” Maria bowed her head. “Stop inflicting pain on yourself.” Her eyes shone. “Be happy. Try to be happy. You deserve it, Raphael. You deserve it more than you know.” Her hand tightened on his face. “Promise me.”
Raphael nodded. “I promise.” Taking Maria’s wrists, he stood and lifted her from the tub. He wrapped her in a towel, relishing every moment and calming his racing pulse with the vanilla and rose scent on her skin.
He led her to the chair and dried and brushed her hair, singing the song that kept spilling from his mouth. “Ring a-round the roses . . .” When her hair was clean and smooth, Raphael picked up the discarded roses and took them to the bed. He ripped the petals from the heads and scattered them over the mattress. He moved to the coffin and did the same—two beds of roses for his little Maria, his very own rose.
Maria watched him with a small smile on her face. She watched as he went to the stereo and pressed play. A single song on repeat. She closed her eyes. “Abide With Me.” Maria’s smile widened as she listened to the harmonizing voices. “My favorite song.”
Raphael bent down and kissed her cheek. “Your favorite.”
Maria’s eyes opened, and Raphael held out his hand. Just as her hand met his, Maria pulled him to face her. His head tipped to the side in curiosity. “My name was Sophia,” she whispered, cheeks flushed with pink. “Sophia Wells.” Raphael inhaled a shuddering breath. “I just wanted you to know that before . . .” she trailed off. “I am Maria. Sophia died when she was sixteen. But now there are no more secrets between us. You know me inside and out. I wanted to walk into this with nothing left unsaid.”
“Sophia,” Raphael murmured and cupped her face. She wasn’t a Sophia to him. She was Maria. Would always be his heavenly little Maria. As he stared into her eyes, Raphael thought of himself as a young boy. A name drifted into his head. A name he hadn’t thought of in years.
“Raphael, what is it?” Maria asked, holding onto his wrists.
“Adam,” he said, voice hoarse. Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Adam Connors.” He didn’t offer any more of an explanation. He saw by the tears building in Maria’s eyes that she knew what that name was—the name of a little boy who died years ago, when he was taken into Purgatory and was born anew.