by James Tate
Mace raises his brows and flicks a questioning look at Hawke. The other priest gives a small shake of his head, and Mace turns his attention back to me.
"Right over here," the huge man says, his voice this deep rumbling sound that vibrates through me as he takes one of my small hands in his huge ones. His palms are warm and dry, his fingers circling my entire wrist as he leads me—in a surprisingly gentle way—over to a cracked door. "There are towels underneath the sink, plenty of them."
I nod as he lets go of my wrist, slipping inside the bathroom and flicking on the light and the fan. After a good, long look in the mirror, I turn the sink on to give myself some privacy. I hardly recognize my own eyes: they're big and wide, the pupils so dilated it looks like my irises are black instead of caramel brown. And my chestnut hair? It's dark with rainwater … and possibly blood. I don't know. It splattered everywhere; I'm not sure how much actually got on me. The cloying scent of smoke on my skin makes my stomach churn though.
Pulling myself away from the ghostly girl with the too pale skin, I strip my soiled dress off and shove it as violently as I can into the trash, curling my fingers around the wicker rim of the basket. Fat tears roll down my cheeks before I even realizing they're falling, hot salty drops that spatter against the white plastic liner.
What am I doing with my life? What the fuck is wrong with me? A man died while he was inside of me today. He got shot in the face with his hard cock buried between my thighs.
Moving over to the toilet, I empty my stomach of alcohol and the lines of coke I did in the bathroom with Kisten. There's no food in there. Hell, I barely eat anymore. I'm too skinny now; I used to be curvy.
Throwing up bile, I stay curled over the john for a long time, so long that my lids get heavy and I almost fall asleep with my head in a fucking toilet bowl. That's the state of my existence now, and that is why fate led me here. I need an overhaul.
A big one.
I must be in there a while because the lock on the bathroom door clicks open and then suddenly Mace is just standing there, staring down at me naked and crying on the floor of a church bathroom.
I'm still in my red spiked heels, but nothing else, wet brown hair dripping over my face.
“I'm a fucking mess," I tell the man who's the size of a goddamn mountain. He's the typical clichéd tall, dark, and handsome type, but hell if I care. I just need someone to talk to right now and he is a priest, isn't he?
"Jesus fucking Christ," he says and then pauses, like he realizes what he's just said, making the sign of the cross over his chest and then moving over to kneel down next to me. "Girl, you're in a bit of a shit state," he says, grabbing a washcloth from a silver rack next to the counter. He's so big he doesn't even have to stand up to reach it and soak the rag under the still running faucet. "Err, Natalia, right? Sorry, cursing is a sin I'm having trouble giving up."
He leans forward and captures my chin in his long, strong finger, turning my face toward him. In his dark eyes, I see genuine concern. But like, less priestly and more like … a man who's seen a woman that he wants to be his.
“Are you new?” I ask him. Surely that explains why he’s such a terrible priest? And why there seem to be way more priests living here than one church really needs?
A small smile touches his lips. “Very.”
"I'm a mess," I repeat, naked and wet and dressed in heels and blood. Mace's eyes—a dark blue that mimics the sea beneath the moon—take me in slowly, so slowly that I swear I can feel heat sweeping my bare skin, scalding me.
"You're not a mess," he grumbles, wiping my tears from my cheeks and then cleaning off a smear of blood on my neck that I must've missed. "You just look lost."
Mace tosses the washcloth onto the counter and leans one of his massive, muscular shoulders against the cabinet door, studying me with eyes that seem impossibly astute, like he can see everything I'm hiding deep down, everything I'm running from.
"Priests give hugs, right?" I ask, and his dark brows go up. He scrubs a hand over the messy stubble on the lower half of his face, eyes glimmering as he watches me uncurl myself from the toilet. I'd rather hug a solid, warm body than a cold piece of porcelain.
"Not to gorgeous naked women," he says and then he must see something on my face because he sighs and reaches out his arms, tugging my naked body onto his lap.
Oh.
Shit.
Maybe this isn’t the best idea, after all. Pressed against him as I am, I’m too acutely aware of his strong, hard body.
Leaning my head against Mace's shoulder, I close my eyes again, focusing on his breathing. When he talks, his deep voice—like mountains and shadows all wrapped into one—rumbles through me, vibrating my body and making me shiver with pleasure.
"Where the hell did you come from and what the fuck are we going to do with you?" he asks, but before I can think up an answer to that question, I've fallen asleep on a warm shoulder, smelling of musk and man and laundry soap.
I've never felt so safe … or so exposed in all my life.
Chapter 2
NATALIA
I wake up to bars of silver light streaming across the foot of a narrow bed, my hair dry and hanging in tangled ropes, my body draped in a baggy t-shirt that smells like man and soap. Definitely not the nun habit I was given, and definitely not the clothing of a priest, right? Or can they wear t-shirts on their days off?
Wait, do priests even have days off?
I have no idea.
I barely know what religion it is that I've stumbled into. After fleeing my father's party, I hadn't paid attention to where I was running. Things had all started looking the same in the wet, dark streets of New York, but when I saw the light streaming from behind the gorgeous stained glass of this church, I didn’t second-guess it.
It was a sign, right? From … God, I guess?
All I know is that I need help. Spiritually as well as physically. Last night my father shot the man fucking me against the wall of the bathroom. His men had held me and forced me to watch as the dragged Kisten's half-dead body into the garage, doused him with gasoline and then lit him on fire.
It was a punishment for me, and a message to them: Kisten’s family.
A revolting show of strength and cruelty.
And today I can't even muster enough emotion to feel sad about it.
Kisten wasn’t exactly my boyfriend. Hell, he was barely even my lover. We just liked to get coked up and fuck. My father vehemently disapproved of Kisten's family for ‘business’ reasons, so I'd been fucking him deliberately to piss Daddy off. I just didn't expect him to be that pissed off when he found out.
What the hell is going on?
I never knew my Daddy to take matters into his own hands, but the way he placed the barrel to Kisten's chest and just fired …
A deep shudder runs through me as I remember.
My dark thoughts are interrupted by a polite knock at the door, and I clutch the sheets to my chest. Why? I have no idea. But suddenly in the light of day, without my familiar crutch of alcohol and blow, I'm shy.
"Yes?" I call out, and hear a shaking in my voice. Like I'm timid, submissive.
Screw that.
"Yes?" Clearing my throat, I call again. This time my voice is stronger, and I mentally pat myself on the back. Natalia Petrova is no shrinking violet, thank you very much. The only time I ever play submissive to a man is during sex—and even then, it's only a game.
My father told me time and time again that a good woman is one who is seen and not heard, but I say fuck that.
"Natalia?" The deep rumble sounds familiar, and I can't fight the smile when Mace's dark head pokes around the door. "I wondered if you might be hungry? The guys just cooked breakfast if you'd like to join us?"
"Oh." I blink at him, confused for a moment. When is the last time I ate real food? I can't even remember. My stomach rumbles loudly and Mace smiles.
"Come on, Arsen is a seriously good cook and you look half-starved, girl," he coaxes me and
I’m helpless to refuse. “Besides, you’ll end up meeting the crazy fuck sooner or later. May as well be over food.”
Gingerly, I push the sheets back from my legs and climb out of the bed. As I stand, I notice the bed is made of wrought iron and has bars at the head and foot that are just screaming to be used for something significantly less … pious.
"Everything okay, Natalia?" The huge man—priest—asks me and I gasp. Shit. I didn't say that aloud, did I?
Casting a surreptitious look at him from under my lashes, I don't see any shock or dismay on his face, so it must have been in my head.
"Yup." I nod, feeling more confident even as I know a light blush is staining my cheeks. "Who do I have to thank for the T-shirt?"
Glancing down at the soft fabric, I notice with curiosity that it's a Metallica concert shirt, so surely not one of the priests? Maybe it's from their lost and found or something?
"Huh?" he replies as he leads the way out of the room. "Oh, that's one of Colt's. He thought it'd be more comfortable to sleep in than those scratchy as fuck nun's robes." He pauses, turning to face me with an odd twist to his lips. "Sorry, the cursing is a hard habit to break."
"Doesn't bother me," I grin, quietly both confused as all fuck and seriously turned on by these priests who seem to break every rule in the book. And I do mean The Book.
"So, you guys are all like … new? To being, um, priests?" I fumble with this question, still not really knowing which flavor of Christianity I've stumbled into. He admitted as much to me last night, but I want to make conversation, and make sure it wasn’t a delusion.
The black shirt and pants with the little white collar that Mace wore seemed to indicate Catholicism, but what the fuck do I know? The extent of my religious knowledge comes from books and movies.
"Why do you say that?" Mace asks sharply, and I raise an eyebrow at him. Something tells me there’s more to this sexy man of God than the caring protector I've seen thus far.
"Um." I point to the logo across my breasts. "Metallica concert shirt? Cursing? Hawke having tats? Kinda seems like you all came to this calling a little later in life?"
Mace stands there, staring at me with an unreadable expression, so I rush to backtrack, hoping I haven't offended him. I need their help, so I can’t afford to be tossed out like yesterday's trash, but I’m almost positive he told me he was new.
"It's cool if you did. I mean, that's why I'm here, right? I need salvation." My words practically trip over one another, and I swear when I say this, Mace's eyes heat.
"Well, my child," he murmurs, clearing his throat, "you came to the right church for that."
Without actually answering me, he turns back around and leads the way down some narrow stairs to the kitchen where Hawke made me tea last night. As we approach, I can hear the sound of several men's voices, and I bite my lip nervously.
Is it sinful of me to be rolling the sound of Mace's voice over in my head, hearing him call me my child in that deep and smoky voice of his? I still have no panties on, and I know without checking that my pussy is damp.
Is it a sin to sit in a kitchen, eating breakfast with a group of priests, while I fantasize about how I might like to corrupt them?
Yes, Natalia. Yes, it is.
But will that stop me?
Not a chance in hell.
I guess I'm about to get educated, right?
In that moment, if I'd known the type of education I was going to get would involve leather paddles and crucifixes, handcuffs, and five hard cocks, I … well, I definitely wouldn't have run away. No, I'd have done exactly what I did anyway and gone down those stairs after Mace.
I take a deep breath before I realize I'm not exactly wearing pants … or panties for that matter. Tugging the shirt down low, I figure it's a few inches longer than the dress I was wearing anyway, so as long as I'm careful not to bend down, everything should be fine, right?
At least, I think that until … well. Until I see him.
Arsen.
His name implies a burn that's hot and fierce, an illicit fire set with cruel intentions. I just didn't know it was going to be so literal. As soon as I see his back, I know I'm in trouble. He's shirtless and scarred, covered in tattoos. Big, beautiful demon wings trace down his spine, black as sin, not at all something a priest should have decorating his skin.
My breath catches in my throat as Mace pauses and looks down at me, noticing my starstruck expression with a sigh.
"That's Arsen," he says, but I already figured that out. He said Arsen was cooking breakfast. Well, there's a beautifully flawed man flipping pancakes right there in front of me. I find it suddenly hard to breathe when he turns and flicks a glance over his shoulder, his eyes the color of a cloudless sky, his too-long hair as blond as the sun.
"Who is this?" he asks, his voice like an adder, coiled and dangerous, ready to strike. Without meaning to, I find myself drawn toward him, resting my fingertips against the surface of the table.
"Natalia Petrova," I say, my voice husky and low.
Arsen pauses in his cooking as Hawke looks up from the paper he's reading and studies me. I can feel his gaze as surely as I can feel Mace's from behind me.
"Natalia … Petrova," Arsen repeats, turning around all the way and handing the spatula to Hawke.
"Arsen," the other man warns, but he's already walking around the table to stand in front of me, his black pants hung low on his hips, almost like they were underlining his chiseled, ink covered Adonis belt. He barely seems to notice that my eyes are glued to the tattoos on his chest. "Leave her alone."
"Natalia Petrova, huh?" Arsen looks down at me with those ice-blue eyes, as cold as the frost they imitate, his blond hair falling in his face. He doesn't look like a priest at all, and the way he's staring at me now? I feel like I should run. I don't feel like there's any sanctuary to be had here. "I like the name. Sounds fucking familiar to me, but I can't quite place it."
I swallow hard and take a step back.
Arsen follows.
"I need to use the restroom," I blurt, feeling my cunt throb and the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. I turn and flee the kitchen, slamming the bathroom door closed behind me. My chest is rising and falling like I've run a marathon. "Who the hell is that?" I whisper as I step away from the door. Just as I'm about to turn and flick the lock, the door flies open and I stumble back into the wall.
"Arsen, goddamn it!" a voice roars from outside the door, but it's already been sealed shut and locked. I can hear massive fists pounding against the wood. But this is no shitty hollow core door from Home Depot: this is an original, made of thick, solid wood.
"What are you doing?" I ask as the man stalks toward me and pauses, leaning down to look into my face. He even touches two fingers to my chin, and I jerk my head away, drawing a cruel laugh from his throat.
"Don't you lay a fucking finger on her!" It's Hawke that's shouting outside the door, but it sounds like Mace is trying to break the damn thing down.
"Why would you lay a finger on me?" I ask, feeling around behind me and grabbing the very tip of the toilet plunger. It has a wooden handle and although I might not get far with it as a weapon, I can at least make this man hurt if he tries to go for me.
"No reason," Arsen says, eyes sparkling as he steps back and crosses his arms over his bare chest. His muscles ripple with colorful tattoos, depicting scenes from the Bible, most of them the fire and brimstone type.
I'm so fucking confused right now.
"So, tell me, Natalia Petrova, do you like one-night stands?"
"What are you talking about? Why would you ask me that?" I ask, brow scrunched, breath coming in panting bursts. I can feel my nipples pebbling under my borrowed t-shirt, my thighs clenching tight. There's something wild and male about this man, the way he smells, the way he looks, the way he is looking at me.
I want him.
I want him in the worst, most primal way possible.
Told you I was damaged.
&nbs
p; "Do. You. Like. One-night stands? Casual sex? Quick fucks over the sink in a random bathroom?" he repeats, just standing there while his friends try to tear the door off its hinges. What the hell do they think he's going to do to me?
"I do, yes." My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and I flick a quick look at the sink.
"Good," he says, and then he's stepping forward and slamming a palm against the wall on either side of my head. "What would you say if I told you I was feeling sinful today?"
"You're not a priest," I blurt and Arsen laughs, standing up and throwing his head back. "None of you are."
"Now, what makes you say that?" he asks, dropping his chin back down so he can stare at me with those terrifyingly beautiful blue eyes of his. His blond hair falls across his face, the ends kissing his high cheekbones. "Maybe I'm just having a little trouble controlling myself right now? Do you want to fuck me, Natalia Petrova?" he continues, completely and utterly blatant about it. I hate him almost instantly, at the same time I'm attracted to him. “Because I can make that happen real quick for both of us.”
One hand leaves the wall, sliding across those granite abs and flicking open the button on his pants. He’s hard. So damn hard. It takes more effort than I care to admit, just to tear my eyes from the straining fabric of his crotch.
“Is that why your friends are screaming? They think you’re going to try and rape me?” I demand, but Arsen just laughs, this cruel, awful sound that I shouldn’t like but that I do anyway.
“Rape you? No. They think I’m going to kill you, Natalia Petrova.” He grins at me, but there’s nothing pleasant about the expression. The sound of a gun going off outside the door makes me jump and Arsen shakes his head like he’s disappointed as hell over something. “Stupid ass idiots, Weston and Colt. You can’t shoot a lock off, motherfuckers!” he shouts, grumbling something under his breath about them knowing better.
