Bedded by Blackmail

Father Tomaso’s eyes went to her.

Questioning.

‘And now,’ he said quietly, his eyes steady on her, ‘it is up to you. You hold the key to his prison. Will you release him? Or keep him in his hell? The choice—’ his voice was even quieter ‘—is yours.’

He started to walk away.

She wanted to call him back. Run after him. But he kept on going, and her feet would not move, her throat was paralysed.

She heard his voice toll in her brain.

The choice is yours.

Choice. She had had no choice. When Salton had been threatened, her brother’s home threatened, she had had no choice. No choice but to do what she could—whatever it took—to save it. No choice but to accept the devil’s bargain that Diego Saez had held out to her. No choice but to go to him. No choice but to let him peel the clothes from her and take from her what she had refused him. Refused because she would not be one more woman that he simply picked up, enjoyed, and discarded again, to move on to the next one.

And when he had peeled her clothes from her and taken her to his bed she had had no choice—no choice but to accept the shame, the coruscating, burning shame, of discovering so devastatingly, so annihilatingly, that Diego Saez—who was buying her, possessing her—could light in her a fire that she could not quench.

And when he had finally thrown her out, terminated that devil’s bargain of his, she had had no choice but to endure the greatest shame of all.

She craved the man who had done this to her.

More than craved.

The silence stretched all around her. The sound of Father Tomaso’s footsteps had ebbed away. Time had stilled to this one point.

The choice is yours…

The words tolled again in her brain.

She looked at Diego. He stood there still, turned away from her, shoulders hunched, hand splayed out on the door. He started to push it open, started to move forward.

The choice was hers. Now. Here.

To let him go. Let him live out the rest of his life damning himself, hating himself.

Or—

She thought of what he had been—that lost, wandering boy. Without family, without a home. With nothing. Not even shoes. Sleeping in doorways. Like the boy whose photo had brought her here.

Here. Now.

As he started to walk out she reached out a hand to him. It trembled as she did so. And as it touched his stained shirtsleeve he froze.

She took a step forward.

‘Diego.’

Her voice was a husk. She could see the tension strapped along the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his back, outlining every muscle.

She spoke again. ‘Diego—I—’

She couldn’t go on. Her throat was choking, pulled so tight it was like a band around her breath.

She gave a tiny broken cry.

He turned. Faced her. Her hand dropped away from him and she just stood there.

Her eyes fastened to his and her throat worked.