But just alongside those thoughts, the image of Sofia kept appearing.

Because ultimately, wasn’t I doing the same thing to her that Moriarty had done to my mother?

Chapter Twenty-One

Sofia

Three weeks went by, and in that time, Raphael healed. I gave Damon my sister’s note and watched him when he took it. I don’t know if I made up the fact that his eyes seemed to sadden a little when he looked down at her neat little script.

Damon returned to the seminary but came for dinner each night. Neither of them would tell me what happened that day, and Raphael grew more and more distant than ever. We hadn’t made love once, not even as he’d healed. And he’d even told me it was more comfortable for him to sleep on his own and sent me to my room.

It was the end of the second week when I overheard Maria sending Eric to fetch Raphael from the chapel for dinner.

“I can go,” I said. “I’ve been sitting around all day anyway.” I knew for sure now that he was avoiding me, so I headed toward the chapel. It was early evening, but the moon was bright. By now, I had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land. I saw a light on in the chapel, and although I wasn’t trying to approach it quietly, Raphael seemed so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear me when I came inside.

I watched him for a few minutes. He knelt in the confessional, staining the wood. He had taken off his shirt, and sweat glistened on his tanned skin as he worked. The bruises had mostly healed, only dark spots remaining. I wondered if they were still tender and realized I hadn’t touched him in more than a week.

“It’s late,” I said after clearing my throat to get his attention. “Maria has dinner ready.”

Raphael looked up. He checked his watch and capped the can of the wood stain, then stood.

We stared at each other for a few minutes.

“I’m going to have to sell the house,” he said. “The land.”

“But I thought—”

“I gave the attorney the go-ahead today.”

“Oh...” I hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking about it this seriously. “Are you okay?”

He scratched his head and went to the front of the church to sit in the pew. I followed and sat by his side, sliding my hand into his.

He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes on the altar. “My mom loved this place. It was sacred to her.”

I watched him.

“I never understood it. She came here a lot, especially the last year. I thought—after finding out my father was beating her—I thought that was why.” He scratched his head. “But I don’t think it was anymore.”

“What happened that day with Moriarty?”

He looked at me, his eyes intense on my face as if he’d draw everything from me.

“I think my father was punishing her for her betrayal.”

“Betrayal?”

“His perceived betrayal. She tried to get Moriarty to forgive his debt. Succeeded once.”

“I don’t understand.”

He turned back to the altar, his face resembling stone. “She fucked him. That’s how she paid it off.”

“What?” Raphael just kept staring straight ahead.

“It makes sense, you know? He had never raised a hand to her before the end. He must have found out.”

“Is that what Moriarty told you? Because men like him, they lie, Raphael. They’re hateful monsters.”

He shook his head. “Damon confirmed it. He’d found a diary of hers.”

“Then she had no choice. She couldn’t have.”

He turned to me again. “I know that. That’s not… Don’t you get it, Sofia?”

I looked at him, confused, the pain in his eyes making my heart hurt.

“How is what I’m doing to you different?” he asked.

“Raphael.” It took me a few minutes to process his words.

He pushed my hand away, stood, and went to the altar, where he set his hand on it, touching the crucifix. Almost caressing it.

“I’ve made a whore out of you, haven’t I?”

He didn’t look at me.

“I just keep repeating history, act for act.”

That caress suddenly changed, and in one quick, violent tug, he pulled the crucifix from the wall.

“Act for fucking act.”

He threw it across the chapel, slamming it into the far wall, where it fell and broke in two, the plaque of inscription, INRI, sliding to the far corner.

“Raphael.” I stood and took hold of his arm as he gripped the broken tabernacle door and tore it off its hinges. “Stop.”

I couldn’t stop him. He pulled the other door off, exposing the empty interior where communion would once have been stored.

I pulled harder on his arm. “Look at me.”

He wouldn’t.

“Look at me, damn it!”

He did, but only when I managed to squeeze myself between him and the altar.

“What that man did to your mother is different. It’s not us.” I shook him, forcing him to face me. “After all, how can you make a whore out of someone who is willing?”

Tags: Natasha Knight Erotic
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