Page 117 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

His eyes are wide, black pupils devouring the brown. And the white. The monster from the pool, right here in front of me. He takes a step back, fists at his sides opening and closing. The veins in his neck and forehead stand out. His breath saws between clenched teeth. If I so much as flinch, he’ll either break me or fuck me, and I’m not sure which would be worse—or better.

“Stay,” he repeats.

“What if I don’t?”

He just drags an office chair over and sits, grabbing my knees as if he owns them. Lifting his gaze to mine—brown again, not black—he answers, “Then I make you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” I flick his hands off me.

A laugh huffs out of him. He slouches back and scrubs a hand over his incredulous face.

“Sempre la stessa, eh? You just can’t help yourself.” He gestures in that passionate way of his, and then something happens. It’s like a switch flips. Resignation. Maybe acceptance. Every line of tension in his body releases, but his eyes turn hard. His voice drops to a smooth baritone. “Bene. Now you see what happens when you test Il Giudice.”

He grabs my wrists with the force of an impenetrable vice. I would have to break my bones to free myself. Never conceding eye contact, he leaves one giant hand grasping my wrists while the other snaps to his throat. He rips at the white collar, pops the hidden studs, and slides it free from the cassock.

He tugs my arms closer and looks down to wrap the starched cotton strip around my wrists. Once. That’s all the length allows.

My lips curve. “Not big enough to fit?”

“I will make it fit.” He wrenches it into a knot and jams the stubby ends wherever they’ll hold.

Nostrils flared, chest heaving, collar open and exposing more of his tattooed throat, he smirks. Proud of himself.

I’m … gobsmacked. I just let him … and now, I’m … I mean, I could find a way to…

My thoughts trail off as he dips his head to inspect my wounds, flicking my coat out of the way with impatience.

I don’t need to see the damage. It’s on his face.

“Cisco—”

He slices me a glare, silencing me, and then he shoves up the hem of my oversized T-shirt, revealing the full mess I’ve made of my thighs.

“Madonna mia,” he mutters.

Our scuffle tightened the knots on the fastening ribbons. When he pulls them, barbed metal lifts from my skin. I bite my lip to hide the pain, but he can tell anyway.

“Sorry.” He glances around for something and then gets up to rifle through the desk behind me. Shame washes over me. I can’t look. When he returns, I feel the heat of his body against my face. Hear the metallic snick of scissors opening.

“This might hurt.”

I nod. Swallow. “They’re not meant to be on for this long.”

“I know.”

Snip. Pressure around my left thigh evaporates. Snip. The right, too.

Cisco’s hand lands on my shoulder, and he shoves me backward so fast that my legs fling into the air. My eyes flip open, and I gasp. Can’t flail with bound wrists. I’m going to fall off the desk.

But then his hand is on my lower back, supporting me as he slides the cilices from where they were trapped beneath my thighs. Another muttered Italian obscenity leaves his lips. Once they’re out, he gently deposits me back to a sitting position.

I’m still reeling as he crosses to the trash basket by the vestment press and tosses away my chains.

“You can’t throw them out.”

My weak protest is ignored. Still with his back to me, he braces a hand against the wall and bows his head.

“Cisco?”