Page 118 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Black fabric pulls taut across broad shoulders. But no eye contact.

Scowling, I gingerly lift my T-shirt, revealing more raw, broken skin. Blood oozes onto the desk. It’s not deep enough for stitches. Looks more like the sort of gravel rash you get when falling off your bike as a child.

“I mean … it’s not that bad.” I try a nervous laugh. “I’ve had worse.”

He rounds on me, wild-eyed. “Worse?”

“Don’t look at me with those judgy eyes!” Heat flares on my cheeks. “You’re a fucking mess. Look at you.”

His lips part. “I am not the one bleeding.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Cristo santo, Mercy.”

“Blasphemy in a house of God?” I gasp. “I rest my⁠—”

“Do you want me to gag you next?” He advances on me. “How much of you must I tie down for you to let me tend your wounds?” A plea enters his eyes. “Just let me care for you. Ti prego.”

Please.

The fight leaves me, and I turn away, but he grabs my jaw and brings me back. My eyes slam shut.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I know I’m being stupid, but it’s like my body is locking down. This is too much. Too real.

“Mercy, when I say look at me, you trust me to do it.”

I can’t.

He sighs and lets go.

“Piccola peste.” Little pest.

I hear his footsteps move through the room. Cupboard doors open and close. A faucet turns on as if through another door. A bathroom? More doors. Rustling. Glass objects tinkle. And finally, I hear the scraping of chair legs against a rug.

I open my eyes, and he’s sitting directly in front of me. Cassock still on, unbuttoned and crooked. Hair mussed up. Jaw clenched. Fuming.

He slams down something onto the desk and picks up a damp cloth, already focusing on my left thigh wound.

I reach for the cloth. “I can do that.”

Brown eyes flash. Two stark warning signs. No words, just a low, animalistic growl from deep in his throat. I think I see the black thing prowling behind the brown. What is it if not a demon?

“Fine.” I rest my hands on my lap.

He grunts, appeased, and dabs at my wound. Fiery pain explodes through me.

“Mother fucker!”

It’s not water. Alcohol. I pull away instinctively when he goes for a second dab. He grips my knee, holding me still.

“Hurt?” His eyes flick up.

“Of course it fucking hurts.”

“Bene. You like pain, so I will give it to you.” He dabs again. And again. Each time, it burns.