Page 93 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“You think you have ruined me?” I bare my throat, push into the blade, and bleed some more. “You think I am a man worth saving? You’re wrong.”

“What are you then?” she asks, almost hesitantly. “What are you if not a man?”

Thirty-Two

Mercy

Cisco just stands there, head tipped back, throat bared to my knife, and I hate him for it—hate the way he makes surrender look holy. His shirt is open and useless, flashing me constant glimpses of his sculpted and tattooed stomach. And God, that cock. I noticed it the instant he emerged from the water. His soaked trousers still cling, and that thing is pressing hard and high against his zipper.

It only proves that I’m right.

I made this happen. I wanted him undone.

They can’t help themselves around you, Joan. My mother’s voice rings in my head. You destroy everything you touch.

“Answer me,” I demand. “What are you?”

He doesn’t blink. “You know.”

My breath catches. That’s not enough. I need him to name it. Otherwise, it doesn’t exist. That’s what he said, right?

“I know what I see, that’s all.”

But seeing isn’t always the truth. People see what they want to believe. Did I imagine it? Did I invent a demon, an excuse for my behavior?

“Tell me what you see,” he says.

“What I see—” My voice shakes, but I force the words out: “What I see now is a man driven past the edge because I put him there. I see someone fighting every ugly thing that I made him feel. You’re—” I swallow, mouth dry. “You’re like this, and it’s my fault. You were trying to be good, and I didn’t care. I wanted to see how far I could push you.” A sharp, bitter laugh comes out. “I dressed like a slut and flaunted my body. God, I tried to smother you with my cunt because I know it’s been decades for you. And on top of that, I publicly humiliated you. I made you want things you shouldn’t. That’s what I do. That’s what’s wrong with me. I ruin things. I ruin lives, and I’m sorry. I know you’re struggling with something dark, and I still did that. What does that make me?”

My hands are trembling, palms sweaty, fingers flexing on the dagger’s hilt. I remember every time someone called me rotten, every time I leaned into the label just to feel powerful for a second.

I wanted Cisco to fall, just so I wouldn’t feel so alone in the pit.

That was my goal.

“Say it,” I whisper. “Please. I need you to say it. If you’re a monster, then so am I. Just tell me the truth.”

Cisco goes still like a rock. Every muscle, every ounce of air between us grows taut, and then he snaps. He shoves past me, heedless of the dagger, and strides across the tiles. A litany of Italian outrage spills from his lips. He’s slipped into the dialect of his youth. Still, his body language, the gesturing, the curse words—they’re enough to understand something about beautiful, infuriating women who think they can make a man think things he doesn’t want to think.

Red creeps up his neck, veins pop in his forehead, and he paces, gesturing between himself and the ceiling as if someone is up there.

“Did she hold a gun to my head?” he growls, jabbing two fingers at his temple. “Did she say, ‘Think about fucking me.’” He makes an obscene gesture that is almost comical in his current disheveled state of arousal. “‘And while you’re at it, Cisco, why don’t you think about binding my wrists with your collar so you can fuck me harder from behind.’”

He thought what?

“Did she?” He glowers at the ceiling. “No, she did fucking not.” He shakes his head, pivoting. “She did not because she is not inside your head. If she were, she wouldn’t think she is a monster. She would know what⁠—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Cisco stops, chest heaving, eyes wide and expressive. His throat works on a swallow. “No one.”

“Is it … a demon?”

“Vaffanculo.” The curse word releases another tirade directed at the ceiling. Cisco bites them off. Exhales through his nose, puts his hands on his hips, and stares at me. With brown eyes. Human, hot, and real.

“So … not a demon?”

“No!” He throws up a hand. Closes his eyes and counts down from five. Next, he looks at me, and he says more quietly. “No. It is me.” Another calming inhalation. “I speak to God. The curse. The devil. Anyone who will listen.”