Dishonorable

by Natasha Knight

  One I intended on keeping buried.

  I knew only one way to shut it down, and I needed to shut it the fuck down. Now.

  Anger boiled inside me. Rage at my own weakness. My weakness around her.

  “I own you,” I said, gripping her jaw harder than I needed to and bringing her face to me.

  “Stop!”

  “When I want to fucking kiss you, I’ll fucking kiss you.” To prove my point, I mashed my lips over hers. This time, they didn’t open. They didn’t yield like they had just a few moments ago.

  Good. That was good. That was the point.

  I released her, and she tried to scramble away, scraping her thigh on the edge of the pool as she tried to slip out of my grasp but ending up on her back instead, with me on top of her.

  “Stop it.”

  She struggled beneath me, but the sick thing was, it only excited me. Her fight turned me on, and I knew the instant that fact registered for her.

  “You don’t fucking want me to stop.” I kissed her again, this time slipping one hand between her legs and gripping her sex.

  She gasped, and I tightened my hold on her pussy.

  “You. Don’t. Fucking. Want. Me. To. Stop, Sofia.”

  The next kiss was rough, my teeth cutting into her soft lip, the metallic taste of blood, of her blood, making me groan.

  “Admit it,” I demanded.

  “I don’t want it!” she cried out, frantic now beneath me, her little fists pounding my shoulders, her hands curling into my hair, pulling hard.

  “More,” I said, kissing her again, squeezing her cunt. “It only makes my cock harder.”

  “This isn’t you. I know it. I know it.”

  “You know nothing. I could make you.”

  “You won’t! You said it.”

  “I could. And you’d be wet for me.”

  “No.”

  “What if I slip my hand into your suit, Sofia?”

  She shook her head frantically but only managed to spread her legs wider in her effort to free herself from me.

  “Would it make you feel better if you pretended I made you do it?”

  “Please,” she begged.

  “Please? Is that a yes?”

  “No. Raphael, let me go. This isn’t you.”

  I shot up, straddling her, released her pussy, and wrapped my hand around her throat. “This is exactly me!” I roared, years of anger vocalizing now. How in hell did she think she knew me when I didn’t know myself?

  I squeezed, and she gripped my forearm, trying to pull me off. Her face reddened, her eyes wide as saucers, and the sick thing was, the fear in them only set ablaze a thing already burning like a fucking brand inside me.

  “I killed my father with my bare hands, Sofia. You think I won’t hurt you?”

  “Self-defense isn’t the same as murder,” she managed, tears streaming out of the corners of her eyes.

  “Your fear makes me hard,” I whispered close to her face. “That should scare the fucking shit out of you.” I squeezed once more, then let go of her throat and straightened to loom over her. She brought her hands to her throat and turned her head, coughing. I watched until finally, she shifted her gaze back to me.

  “It does,” she muttered. “You do. You scare the shit out of me.”

  Her eyes trapped me, the tables turning, even in the sound of defeat in her voice.

  “You win, Raphael. Don’t you think I know that? That you’ve already won?”

  I sat up straighter, my weight on my thighs, so I no longer crushed her.

  “You told me you wouldn’t be a beast to me, but look at you,” she said. “You can make me do whatever you want. We both know that. You can take whatever you want, you can take every single thing away from me. You can force me—”

  Her voice broke, and she never finished that part.

  “You can lock me away, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it. But you know what’s even more fucked-up than you getting off on my fear?”

  Her voice cracked, tears pooled in her eyes.

  “The fact that I know, that I believe with all my heart, it’s not what you want. It’s not who you are.”

  I blinked several times and ran a hand through my hair.

  She shifted beneath me, slid her legs out from underneath mine, and stumbled to stand. She grabbed her towel and held it to her chest, another barrier between me and her as I knelt at her feet. Unable to move. Unable even to look at her.

  Beneath her.

  She kept a wide berth as she staggered backward and away, toward the house. I turned to watch her go, watch her run, water dripping from her as she disappeared inside.

  And all I could do was sit there. All I could do was nothing.

  I was a monster. I knew it. I had known it for a long time.

  Take care when fighting the monsters you don’t become one.

  My mom used to tell me that. Her favorite fucking quote from Nietzsche.

  I fought for her too. I fought him. I always lost. I always knew I’d lose, but I did it anyway, and I took the penalties, endured the consequences.

  I guess I didn’t realize when the transformation had happened. When the monster had beaten me. Had taken me over and made me like him. Like my father.

  I staggered to my feet like a drunken man and went into the house, up to my room, unable to even look at her closed door. I didn’t bother to shower. I just pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, got into my car, and drove, not sure where I was even going until I pulled up to the seminary gates. I’d never been here before. It was while I was in prison that Damon had told me his plans. We hadn’t really talked much before that. Damon and I, we were as opposite as could be. I guess, though, in a way, we were both surviving.

  My father was a two-bit criminal. Never organized enough or smart enough to be on top of his game. Always in debt. A thug for hire. But charming. Always charming. The man could talk, and he put on airs. Made people believe anything he wanted. That’s how my mother had fallen in love with him, I was sure. That or the fact that love truly is fucking blind.

  The physical abuse didn’t start until I was twelve. I’d always been a big kid, so I guess he’d felt like I was a match. Like he could beat the living shit out of me because I’d fucking take it and survive. I wondered how long he’d been beating mom before I really saw the evidence of it. She’d shielded us from that side of him as long as she could.

  Seeing Sofia’s face, her fear, her courage through it—because she was courageous, she wasn’t the coward I accused her of being—it reminded me of her. Of my mom.

  And the reflection of myself in her eyes scared the ever-living shit out of me because what I saw there, it wasn’t me. It was him.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. Way past visiting hours, but I didn’t care.

  When I found the doors locked, I scrolled through my cell phone to find Damon’s number and dialed it. It rang four times then went to voice mail. I walked around the property, trying all the doors when finally, a few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Damon.

  “Raphael?”

  He sounded surprised. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “Outside the seminary. Doors are fucking locked.”

  “Wait there. I’ll be right down.”

  We hung up, and I went back to the front door, which opened a few minutes later. Damon stood on the other side wearing his cassock. I had to look twice. It was so strange, seeing my twin brother dressed like this.

  “Are you fucking sure you want to do this?” I asked. “Throw your fucking life away.”

  “Lower your voice and watch your language in here.”

  He let me in and locked the door. I followed him to a private room. He offered me a seat, but I paced instead. “You have something to drink?”

  He nodded and took out a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. He poured us each one. I
drained my glass in one go. Although he raised his eyebrows, he re-poured for me and sat back down. I remained standing.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m like him, aren’t I?” I asked, not sure what I was doing here. Feeling weak for having come.

  He studied me. “Like our father?”

  I nodded once.

  “Tell me in what way you’re like him. Give me one fucking thing.”

  I smirked. “Are you allowed to say that? Won’t your God strike you down or some shit?”

  He gave me a stern look. “One thing.”

  I shook my head and swallowed more of my drink. “I scare the shit out of her.”

  The look on his face changed, but he didn’t quite smile. “Well, stop.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It’s exactly that easy. What did you do?”

  Fuck. “Nothing,” I mumbled without quite meeting his eyes.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is she hurt? Physically?”

  “No.”

  “Again, how are you like our father?”

  Damon knew about the abuse. He’d seen me take it. He’d been made to watch. Our father was a wicked, manipulative, evil man.

  I stopped pacing. “I’m not sorry he’s dead,” I said finally. “I only wish I’d done it sooner. Before mom—”

  “That’s not your fault. None of it is your fault. When are you going to get that through your thick head?”

  “I knew what he was doing to her.”

  “You found out too late. We all did.”

  “I should have known earlier. I should have known when he stopped with me.” My father only picked on those he could overpower. He never took a chance he might lose. And when I got bigger than him, he left me alone.

  “Stop blaming yourself. She didn’t blame you.”

  “I went to the Lambertini farm. He said some men were out there. Men who’d had business with our father. I’m guessing Moriarty.”

  “Call the police. Let them deal with it, Raphael.”

  “I’m going to make an example.”

  “Like you are with Sofia? Fuck with Raphael Amado and pay? Is that the message you want to send?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Yes, you do. You can choose to leave the past in the past. Let the police handle this.”

  “I’m a murderer.”

  “Self-defense. Our father would have killed you. That was obvious to everyone, including the judge.”

  “Still, I spent six years—”

  “And the ruling was overturned.” Damon emptied his glass. “I guess you have to figure out what you want, Raphael. Figure out who you are. Whether you want to continue the life our father led or bury it. Do good instead. You have the land. You can replant, make an honest living.”

  I snorted at the mention of honest.

  “It would make mom proud,” he added. “And it would be the ultimate revenge. Take back what our father stole.”

  “Death is final, brother.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  I drained my glass and studied him. I guess I never thought of my brother mourning, but he was. We all were, Zachariah too. Still. Six fucking years later. “I have one question for you.” He waited for me to ask it. “Why aren’t you telling me to let Sofia go?”

  He studied me back, his eyes narrowing a little, and for the first time in a long time, I glimpsed the Amado blood running in his veins.

  “Because as wrong as it is what you’re doing, I think she’s good for you.”

  I laughed outright at that. “What the hell does that make you, brother, if not an accomplice?”

  He stood and came to me, smiling. “I’m your brother first,” he said. “I want you to be happy. Finally.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sofia

  It wasn’t hard to avoid Raphael after the incident at the pool. He seemed to be avoiding me too. He seemed to have always eaten before I did, and I kept to my room when I didn’t have to go downstairs to take care of Charlie. I didn’t know where Raphael was most of the time, and I didn’t want to care. But I did.

  He had two sides to him, and he flipped with deadly precision on a dime. His demons were so dark and so deep that when they reared their heads, when they overtook him, he was the scariest beast of all. A man filled with hate and vengeance. But wasn’t it those very things that had broken him?

  But that fissure, it only made him more dangerous because that hurt, it could swallow me up too. It could destroy me like it was him.

  I could still feel him on my lips, his mouth on mine, his tongue inside my own when I’d opened to him. Like some fool, I’d yielded and so fucking easily. He hadn’t even had to make me. If he made me, it would be easier. If he made me, I could hate him. I wouldn’t have to hate myself then because he was right. I did want him.

  Two days after my first appointment, the seamstress returned for another fitting, and soon my dress was ready. I let it hang in my bedroom hidden inside the garment bag. I didn’t want to think about it.

  On the third night, once again, I took my dinner with Charlie in the kitchen. I was half afraid of Raphael walking in at any minute, dreading it, but also fed up with being on my own, ready to face him. Ready to get this over with.

  But the house was still quiet apart from the light rain tapping against the windows. It felt strange to be alone in such a huge, old place. Charlie devoured his food and curled up at my feet to sleep again. I kind of envied his life.

  I dumped more than half my plate in the trash can and rinsed my dish, then left Charlie to sleep while I went to look around the house, taking care to leave the kitchen door propped open for him.

  The living and dining rooms had been freshly dusted and vacuumed. I bypassed them, knowing Raphael’s study was at the end of the hall. I wasn’t sure what I’d do, not really. Not until I stood directly outside his door. Guilt made me glance over my shoulder before I reached for the doorknob and turned it. I don’t know if I felt relieved or disappointed to find it locked.

  I walked back toward the kitchen. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn’t get into the study. I noticed a light from beneath a closed door I hadn’t yet opened. Knocking once, I waited, but when no one answered, I opened it. It creaked, and my heart raced, unsure what I’d find, equal parts nervous to run into Raphael as I was to run into a ghost.

  But neither greeted me. Instead, I stood looking down a stone staircase, the scent and chill telling me this was the cellar.

  “Hello? Is anyone down there?”

  No answer. I took two steps down, then another two until I could peek into the cool, dank space. It was large and well lit, with stone walls that looked like they were older than the house itself.

  My ballet slippers made no sound. I counted as I descended fourteen stairs total. I looked around, wrapping my arms around myself at the sudden chill. Along the walls stood covered pieces of what I assumed was old furniture or equipment. Some of the covers had been pulled back recently. I could tell from the dust someone had been here not too long ago. At the center of the room stood a pillar. Drawn to it, I crossed the floor. It was old, like everything else here, the wood intricately carved, even if it was decaying a little. It was sturdy and probably beautiful once. It had been dug deep into the ground, and when I looked up, I knew exactly what it was used for. The chill I’d felt earlier now trailed an icy finger up along my spine and settled at the back of my neck.

  Iron chains hung from above. Bracelets with locks stood open.

  The image of Raphael’s back flashed before my eyes. I shook my head.

  No. Not what you think. Not possible.

  The sound of footsteps startled me, and I jumped, noticing for the first time an almost cave-like opening in the far wall, realizing that was where the scent of damp earth came from. Panicked, I wanted to run, every horror movie I’d ever watched playing before my eyes. But terror paralyzed my legs, and I stood glued to the spot, watching, my hands at my th
roat, my mouth open, holding my breath.

  Would I scream? Would any sound come at all if I tried? Or would fear render me mute?

  The sound came closer, and a moment later, Raphael appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. I cried out, and he stopped short, his wet shirt and hair clinging to him.

  “Sofia?”

  I covered my face, only then realizing how tense I’d been, how afraid. It made me laugh a strange, almost manic sound. “I thought…” I drew in a shaky breath and wiped my eyes. Why was I crying? Why now?

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

  “I thought you were one.”

  He stepped into the light. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were red from cold, the scent of the tunnel clinging to him.

  “No ghost.”

  His gaze fell to the pillar, and when he moved deeper into the room, I had the feeling he took care to leave a wide berth between it and himself.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I shook my head. “I was just looking around the house and saw the light on.”

  “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  He stepped closer. I smelled alcohol on his breath.

  “Where did you come from?”

  He pointed behind him. “The tunnel leads to the chapel.”

  “You went to the chapel? Now? It’s nighttime, and it’s raining.”

  He walked to a table, his back to me when he replied.

  “I haven’t seen my mother’s grave in six years.”

  “Oh, God.” I went to him, raising my hand to his shoulder but stopping short of touching him. “I’m sorry.” I noticed the flask he’d tucked into his back jeans pocket.

  Raphael pulled back one of the sheets but drew it closed again. When he turned to me, I saw how his eyes had darkened, how intensely his gaze bounced from corner to corner, landing inevitably back on that pillar.

  “You don’t belong down here, Sofia.”

  His voice dark and low, he took a step toward me. I took one back. His wet, cold hand wrapped around my arm and stopped my progress. He stalked closer, his damp body almost touching mine. He searched my face, my mouth, my neck, the swell of my breasts as I drew heavy, shuddering breaths. His gaze returned to mine, and we stayed like that, eyes locked, for an eternity. His shirt wet my dress. The hand that held my arm lowered to my wrist, and his other one wrapped around behind me to my waist, then higher, between my shoulder blades, icy on the back of my neck, cradling my head. Without a word, he leaned down and cool, wet lips covered mine.