by Ally Vance
I spoke nothing of Newport or the run-down motel where his cock left a delicious scar inside me, matching the one carved on my skin. After six months of penance in Mexico, mamá became my champion—the calm voice of reason in a testosterone-fueled war.
“Give her a second chance,” she crooned into papá’s ear. “She’s a free spirit, Val. A hummingbird thrives on perpetual motion. Clip its wings and it dies.”
Mamá always had a way of bending papá’s iron-will.
Begrudgingly, he conceded, enrolling Daniela Torres at a Newport, Rhode Island school where the biggest danger comes from crossing the street.
I allow a secret smile to tug at my lips. I care nothing about this school. However, its location calls to my soul.
Because it’s ours…
Making my way back to my heavily guarded apartment, I slip my key in the door as four shadows close in behind me. “Buenas noches,” I sing-song, bidding Miguel and his men goodnight with a private smirk.
Once I close the door, the air inside the darkened room changes. Turning the lock, I let my backpack slide off my arm while slowly drowning in the charged electricity of his presence.
“Did you miss me?” I whisper.
My answer is a firm grip around the back of my neck as I’m slammed against the wall, my pulse thumping a furious beat under his rough fingers. Sam doesn’t greet me with a kiss or a soft caress. His greedy hands tear at my leggings until they’re nothing but ribbons of confetti tattering the floor.
“Catch me, and I’m yours forever,” he growls, reciting the words from my note through clenched teeth. “Well, I’ve caught you, sweetheart. There’s no escape from me now.”
The heat of his warning skates down my neck.
“What if I run?” I ask, biting my lip.
“I’ll catch you again.”
“What if I scream?”
His hand slides up my throat, gripping my chin and twisting it until it brushes his unshaven cheek. “I’ll steal it from your lips.”
“And if I fight?”
“I’ll come twice as hard.”
He fortifies his promise by grazing his teeth against my jaw while thrusting a finger deep inside me. I moan at his rough possession. This is the game we play. Intruder and victim. The same act that started our torrid affair now feeds our addiction.
The dark can’t mask what has only grown stronger with time. I feel him everywhere: in the air, on my skin, in my soul… I spin around, and like two magnets, our mouths crash together, drinking the life from each other to soothe the thirst our separation caused. His bare chest rubs against my breasts, the scarred L carved into his flesh fanning the flames of my desire.
L for Lola.
L for lust.
L for love.
“Happy birthday, Lola.” Removing his finger from inside me, he hums out a dark, satisfied groan as his tongue laps at my arousal. He lowers his hand, and I shake in anticipation at the sound of his jeans unzipping. “What’s your wish?”
“Freedom,” I whisper, gasping as he spins me around and pins my back against the wall. “Blood and salvation.”
As I voice my demands, Sam grabs the back of my thighs and lifts me off the ground. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist, crying out as he thrusts his swollen cock inside me, the searing pain easing the ache in my heart. “Blood I can give you, sweetheart. You have to earn freedom and salvation for yourself.”
He’s right. It’s a battle fought with patience, not force. I’ll embrace my role as a pawn in this cartel chess game. I’ll move strategically across the board, hiding in plain sight from both deadly kings.
For now, we’re forced to play by their rules.
But one day, I’ll graduate. One day, we’ll break the chains binding him to Colombia and me to Mexico. One day, we’ll cross this thorn-ridden line drawn between our two families.
“For now…” I groan, his possessive thrusts driving me toward the edge of ecstasy.
For now, we’ll meet in darkness.
Fuck in secret.
Love in silence.
Sam pauses, our bodies joined and aching for release. “And then what?”
I smile, soaking in the strained moments of peace before he shatters me once again.
“Checkmate.”
About The Authors
About Cora:
Cora Kenborn is a USA Today Bestselling author who writes in multiple genres from dark and gritty romantic suspense to laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Known for her sharp banter and shocking blindsides, Cora pushes her characters and readers out of their comfort zones and onto an emotional roller coaster before delivering a twisted happily ever after.
Cora believes there’s nothing better than a feisty heroine who keeps her alpha on his toes, and she draws inspiration from the strong country women who raised her. However, since the domestic Southern Belle gene seems to have skipped a generation, she spends any free time convincing her family that microwaving Hot Pockets counts as cooking dinner.
Oh, and autocorrect thinks she's obsessed with ducks.
Connect with Cora at www.corakenborn.com.
Books by Cora:
Carrera Cartel Collection
http://mybook.to/CarreraCollection
Darkest Deeds
http://mybook.to/DarkestDeeds
Starlet
http://mybook.to/StarletSinister
About Catherine:
Catherine Wiltcher is an International Bestselling/Amazon All Star author of ten dark romance novels. A stage 4 cancer thriver and a self-confessed alpha addict, her writing is best described as sinfully sexy and her characters always fall hard and deep for one another.
She lives in the UK with her husband and two young daughters. If she ever found herself stranded on a desert island, she'd like a large pink gin to keep her company... Cillian Murphy wouldn't be a bad shout either.
For book and blog updates, please visit www.catherinewiltcher.com.
Books by Catherine:
Santiago Trilogy
https://amzn.to/3d2uaNu
Black Skies Riviera
https://amzn.to/2UNdQcp
Devils & Dust
https://amzn.to/2kbiJwD
Sacrilege
N. Isabelle Blanco
“For her house sinks down to death,
and her paths to the departed;
none who go to her come back,
nor do they regain the paths of life.” - Proverbs 2:18-19
Chapter One
Church bells toll above my head, announcing the 6pm call to prayer. A sound that once brought memories of peace and purpose to mind.
Now it’s nothing more than a source of torment.
A cruel mockery.
The most condescending reminder of my place in this world.
At thirty-five-years-old, I’ve managed to achieve what most priests take decades to do in this world: I was appointed as rector of one of the largest cathedrals in this part of New York.
The neighborhood struggles, which makes the size and beauty of the cathedral stand out all the more, but that was part of my calling to this place.
Why I worked so hard to get here.
I wanted to help guide the people of my old neighborhood, where I grew up before signing up to fight in the Iraq War.
Although the truth is much more complex than that. It was originally my little brother’s calling. He’s the one who grew up wanting to serve the church.
But he signed up to fight in the war, too.
Only one of us made it back.
His death plays out in my nightmares most nights. That mortar ripped him right open.
I wish it had killed him on impact.
The memory of his guts hanging out while he pleaded with me to deliver his last message to our mother . . .
He didn’t ask me to take his place in the church; I decided that on my own.
Charlie’s memory deserves no less.
Besides, it’s a good calling. An honorable
one. Perhaps more honorable than my decision to enlist in the war and fight on behalf of this country.
A life of purpose—that’s what I built.
It’s disappearing nowadays.
No, it’s being destroyed. Ruined by the very temptation we preach against. The temptation I swore to turn my back on when I became a man of the cloth.
You’ve failed, ricochets through my mind for the millionth time. Maybe I haven’t given in to the physical urges, but mentally I’m deep within hell.
I stare ahead at the massive Christ on the cross that hangs on the stained glass window in front of the altar.
That means something to me. It always did. Yet, lately, I’m having a harder and harder time remembering that.
Brown eyes . . . or are they hazel? Sometimes it seems like they flashed between either shade.
Which just proves how crazy I am. No one’s eyes change colors like that.
“Father?”
I turn and see Ms. Cortez smiling up at me. She’s a regular at the church.
In the confessional, too. It’s why I know almost everything about her life. Her history. Never met her around the neighborhood until I became a priest, but she’s a welcome fixture in my life at present.
Flawed, like all God’s children, yet her soul is pure. Grateful. Happy.
Considering where my thoughts just started to drift to, again, I feel unworthy of her caring presence.
“Ms. Cortez.” I dip my head in greeting. “How are you this evening?”
“Disappointed. If you’re standing out here, that means it’s Father Raul in the confessional tonight.”
As it is every Thursday night, which she well knows.
And as with every Thursday—or any day that I’m not the one taking confessions—she never misses her opportunity to chide me about it.
I take in the large confessional booth on the right side of the church. We’re one of the few remaining churches to still have one. Most use reconciliation rooms nowadays.
Soon, both versions might be gone. Catholics are confessing less and less. Ms. Cortez is one of maybe five parishioners that remains devout enough to practice the Sacrament of Penance.
“He’s an even better listener than I am, Ms. Cortez. I promise,” I say, playing along.
“Lourdes,” she admonishes, shaking her head. “I’ve told you a million times, my name is Lourdes.”
I’m aware.
It’s another of her requests that remains unheeded. Keeping a professional distance from our parishioners is important.
“Besides, I feel more comfortable telling you my secrets. Only God knows why.” Her dark eyes dart toward the figure of Christ I was staring at.
If I believed that to be true, I would stop taking her confessions entirely. If she were just ten years younger, I’d probably be worried.
But she’s just an old woman that loves to tease, and to be honest, her jovial personality is one of the many things I like about her. She brightens up the church each time she walks in. “Ms. Cortez, confession is good for the soul. You aren’t forced to go, but—”
“It’ll help me unburden. I know, I know.” She smiles with amusement and turns to walk toward the confessional, her cane tapping against the marble floor. “Lord knows I need it.”
Ms. Cortez is a very kind woman who has lived a very hard life.
As most of the people around these parts.
It’s nothing compared to what low income people in other countries go through. As someone who was deployed to Iraq, I saw that first hand. But suffering is relative, isn’t it?
They don’t know anything worse and compared to the successful in this city, their plight is arduous and painful.
I watch her amble into the confessional with her cane, a small smile on my face. It’s the closest I’ve come to peace in a week, my soul realigned with my true calling—
She’s here.
Golden hair glows at the corner of my eye, in contrast to the nearly black interior of the church.
It could be anyone, yet I know it’s her before I even complete turning in her direction.
My new distraction is a lonely figure among the rows of dark pews.
I’m not surprised to find her velvet stare locked on me. It’s the same expression she gave me last week when she first came in here.
When I first sensed the isolation and longing leaking off her, the yearning to connect with something larger than herself.
That same bolt of heat that obliterated me the first time returns with a vengeance. It’s like our Lord has decided to smite me on the spot, and I half-expect to find myself melting into the ground from the brutality of it.
That lost expression is nowhere to be found. In a long-sleeved black sweater that blends in with her surroundings, she sits there and analyzes my response to her presence.
Like she can sense the irrational hunger she’s set off inside me.
Like she’s somehow feeding off it.
Turn around. Leave. Don’t engage. The rules of war sometimes dictate that retreat is the better option.
And this is war. I have no doubt about it. A test of my faith through and through.
Did I miss sex? Some days, yeah. I’m not going to say I got around much when I was younger. I enlisted at eighteen and went off shortly after. My brother came three years later. We had our fun with the guys while on base, yet it was war in a broken country. The chances weren’t as abundant, even with all the women that served alongside us.
For the last week though, it’s become a raging demon in my gut. A turbulent force that’s banging against what I now know is a fragile door.
All because of her.
I almost dredge up the willpower to walk away from her. Swear to God, I almost do. But then my eyes caress that elegant face. The curve of her lips, titled in an almost Mona Lisa-isque grin. Her body is hidden from my view, yet my twisted imagination has no trouble conjuring up the visual.
There’s something about her skin. It’s otherworldly. Perhaps a trick of her makeup. Nowadays the beauty industry is good like that.
No. It’s beyond that. Almost . . . unnatural.
Every bit of that woman’s beauty is fucking unnatural.
I haven’t mentally cursed in so long that the thought takes me by surprise.
It’s official. I’m back tracking into the old me. Slipping at a precarious rate. I don’t understand why God sent that woman here, but if it’s meant as a test, I’m going to fail if I don’t get away from her.
So what do I do instead?
What I didn’t have the courage to do last week.
With blood rushing viciously into my groin, the erection on the verge of becoming visible to everyone in my church, I walk to where she sits.
She watches me every step and her eyes are the only part of her that move to track me. Evincing a serenity that’s at odds with the other aspects of her, she sits and waits patiently.
Her smile is all-knowing.
I slide into the pew next to her, compelled by an urge that’s as old as time and somehow incomprehensible, and the truth becomes clear as day to me.
This woman knows I desire her.
And she wants me to.
“Good evening, Logan.”
Her voice is almost as much of a gut punch as realizing that she knows my name. Heat rushes up my neck and I cough into my fist, fighting not to choke on my breath. “Father Logan,” I correct her, because dear God, if she says my name with that silky voice again I’m going to—
“Logan,” she says again calmly, defying my request.
There’s something surreal about this encounter.
Or perhaps I’m just a dumbstruck fool in the grips of lust.
“Who—who are?” I ask, chest racing.
“Athaliah. But you’re welcome to call me Thali.”
That name leaves me reeling.
Athaliah. A biblical name. Old Testament.
The daughter of Queen Jezebel of Israel.
Yes.
That Jezebel.
The woman before me—Athaliah—stands, and I’m left staring down the length of her body.
Jesus save me. It’s even more gorgeous than I imagined. Her tight black sweater hugs her midsection and leads down to a leather skirt. Her heels are open-toed and elegant.
This isn’t how someone should dress when in the house of God.
Then again, the first time I saw her, she was wearing a thin white tank top that wasn’t the most decent, either.
“Why have you started coming here?” I ask.
She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder, golden hair brushing the small of her back. “The first time? I wanted to see what all this”—she waves a hand around—“was about. But now? Well, you want me here, Logan. So here is where I’ll be.”
Chapter Two
She knows my name.
My shoes slap against the floor with my rapid steps.
She knows my name.
It shouldn’t freak me out like this. Athaliah could’ve found it out easily enough. All one has to do is ask who is the young, blond priest that runs most of the church.
This part of the rectory is empty at this hour. I almost thank God for the small mercies, but it would be blasphemous to do so with the current direction of my thoughts.
There’s an old part of me, the beast stirring to life, that trembles with anger at my circumstances.
I remember him, who he once was. While Charlie was forever faithful to the Lord, as mom taught us, I was a rebellious bastard. For every moment Charlie exalted God, our true father, and claimed everything happened for a reason—the just and unjust alike—I was the faithless cynic that questioned everything.
With all the turbulence of my soul, I railed against the force that runs the universe, demanding to know why the innocent must suffer and the cruel go unpunished.