Page 39

I play a song, my fingers hitting the invisible keys along the notes. I can’t remember the name of the song right now, only that I haven’t played it in years. Yet, somehow, I still remember the notes. I still remember where my fingers go, when to hit the pedal, the crescendo and the finale. I play it over and over again on the leather seat under me. It’s not nearly as beautiful sounding as my organ, but it gets the job done. It tosses the daggers away from my mind. It rinses the grimy touch from my skin. It forces the voices to silence, because all I can hear is my imaginary song.

Well, my imaginary song and the revving of the car engine as Marcelo races across Belmouth.

The windows are rolled down, blowing the crisp air into my face as we speed along the dark road. It’s gray and dreary outside, the rain making it even colder, like a splash of ice water against my skin. Marcelo takes another puff of his cigarette, the smoke swirling between us as he exhales another drag. The smell of cigarettes used to bother me so much—so many of my mother’s boyfriends smoked, our couches and carpets getting tainted by the gross scent. But since I met Marcelo, the smoke lingering around those gorgeous lips, his chiseled jaw, the scuff I loved feeling against my skin—it is nothing but utterly intoxicating.

I can tell he’s still obviously raging from earlier by the way his teeth bite into the white paper. The moment he’d essentially told my mother and Daren to screw off, he grabbed my hand and whisked me out of there. I remember their eyes lingering on me, my mother’s on where his hand held mine, and Daren’s on the short hemline of my dress. Thankfully, Father Callum immediately reached them just as we were enough space away, stalling either of them from coming after us.

Marcelo opened his car door for me, slammed it a little harder than he meant to, immediately apologized under his breath as he slid into the driver’s seat, and then sped away. I still have no idea where we’re going but . . . I don’t care. I wanted to get the Hell away from there just as bad as he did, and if that means he’s taking me far, far away to never return, then that’ll be fine.

Except, I’d demand we grab Diablo and then leave.

Since he peeled out of the church parking lot, Marcelo has still not said a word. I can feel his mind working, raging, and the loud heavy rock music blasting from the speakers adds to his visage. He’d pulled his collar and button-up off at some point, only leaving on the black T-shirt he’d worn last night to bed. The short sleeves cling to his biceps, the artwork lining his skin on full, delicious, display.

Marcelo’s hand tightens on the steering wheel, his veins popping from beneath his skin, and I can’t help but imagine those same hands gripped around my ass just a few minutes ago.

Of course it’d be my life that my mother —of all people—was the one to interrupt us. But . . . I didn’t want to let her win again. I didn’t want to let her take that moment from me—from us . Plus, it was really hot.

I squeeze my thighs together, remembering just how it felt to have him plunge inside of me, those piercings truly working wonders. I knew I had been about to come when she started talking about me, when Marcelo and I both froze, when he got up to defend me. It was like bungee jumping. I thought I was about to leap off a cliff into pure, utter, bliss, only to be aggressively yanked back toward the rocks.

And though I knew he was angry—and I should’ve been too—all I could focus on was finishing what we started in that confessional booth; that I hadn’t told him I love him too. That I have, since the first night he snuck into my room in that mask. Since he stood up against my mother, wanting my attention alone. Since he carried me into that shower and let me cry all over him.

I bite my lip and turn to face him as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Marcelo, I—”

Just then, he pulls off the main road, the car bouncing as he offroads between dying sequoias and a number of other trees shedding their brightly colored leaves. The car swerves and bounces as it battles the terrain, climbing over small muddy slopes and descending leafy hills. Finally, we reach a small clearing, just slightly bigger than the car itself, and Marcelo puts the Mustang in park and turns the engine off. The forest is loud with insects and bugs, the engine rumbling to cool off the only man made noise out here.

Marcelo calmly puts the cigarette out in the small ashtray he has just under the center console, and then he finally looks at me. I gasp, unable to control the sharp inhale flooding my lungs, as he looks at me with eyes full of sorrow and remorse and worry—not anger.

“Are you okay?” he asks, placing his arm on the back of the bench and resting his hand on my shoulder.

I can’t help but stare at him. “You’re . . . not mad?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m mad. But I’m also worried about you. I’m so sorry you had to hear or see any of that. That you had to see them . I just—I want to make sure you’re okay.”

I nod slowly.

“Do you need anything?” The hand on my shoulder squeezes, and as it does, my eyes blur, my cheeks become wet. It’s only after another breath do I realize I’m . . . crying?

My chest flutters as the tears well, dripping in big, ugly drops. I have no idea why I’m crying, why I feel this . . . this hole inside of my chest, why—

Marcelo pulls me to him, cradling me in his arms. “It’s okay, mi amor , I won’t let them touch you. Ever.”

Another sob racks through me.

The hole. The hole in my chest is where the flutters are coming from. I—I’m not sad because of my mother’s words or Daren’s glances. I’m used to that.

I’m not alone anymore .

Someone . . . actually cares.

The realization sends my body folding into his. It’s not tears of fear, or sorrow, or anything of the sort—it’s . . . relief. Not quite joy, but something so akin to it, my body doesn’t know how to process it other than crying. Marcelo pats my hair, lightly rocking me back and forth.

“I’m here,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

I’ve only ever been met with anger. My mother’s dagger eyes, her abuse, her sour words. Any emotion I’ve ever conveyed, any tough situation, any time the weight of the words felt heavy on my shoulders—it was always met with rage. And so, for as long as I could remember, I’ve suppressed any reaction. Suppressed doubt and fear and loathing and sorrow. I’ve suppressed all emotion, hiding behind a wall of my own creation. So much so, I’ve trained myself to just accept her words, her disdained looks, absorbing them into my wall. Into me.

But Marcelo has been cracking that wall, chip by chip. He’s here with me . He cares —no, he loves me .

And that’s more than I can ever say about anyone else in my life.

“Shh, mi amor ,” he says, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Tell me what you need.”

I sniff, knowing exactly what I need. It’s what he’s been working toward all along. Except now, I’m finally ready for it.

“I need you to break me.”

Marcelo pauses. “Are you sure?”

I nod against him. “Anything you want. No restrictions. Choke me, spank me, use a belt. Just—cleanse me. Break me. And then make me yours. Make me whole again.”

I look up at him, his lips are parted and his hand finds my cheek, rubbing it softly.

“I’m tired of being a songbird in a cage, Marcelo. Break me free.”

He clenches his jaw, his thumb still gentle on my cheek. After a moment, he nods. “Okay.”

“I want to say no. I want to fight you off.”

He swallows. I know he wants that too. Has wanted it from the first night he touched me.

“But what if—”

I cut him off, placing the tips of my fingers to his lips. “I know you would never hurt me. Not in any way I didn’t like or want. I want this.”

Marcelo’s dark eyes search mine before he grabs my wrist and places a delicate kiss on my fingertips before moving them away.

“Then you deserve to be fucked by the real me.”

Now I swallow, knowing exactly what he means—and it’s exactly what I want too.

He reaches past my thighs, opens the glove box, and pulls out his black mask, the white cross catching the morning light through the windshield as he pulls it toward him.

“You’ll be screaming your love for me by the time I’m done with you.” Marcelo pulls the mask over his head, his eyes disappearing behind the blackness. “You can be as loud as you want out here, songbird. No one will hear your screams.” He pulls the strings tight in the back of his head, his brown hair curling around his neck with each tug. Once it’s secured, the white cross faces me and I feel a jolt in my chest, fight or flight kicking in. “You look so pretty when you cry,” his hand wipes at my cheek, smudging the fallen tears across it, “but you look even prettier when you cry with my dick in your mouth.”

Immediately, it’s like my body is set on fire. I’m fully tense, ready to run, ready to throw myself at him, ready for anything. But my pussy is already craving his rough touch, his blissful torture.

“Now, princesa , get out of the fucking car.”