Page 51 of Broken

I barely refrain from shuddering in response.

I have no idea what to do, no idea what she wants, but I know she’s a threat to the one thing I have left—my vows.

The words spill from me. “Eve didn’t threaten Adam.”

“She tempted him with knowledge,” she whispers, and God help me, she sounds so...authentic.

As if she believes what she’s saying.

Did she suffer brain damage during her surgeries? Would the hospital,her physicians,have let her discharge herself if she were still ill?

“What kind of knowledge do you tempt me with?”

“The oldest knowledge in the book,” she teases, eyes sparkling.

Disgust flares inside me. “I won’t break my vows.”

“You’ve broken every other,” she counters easily as if she knows there’s no use in arguing.

Only, I get the feeling it has nothing to do with how staunch I sound, but because she knows that all men fall into temptation eventually.

To her, it’s only a matter of time.

Damn her.

I pull away, but her hands flatten on my back. Except this time her fingers touch my wounds, and I tense, pain spearing me.

It’s messed up, but my cock hardens as the agony fucks with my nerve endings, and I know she feels my erection. She can’t not. We’re standing too close together, our bodies brushing, my dick nestling against her stomach—she has to feel it. She has to.

My response, however, doesn’t trigger satisfaction or smugness. No, it triggers pity. And that fucks with my head some more, especially as she sadly whispers, “Oh, sweetheart, they really did mess you up, didn’t they? Pain doesn’t have to equal pleasure. Pleasure can just be that. Pure and simple. A gift, not a curse.”

I can’t answer that, can’t say a word because there’s nothing to say.

She’s right.

Again.

Her forehead pushes into my chest. “I can guide you, Savio.”

“Guide me where?” The words are guttural as acceptance hits me.

She’s right.

Again.

“Back toward the light. To where you need to be.”

Pain of a spiritual variety tangles with the physical. For a second, I’m speechless with the agony of knowing she’s wrong—of knowing that I want her to be right.

“Only God can guide me there; only He can bring me home,” I murmur brokenly.

“You don’t listen, do you?” she chides. “He gave me wings. We’ll go there together, but not before we follow his plan first.”

Her fingers tighten about my waist, pulling at my wounds. I clench my eyes closed, wincing even as the glorious agony screws with my head in the best imaginable way.

“I need to clean your back,” she muses, her tone gentle. “I shouldn’t have touched you, but I couldn’t help myself.” She tuts, annoyed at herself, not me. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

Like I’m a lamb being led to the slaughter, she untangles her hands from my waist then guides me to the stool she’d been sitting on after she’d fallen over.

---