Page 3 of The Fallen

I must feast upon her virginal flesh.

I must make her mine in every Biblical sense of the word.

Thwack.

Agony bows up my back as the skin is now raw and freely bleeding, splattering the dark vermillion over the floor. The pain gives me clarity as I watch her retreating back as she joins the rest of the Sisters.

She’s just like them. She’s an untouchable gem, a jewel in the crown of God.

Thwack.

A loud cry punctuates the air as the tips rip through jagged flesh. Dropping the flogger onto the floor, I huddle into myself, rocking back and forth as I continue to send up my prayers. It is enough for now, but what will happen tomorrow? Or the day after that? Or the day after that?

Ragged breaths flit through my lips as I wait there for my vision to stop swimming. The Sisters await me, and I cannot keep them there for long. As always, there is much to do, and I can’t sit here, prostrate, as I bemoan my inner longings.

With a soft groan, I rise from my place on the floor and grab a damp rag to clean the wood where my blood stained the light browns. More and more, I contemplate leaving. Not only for their sake, but for my own. Shaking my head, I toss the rag into a bucket, not wishing for anyone to know my secret shame.

Better that they think of me as careless with my things than know the blood I shed for their continued salvation. As I crank on the shower, the hot steam caresses my body like invisible fingers trailing over my skin. Cupping my balls, I roll my head back onto my shoulders and look up at the heavens.

“Please take this temptation from me. It is a cross too heavy to bear.”

Every inch of me aches as I plunge myself into the heat. Most of all, my balls are drawn up to the point of pain. Yet one more bit of penance I’ve come to accept. Daily, the very act of sitting becomes uncomfortable, and it’s all because of her.

I cannot send her away, because she has done nothing wrong. The only thing she’s guilty of is being a temptation sent from a different sector to test me. When their convent closed down, we welcomed her with open arms. Now, I wonder if it was wise.

She looks different, speaks differently, and worst of all, smells differently. There’s an underlying note of raspberries, a tang of decadence underneath the chocolaty overtones surrounding her lithe, tiny body. How does no one else smell it? How are these Sisters able to carry on with their duties as if there’s not an omega presenting herself as a snack to be devoured?

I can’t think like this. Iwon’tthink like this. Instead, I grab my soap and pour it down my back to clean out the wounds. Slamming my fist against the warm tile, I quell the agonizing scream threatening to rip from my lips. I must suffer in silence as He did. I must take my punishment, all of it, with the grace afforded me.

As I turn to allow the warm spray to cleanse me, swirls of blood eddy around my feet. A small sacrifice, a minuscule bit of torment for a much greater good. Leaning forward, I stretch out the skin, allowing no spot to go untouched. Minutes tick by like hours as I force my body to stay under my control.

I can’t trip the implant now. I have work to do. I must stay focused.

Eventually, the pain quiets to a dull roar, filling a small corner of my mind. My skin feels flayed and bruised as I dry myself and toss the towel into the flames with the sullied rag. Each scrape of my cassock, the holy robes I wear around the abbey, against my back sends tendrils of torment shooting through me, but I must persevere.

My Sisters need me.

Especially Sister Emily Agnes.

Chapter Two

Sister Emily Agnes

The bitter cold grips me even from deep within the bowels of my habit. The other Sisters seem unaffected, but no doubt it’s because they’re used to this weather. Perhaps when given the choices of where I wanted to end up after our small congregation was dismantled, I should have taken the elements into account.

Huddling in as deeply as I can, I look back at the window as a strange gnawing tears at my insides. I know he’s there. I cannot tell how I possess such a knowledge, but it’s as clear to me as my own heart pounding in my chest. Up ahead, the others make their trek to the chapel to set up for Mass, but I do not wish to go with them.

Something makes me long to stay rooted at the spot and stare at the window, hoping it will reveal the priest inside. But that’s absurd. Every morning we make this same pilgrimage, and every morning I see nothing but a reflection of cold desolation.

Behind me, the Mother Superior gives a soft harrumph as she urges me on. One week here, and already I’m on her bad side. I mustn’t tarry, or else I’m sure she’ll find yet another abysmal chore for me to do.

Though, if I’m being honest, I really shouldn’t complain. Coming here after being sequestered in a convent is a breath of fresh air, a freedom I never knew could be afforded to me. Here, I can come and go with relative ease.

In some ways, it’s still all so new and frightening. We had a priest who would assist in our prayers and partake in the Liturgy of the Eucharist, but he was always distanced, separated from us by a fence. Here, I can see the Father Confessor at all turns, even when I do not expect him.

Shoving these thoughts to the side, I hurry my stride to catch up with the other Sisters. There is still so much to do before our official day can begin. As I help prepare for Mass, I let my thoughts wander, doing my best to steer them away from the priest and onto things of a more holy nature.

Unfortunately, they keep drifting back. Hopefully, it’s a discomfort that will ease the longer I am here. I’m simply not used to being around a male, much less an Alpha. Biting down on my lower lip, I kneel and cross myself before taking my place in a pew.

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