Page 100 of Penance

Oh god, help me.

Chapter 20

Draco

The church spire looms above us, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little uneasy. I have memories of this place, and none of them are good. My stomach churns and clenches. I don’t like this.

I want to turn and run, but I won’t. I can’t be fuckin’ weak. Never again.

Mercy’s arm trembles in my grasp, her steps faltering as we hear someone call her name behind us. She whips around to look behind us. She swallows hard, and I can hear it click in her throat. I turn with her, and hell if it’s not a pretty sight.

Her mother’s hands flutter to her pearls, clutching them like a lifeline. Her father’s brows crash together, his lips pressing into a thin, angry line. I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, the questions and accusations.

“Mercy, what is he doing here?” Her mother asks, trying to sound curious and not disgusted. She fails miserably. She darts a nervous glance at me, her eyes widening as if she’s seen a ghost—or maybe the devil himself.

I offer a smooth smile, and I make sure she can see my confidence. I want her to fucking choke on it.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Clarke. I’ve recently reconnected with Mercy, and I wanted to be here to support her today.”

Her mother’s face pales, her hands trembling. She’s a delicate little thing, just like Mercy. So easily ruffled. Her eyes dart over to her husband and then back to me.

“But, but… you shouldn’t be here,” she stammers. “They excommunicated you, you—”

I deepen my smile.

“Actually, that’s been revoked on account of a large donation made by my father. He donated to the church in his will after his horrible accident.”

It wasn’t an accident, but they don’t know that, and they never will.

Her father’s expression darkens, his body language shifting from confusion to anger. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw working as if he’s chewing on his words.

“What do you want, Killian?” he growls.

My smile doesn’t waver, even as I feel the anger rising. I can’t get mad. No, they can’t see that. It will ruin everything.

“I want what’s best for Mercy, Mr. Clarke. Just like you do.”

His nostrils flare, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs. He’s like a boar protecting his sows, huffing and puffing like he thinks it will scare me off.

Wolves don’t fold so easily.

Mercy stands between us, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm. I can feel her anxiety, her fear, her desperation. She wants to run, but she doesn’t dare. I take a single step, placing my body between hers and her fathers. It’s a single, tiny gesture, but it shows my ownership of her, and I can see how fucking pissed it makes him.

Good.

He doesn’t have anything else to say.

Even better.

“Seems like it’s about that time,” I say, tipping up my sleeve and looking down at my watch. It’s expensive, a Rolex my dad left me. I want them to see it.

I usher us towards the church, and reluctantly, they follow.

I grab Mercy’s hand as we climb the steps, squeezing it, not enough to hurt her, but enough to tell her I’m here for her without actually saying the words out loud. She seems to understand.

The heavy wooden doors of the church groan shut behind us, sealing us into my own personal hell of stained glass and silence. Mercy slips past me, leading the way with her head down, and moves into a pew near the back of the room, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller, insignificant. I slide in next to her, feeling the hard, unyielding wood against my back. Her parents shuffle past us and sit on the other side of her, as close to her as possible, and as far away from me as they can manage.

I can feel the eyes of the congregation on us, their stares and their judgment. Whispers ripple through them like a wave that crashes over me, but I am unbothered. Mercy, on the other hand, is drowning. Her hands tremble in her lap, her fingers picking at the fabric of her modest dress.

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