Page 129 of Penance

Why was I doing this, really?

Was it because I wanted to get my revenge?

Or was it because I loved her or something like that?

Nah, it couldn’t be that.

I doubted I could still feel that particular emotion.

I watch her from the doorway, my shadow stretching across the floor between us like some kind of metaphorical painting. The room breathes with shadows, even if it’s as bright as a summer day outside. She doesn’t notice them—not yet. She will, one day.

Maybe no one sees them but me?

Mercy’s fingers tremble slightly, working her hands up and down her arms like she’s trying to comfort herself. I hate to see her cover it up. She looks so good, covered in the bruises I gave her.

The pentagram tattoo on the back of my hand itches as I watch her. It always does when I’m close to getting something I want. Maybe it’s something about the rituals I performed on the night I sold my soul.

Who knows?

It doesn’t matter now.

I have her. She’s mine.

She’s laying in her coffin, I just have to hammer in the final nail.

It wasn’t difficult since I know her weaknesses—the loneliness, the longing to be special, the way the church taught her that she’s just a poor, fragile, innocent woman, and she’s nothing without a man like me to guide her. I became what she needed until she stopped questioning what I needed from her.

I was there for her. I gave her everything she needed.

Now, I own her.

Body, mind, and soon, her soul.

“This dress?” she asks, touching the folded dress that I laid on the sheets. She seems unsure.

Good.

“That’s the one.”

I watch as she picks it up, studying it. It’s black, made of silk that will cling to her body in ways her usual clothing never would. Beneath it, a bright red bra and a lace thong to match, but not the one from before, one I got especially for her.

In a color I chose especially for her. The color of sacrifice.

I will slaughter my little lamb, and she will thank me for it.

“I’ve never worn anything like this,” she says, kneading the silk between her fingers.

She’s hesitant.

She’s… scared?

“You will now,” I tell her. “For me. Because you’re a good girl, right?”

She nods, turning the dress over in her hands. I close the gap between us and pull the dress from her hands. Tossing it across my shoulder, I grab the bra instead.

“Turn,” I say.

She does it.

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