Page 133 of Penance

I wonder if she realizes she already asked that.

“It’s not far,” I reply, reaching over to still her hand with mine. I squeeze it, hard enough that she whimpers just a little. “You’ll see when we get there.”

When I pull out onto the main road, I gun it a little more than I need to, and I enjoy the way she grabs at her thighs, her flesh mounding between her fingers.

I like it when she’s scared.

The city thins around us, buildings standing farther and farther apart, streetlights fewer and longer between. We cross the invisible boundary where city living gives way to the comfortof suburban life. The roads narrow and four-way intersections give way to winding back roads, following the natural rise and fall of the land—not that Kansas has a lot of body to it.

I feel the change in the air as we pull up to the house.

The house has stood for over a century, absorbing the energies of those who lived and died within its walls—and I checked, there had been quite a few.

I turn down a gravel drive that cuts through twin rows of ancient oak trees. The tires crunch over the gravel, the sound oddly final, like bones breaking under heavy boots.

Then the trees part, and we can see the house in all its glory. It was built in 1886, at the height of the Victorian era, and it shows. Three stories of history, its ornate wood siding and elaborate trim work seeming to glow, as if lighted from the inside. Ivy crawls up the eastern wall like grasping fingers, reaching toward the highest windows. The bay windows that line the front of the house reflect the sunlight back at us, like wide open, all-seeing eyes.

I stop the car, allowing Mercy time to absorb the sight. Her gasp is audible, and it makes me smile.

“Woah,” she says simply, and I snort.

“Exactly,” I reply, killing the engine.

I kick up my door, exit the car and circle to her side, opening her door and extending my hand. She takes it after only the slightest hesitation, her fingers cold against my palm. It’s not lost on me how she reaches down and pulls at the hem of her dress in the front and the back.

I wonder if she’s still dripping.

Damn, I should have forbidden her from wearing underwear.

A figure steps out the front door and comes to meet us—the realtor, a tall man with calculating eyes and a forced smile that doesn’t reach them. He’s been waiting, as arranged, with minimal paperwork and maximum discretion. He’s wearing aperfectly pressed blue suit, and his shoes are polished to such a perfect shine that as he steps off the porch to shake my hand, they catch the sunlight and I have to squint against the glare.

“Mr. Killian,” he greets me, deliberately avoiding looking at Mercy for too long. He knows me too well to do something stupid like that.

He knows I’d kill him.

Damn. Now I’m really regretting letting Mercy wear underwear.

I could use some bloodshed.

“Ross,” I say. I reach out and grab his hand, and it’s a moment of back and forth, each of us gripping tighter and tighter until I feel the bones in his hand shift and he relents, pulling back.

“Wait,” Mercy says, looking around. She takes a step back, and I let her, but only because I know she’s putting the pieces together in her head. “This is…?”

“That’s right,” I tell her, grinning. “Pastor Thomas’ house. The one you used to gush over on the bus ride to school?”

She looks at me, her eyes wide open and her jaw dropped nearly to her chest.

Fuck, almost wide enough for—

“But the last time I saw it, it was a wreck. It was abandoned after he died for… years?”

“It was,” Ross tells her. “But it’s been beautifully renovated inside. Wait until you see it.”

I nod, keeping Mercy close as we climb the three steps to the porch. The wood creaks beneath our weight, not from weakness but from age, typical of houses like this one that are nearly 150 years old.

“And everything has been done?” I ask, though I already know the answer. The specific alterations I required—the reinforced cellar door, the particular arrangement of the master bedroom,the restoration of certain original features—were non-negotiable and handsomely paid for.

“Yes, sir. Everything to your specifications.”

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