Page 50 of Penance

How did this happen?

A scent clings to the air. It’s musky and dark, almost overwhelming, but somehow comforting all at once. A sudden realization slams into me, and a wave of nausea crashes over me. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to retch.

I remember now.

The man in the mask. He attacked me. I can still feel the grip of his hands on my flesh, pinning me down. I can feel the remnants of the way he pushed into me, so hard it hurt, and I worried that my flesh would tear open and spill blood beneath me.

A sob escapes my lips as I remember fleeing my apartment, banging on Draco’s door. He should have turned me away, but he didn’t. He pulled me into his apartment, his strong arms wrapping around me. The warmth of his body pressed against mine. I can still see the way he worried for me.

And the way I begged him not to leave me.

The way I pleaded with him to lie beside me, to protect me.

I stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling, reality crashing down around me like shattered glass. The room is a blur of dark colors and swaying shadows, a stark contrast to the bright, airy spaces I’m accustomed to.

Nausea churns in my gut, bile rising in my throat as I remember what happened, and the way I fought, pushing against him, fighting to get him off of me.

And the way I didn’t hate it—or at least my body didn’t.

My body, my own flesh, had betrayed me.

If I’m the good Christian woman I believe myself to be, why did my body react like that?

I liked it, at least in part.

I orgasmed—at least I think I did.

I never have before, that I can remember, but I think that’s what it was.

I can feel the tears in my eyes, and my vision blurs.

What does that mean?

It’s means I’m not pure anymore, not that I had been before.

I’m pregnant. I have a monster growing inside me.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to be a vessel for evil.

I pull in a shaking breath, and it erupts from me in a shaking sob that I can’t bite back, even though I try.

Suddenly, the mattress shifts, and I hear a soft rustle of fabric. Draco stirs beside me, his movements slow and deliberate. He turns to face me, but I face away. I can’t look at him.

“You’re awake,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question, spoken with a chilling calmness that sends a shiver down my spine.

I nod silently, unable to find my voice.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his tone gentle.

Why is he being so… nice?

How am I… feeling?

I feel like I want to claw off my skin, the skin that flushed with sweat while a monster raped me. The skin that grew hot and betrayed my mind. The flesh that parted willingly for my attack.

Disgusting.

I wasdisgusting.

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