Page 91 of Penance

It’s worship.

She’s worshiping me, and thankfully I’m a fucking narcissist, so that’s my kink.

Fuck, she tastes so good.

She tastes like she was created just for me.

She tastes like she’s mine.

I rip myself away, moving back to sit at the edge of the mattress, staring at the door.

I can’t.

I can’t let the little whore sway me.

I have come too far.

I’ve worked too hard to fucking own her to give it up now.

“Get up,” I say, turning to look at her.

I watch as her eyes widen, and then her eyebrows knit together. She’s processing, trying to make sense of my words—of everything. Mercy’s hands are resting in her lap, and now I can see them shaking. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head, the way she’s struggling.

“Draco, I don’t understand.”

She swallows hard, her gaze flickering between my eyes and my lips, as if trying to read my intentions.

“You need to get ready. I’m taking you to church.”

Her eyes widen even further, a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Church?”

I nod, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.

“Yes, church. Isn’t that where good girls like you belong?”

She swallows.

“What… day is it?”

“It’s Sunday.”

Before she can respond, I slide off the bed, and make my way to the door. I can feel her eyes on me, her gaze burning into my back. I pause at the doorway, glancing back over my shoulder.

“Come on, Mercy. Time’s a-wasting.”

And then I’m moving, striding down the hallway and into the living room. I can hear her behind me, her bare feet slapping against the floor as she hurries to catch up. She’s running after me, chasing me, just like I knew she would.

Like I planned she would.

She’s chasing after me, not just in this hallway, but in her mind, in her heart. She’s chasing after answers, after understanding, after a sense of control that she’ll never have because I won’t allow it.

When I reach the kitchen, I stop and I turn to face Mercy, still in the living room doorway, her cheeks flushed from the chase, and maybe from the way I kissed her. Her chest jerks with each ragged breath. Her hair is tangled and thrown in her face, sliding down one shoulder. She looks like a cornered animal, all wide-eyed and trembling, but she’s an animal that’s willing to fight to save herself.

“Draco?” she says, her voice cracking. “Why… why are you doing this?” Her hands clutch at the fabric of my oversized t-shirt that she wears. I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. The cool edge of the marble digs into my back, grounding me in the reality of this little drama.

“Doing what, Mercy?”

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