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“You’re not even dressed,” he says, nodding toward my dress draped over the chair. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Y-yeah, sorry,” I say, forcing myself to look away. “I w-was… I-I was just— I was going to— I was trying—”

I swallow hard.

“Sorry. I’ll hurry.”

His lips curve slightly, not quite a smile. It’s like the snarl of an aggressive dog.

“Let me help you.”

I should say something.

I should ask him about the mask. I should demand explanations.

Instead, I’m frozen, caught between fear and disbelief.

He shifts his weight, sauntering towards me, and my gaze jumps to his hands—those hands that have held mine, traced patterns on my skin with gentle fingertips, dove inside of me and forced an orgasm from somewhere deep inside of me.

What else has he done with those hands?

“You seem distracted,” he says. “Is everything alright?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.

A test.

If I lie, what then?

Off with my head?

My mouth forms words before my brain can properly vet them.

“I was just—thinking about the sermon today. Pastor Williams mentioned it would be about penance. You know, punishing yourself to prove that you’re sorry for something you’ve done.”

The irony isn’t lost on me, and I wonder if it registers with him, too.

“Penance,” Draco repeats, nodding. “I remember.”

He moves closer, each footstep deliberate on the hardwood floor. It’s like the pounding of a gavel.

I can’t breathe.

He stops an arm’s length away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—sandalwood and something else, like burnt cloves.

“Do you think you should be punished, Mercy?” he asks, my name on his lips suddenly sounding like what it is—a concept rather than a person.

I look up into his face, searching for something human in his eyes.

There’s nothing there.

Only darkness.

He’s a monster.

He knows.

The thought hits me like a physical force.