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Chapter 4

Draco

Isit in my armchair, unmoving, watching.

Mercy’s apartment plays on the screen in front of me.

My favorite show.

She looks so small, collapsed on the floor of the shower, staring at the bruises that paint her creamy thighs. She’s crying again. I can see the frantic, jerking rise and fall of her chest, and hear it in the audio that plays through the speakers.

The sight of her distress sends a warm rush of satisfaction through me.

“Why is this happening?” she whispers to herself.

I lean closer, turning up the volume to catch every tiny sound. Her suffering is a symphony that plays just for me.

It’s perfect. Amazing.

Exactly what I wanted when I climbed into her bed with her last night.

Her fear of judgment will keep her silent.

It will be our little secret.

She’s a bird trapped in a cage, too frightened to sing out her pain. Her precious, restrictive faith has taught her to suffer in silence, to bear her cross with quiet dignity. And it’s that very faith that will keep her isolated, ashamed…

…and mine.

“Please, Lord,” she begs. “Please help me understand.”

I smile.

Her pleas fall on deaf ears. There’s no divine intervention coming for her, no white knight coming to save her. There is only me.

I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, as I survey the screens before me. Mercy’s apartment is mapped out in flickering frames, each camera placed in just the right place, thanks to careful planning. The bedroom, the kitchen, the cramped little dining room that she used as a library—all exposed to my hungry gaze.

There was one tucked behind the potted plant in her living room, offering a prime view of her couch, where she often curls up, praying, and sometimes crying. Another lived among the dusty books on her shelves, peering down at her bed to watch her sleep. That one was a challenge; I had to be silent, stealthy, while she slept just a few feet away. But the risk only made it that much more worthwhile.

I could have done it while she was gone, at church, but where was the fun in that?

I had a way to watch each and every interaction, even the one from last night.

I had watched the footage earlier, before she woke up. I watched as she lay there, hair fanned out on the pillow like a dark halo. Her lips parted softly, whispering secrets only I could hear. My heart was a steady drumbeat as I stood over her, savoring the moment. She was vulnerable, exposed. She was mine for the taking. I could have done anything I wanted to her,taken everything away from her. I could have cut her into tiny pieces and eaten each and every one, but no.

It was her soul I craved, her heart I wanted to own.

She barely stirred as I flipped her onto her back, gentle but firm. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion and fear swimming in their hazel depths.

But she didn’t scream.

She wouldn’t.

Not Mercy.

Not my pure, pious Mercy.

To her, it was just a nightmare.