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I shook her just enough to rouse her, but not enough to fully wake her up. She wouldn’t even remember it the next day, and judging by her performance this morning, she hadn’t.

Thanks, Ambien.

“Please,” she had whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Please, don’t.”

But I did.

I claimed her, marked her, left my imprint on her.

Fucked her so hard my cock still hurts.

It wasn’t the soft, slow strokes I normally gave her.

No, I wanted her to feel it.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you, Mercy?” I say out loud to the screen, tracing the outline of her figure as water pours over her, and she cries her pain out in the shower. “Because that’s not who you are. You’re the virtuous one. You bear your crosses quietly.”

She won’t risk the shame, the scandal.

She’ll suffer in silence, bear her torment like a martyr.

And all the while, I’ll be here, watching, waiting.

Then, I’ll do it again.

A shiver of anticipation vibrates through me. I’ll mold her, shape her, guide her until she has become my perfect little toy.

I’ll break her.

Reaching over, I snatch a small carved figure from the desk beside me and twirl it between my fingers—a grotesque parody of an angel, its wings twisted and face contorted. A fitting symbol for Mercy.

My broken angel.

I lean forward, eyes scanning the screens. Mercy has left the shower, a towel wrapped around her, and now she is curled up on her couch, phone clutched in her hand, hesitating.

“Come on, Mercy,” I murmur. “Who are you going to call? Your precious friends from the church group? They won’t believe you. Not after the rumors I’ve started.”

Her thumb hovers over the call button, but she doesn’t press it. I can see the war raging within her. To call out for help would be to admit defeat, to acknowledge the stain on her purity.

She won’t do that.

Not yet.

But maybe…

Maybe eventually she will.

Maybe when she’s scared enough.

I look down at the angel in my hand, at the painful grimace on her face.

My eyes flick back to the screens. Mercy’s hand trembles, and she drops the phone, burying her face in her hands. I zoom in, capturing the moment of despair, savoring it. She’s a lamb separated from the flock, vulnerable and alone. Perfect for the slaughter, and ripe for the picking.

My mind wanders, straying to the dark fantasies that have become my obsession. I imagine Mercy, her eyes wide with fear and realization, as I step out from the shadows of her bedroom. Her breath hitches as I trace the line of her jaw, her body trembling under my touch. I can almost feel her heart racing, her pulse quickening as I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear, her neck, and then her throat.

And I bite down.

I picture her, bound and helpless, her cries muffled by the gag in her mouth. Her eyes, once filled with warmth and faith, now show me her fear. I can see her, writhing in pain and ecstasy, as I carve my mark into her flesh, branding her as mine forever.