Page 10 of Penance

Draco

T he broken hall light flickers above me.

It’s dying from years of neglect.

Kind of like me.

I snort at the thought.

It’s a small moment of happiness before the anger returns, and it returns with a vengeance. When I turn and look at Mercy’s apartment door again, I’m shaking.

She thinks she can refuse me?

Refuse my protection?

The thought would be hilarious if it didn’t piss me off so fuckin’ bad.

She fuckin’ belongs to me. Who does she think she is?

My fingers twitch at my side, the knuckles cracking and popping with anticipation. It’s an itch, but it dances just out of reach, like a whisper over my shoulder.

I glance around the hallway, empty and quiet save for the hum of the fluorescent lights over my head.

This will be too easy.

Pathetic, really.

I glance over my shoulder at all the other apartment doors, closed and quiet.

No one’s home. It’s just me and my demons.

They all think they’re safe. They sit in their houses like rats in a hole, their thoughts empty and void of all the fear they should be feeling, if they were smart enough.

They hide behind locked doors and deadbolts, but they don’t keep them as safe as they think they do.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the small leather pouch that holds my lock pick tools. I pull out two of the tools and get to one knee, stuffing the pouch back into my jacket pocket.

I slip the tension wrench into the hole, applying just enough pressure to keep it tight, but not too much.

Next, I slip the pick comb past it, feeling for the pins inside the lock.

One by one, they click into place, one after the other, over and over again, until the lock gives way with a satisfying click, and the door creaks open in my hands.

I pocket the tools with a smile on my face.

Whistling to myself, I step through the door and pop it closed behind me, my movements deliberate and confident. The scent of lavender and vanilla wraps around me like a warm hug, so familiar that it’s like the greeting of an old friend.

In a way, I guess it is.

We were friends once, weren’t we?

What were we now?

Cat and mouse.

Victim and perpetrator.

My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light filtering through the thin curtains, my ears catching the hum of her fan left on in the bathroom. I look around, the same as I always do, taking in every picture and cross nailed to every single goddamn wall.

My Mercy is a good girl. Pious and virtuous. Pure and untouched.

Well, she was, anyway, before I touched her.

The faint ticking of a clock, somewhere in the depths of Mercy’s apartment, grates on my nerves like a relentless metronome.

I’m late, I’m late.

Run rabbit, run.

I roll my neck, one way, and then the other, until it pops with a satisfying crack and I can feel the tension under my skin melt away.

My eyes scan the living room, taking in the neatly arranged furniture and the bookshelf lined with old, faded books. A Bible lies open on the coffee table, its pages well-worn from frequent reading. I smirk, my fingers tracing the edge of the holy book as I step past it and into the hallway.

You won’t find protection in these pages, Mercy.

Not from me.

I move down the hallway, my fingers straying to glide along the wall as I move toward her bedroom door. I’m careful to listen to the sounds around me, any type of clue that she could be coming home early.

There’s nothing.

I’m all alone.

Perfect.

The door creaks softly as I push it open, revealing a kingdom of innocence.

Her bed is small, modest, the floral comforter folded neatly, with a furry white throw folded at the foot of it.

Her nightstand holds a small lamp and a framed photograph of her with her family, their smiles frozen in time.

I step up to the table and pick up the frame, my thumb brushing over her face.

“Such a good girl,” I whisper, setting it down with a snort.

Stepping across the room, I move to her dresser.

I pull open the top drawer, my fingers sifting through silk and satin.

Frilly, girly things. The fabrics are soft, delicate, some of them catching on the rough callouses on my hands.

I feel something different brush against my hand and stop, eyes narrowed.

What was that?

My fingers wrap around it and I pull it out, and when my eyes catch sight of it, I bark a laugh.

A red lace thong.

Really, Mercy?

Naughty girl.

I push it into my pocket. I’ll use this later.

The next drawer holds her everyday clothes—simple, modest, nothing like the garments I fantasize about her in. I lift a blouse, holding it up to the light before folding it and putting it back, slightly off-center.

The closet is a deeper invasion. Her Sunday best hangs neatly, each hanger precisely spaced.

Every single dress is pressed and folded neatly, perfectly.

I run my hands over the fabrics, feeling the textures, imagining them against her skin, what they’d look like bunched up to her waist as I fucked her.

When I turn away, I don’t close the closet door.

Her jewelry box is a small, carved wooden thing, perfectly centered on a table in the corner. I pop it open and look inside—a silver cross, a string of pearls, a few delicate chains. I lift the cross, feeling its weight, its cold metal warming in my grasp.

I set it down, on the polished wood, the chain coiled like a snake ready to strike.

She’ll see it. She’ll know someone touched it.

I’ll get to watch her slowly go insane.

Each and every thing I move is a message to her, a love note for her to find in the future.

I am here, Mercy. You can’t escape me.

The thought sends a thrill through me, a dark satisfaction that curls around my heart and squeezes tightly.

I imagine her stepping into the room, her eyes scanning the room, her brow furrowing as she notices that everything is just very slightly… off.

Did I leave that drawer open?

Why is that picture crooked?

Paranoia will set in, a slow, insidious creep up her spine, until it lives on her shoulder, watching her every move.

She’ll question her own memory, her own sanity.

And with each passing day, as the signs become more apparent, she’ll turn to me. She’ll see just how much she needs me.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I almost miss it—the sound of her key sliding into the lock.

Shit.

Without a second thought, I jump across the room and tear the closet door open, slipping inside.

It’s cramped, too tight. I have to bend my knees just to fit inside with the door closed.

It’s not lost on me that my heart beats steadily, not speeding up or skipping at all.

It’s steady and unwavering.

I’m not scared, not worried.

If anything, I’m excited.

My breathing is steady, controlled, perfectly calm.

I hear the sound of the front door opening and then closing again, and the sound of grocery bags dropping against the wall in the hallway. I listen to the thud of her shoes as she kicks them off in the living room, and then the fridge door opening, and a second later, closing again.

The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

I focus on the sound, giving my anxious mind something to focus on.

I peer through the crack in the closet door, waiting for the inevitable—for her to come to me. The bedroom is bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, casting long, reaching shadows that dance and shift around the room.

Yet I stay where I am.

Watching.

Waiting.

The creak of a floorboard in the hallway sends a shiver of pleasure up my spine.

So close.

Reaching into my pocket, I grab the mask and pull it out, flipping it open and yanking it on. It’s a simple black, patent leather Anubis mask I picked up at a nearby Halloween pop up shop.

The long black muzzle, the tall ears, like demonic horns.

It’s not all that special, but it’s enough. It will scare the absolute shit out of her.

Lucky for me, it’s almost Halloween.

From my other pocket, I pull out a pair of black surgical gloves. Enough to conceal my tattoos, but thin enough that I’ll still feel the heat of her skin through them.

I’ve left my leather jacket and my normal frayed blue jeans in my apartment upstairs, opting for a simple long-sleeved turtleneck and black dress pants.

It covers enough that she’ll never suspect anything.

She’ll be clueless, just like I want her.

The doorknob clicks, and the door swings open, revealing Mercy, her silhouette framed by the harsh light streaming in from the hallway.

She’s a vision, as she always is. I drink in her pillowy, plump lips, her wide, doe-like eyes, hiding behind dark-rimmed, oversized glasses, her pale, porcelain skin that’s begging me to mark it—to bite her, bruise her.

She steps inside, her movements graceful, unhurried. The soft click of the door closing behind her echoes through the apartment. She tosses her keys into the bowl on the side table, and they click and jingle like a happy lullaby.

“At least I’m home,” she mutters to herself, shrugging off her coat and throwing it onto the armchair that sits in a corner by her bed.

I watch her, my breath held, as she lifts the hand at her side to her mouth and takes a bite of the apple I hadn’t even noticed she was holding, her teeth snapping through the crisp flesh.

The juice glistens on her lips, and she licks it away, a small, innocent gesture that sends a surge of heat through me.

I wonder what those perfect lips will feel like when I bite them, or when she wraps them around my cock and I fuck myself down her throat.

Come on, little lamb , I urge her silently, my eyes tracking her every movement. Come closer to the wolf . Come to me, and be devoured .