Page 21 of Penance

Mercy

I stare at the ceiling, my brain fluttering around like a moth trapped between two panes of glass. The room is dark, nearly pitch black. Maybe the moon is hidden behind the clouds. Draco’s bed feels too big, like it’s not meant for me.

Because it’s not.

What am I doing here?

The question haunts me, but I can’t escape from it. Draco’s proposal hangs in my brain, and it’s all I can focus on.

My fingers twist the sheets, wringing the fabric as if I could squeeze my answers out of the silk. Draco’s scent is floating all around me. It’s all I can smell and all I can taste.

I don’t know what to think or how to feel.

Or maybe it’s memories that cloud my judgment—memories of a time when we were young and innocent, before the shadows claimed him.

Back when he used to smile.

When we laughed together.

But his shadows are all I see now.

They’re everywhere, wrapped around him.

They live in his eyes.

And his touch… his touch ignites a fire within me, a fire that burns hotter than brimstone.

I will burn for it, for how much I love it.

I can still feel the sting of rejection from last night. His body pressed against mine, his breath hot on my skin, and then—nothing. He pulled away, leaving me alone and confused.

Why would he offer to marry me if he doesn’t want me?

All I can think of is who he used to be, the boy who held my hand during Sunday service, his fingers entwined with mine as we sang hymns together. That boy is dead, and the man who took his name is a whole different beast.

Can I marry that man? Can I take his name?

Mercy Killian.

It sounds unnatural.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I shake it away.

I roll onto my side, curling into a ball as if I can protect the baby growing in me from the stress that tangles in my chest.

The moon casts a silver glow through the cracked window, painting eerie shadows on the walls that dance in the night air.

I’ve kicked off the duvet, my body restless and heated despite the chill in the air.

My nightgown, a modest cotton thing I’d brought from home, clings to my damp skin, each twist and turn of my body creating a growing tangle of fabric and frustration.

With a swift movement, I throw off the blanket and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’m moving before I can even realize what’s going on or what I’m doing.

I need to know. I need to know now.

I step out of the bedroom and into the hallway, and my eyes catch on a door to my right. I don’t remember seeing that before. Briefly, I wonder what was in there.

Would that be my room after we got married? Would we sleep in separate beds?

I force the thoughts away.

No. No, I’m not doing that.

If he was going to put a ring on my finger, it was going to be a real marriage, not a fake show.

The apartment is silent, the stillness punctuated only by the occasional roar of a car driving by outside. The shadows dance and sway as I make my way down the hallway and stop at the doorway that leads into the living room.

My eyes are immediately drawn to Draco, his tall, muscular frame sprawled out on the couch, one arm behind his head and the other on his phone. I can see the light of the screen shining across his face, illuminating his expression.

Was he smiling?

Draco’s head snaps up, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

Time seems to slow as he darkens his phone screen, throwing his angular jaw into shadows.

His gaze is curious, probing, like a predator sizing up its prey.

I feel a shiver run down my spine, a physical response to the danger that radiates from him.

But he’s not dangerous.

No, he’s my safe place.

Isn’t he?

“What’s wrong?” he says. “Can’t sleep?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, just watches me with those eyes that make my heart race. My hands tremble slightly as I approach the couch. My mind is screaming at me to turn back, to run, to hide.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb onto the couch, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him.

I sit where he can see me, where he can’t ignore me, and then I realize I’m straddling him, and my body starts trembling.

I flatten my hands on his chest and stare down at him.

All the words I want to say are stuck in my throat and I don’t know what to do.

Draco’s eyes widen, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stern expression. He says nothing, just watches me. I can feel the heat of his body beneath me, the hard planes of his muscles pressing against the insides of my thighs.

It’s intimate, too intimate, and yet not intimate enough.

“Draco,” I begin, fighting to grab onto what’s left of my determination.

It’s slipping away from me as easily as water between cupped hands.

Looking down at him, and the way he looks at me, is crumbling me.

Especially when I see his eyes rove over my body and his tongue flash out across his lips.

No.

Why does he affect me like this?

This is wrong.

This is sinful.

“Yes, Mercy?” he asks, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down my spine.

His hands—those powerful, tattooed hands—rest lightly on my hips, his touch burning through the thin fabric of the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing. I can feel his fingers on my hips squeezing just a little and then releasing me.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel my breaths growing shallower and shallower until I’m lightheaded and dizzy.

“Draco,” I start again. “Why did you… say what you said before?”

His answer is silent, a quirk of one eyebrow.

“Why did you say you would marry me?”

“Why does it matter, Mercy?” he asks.

His eyes flick downwards, and I realize with the way I’m sitting, he can see between my legs.

He can see it, and he’s looking.

That means something, right?

I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

“I need to know, Draco. I need to know if… if it means anything to you.”

“And what if it does, Mercy? Hmm? What then?” he whispers. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“So it doesn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying a lot of things.”

“You’re talking in circles.”

He shrugs.

“Why did you say that to me?” I ask. I’m getting angry now.

“Why’d you come out here, Mercy?”

His hands leave my hips, one wrapping around my back, pulling me flush against him, the other tangling in my hair. The smack of his chest against mine steals my breath—or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me.

“You came out here and sat on my cock. What are you trying to do? Hmm? Are you trying to make me fuck you so you can believe that I love you and then you’ll be okay with marrying a fucking monster? Is that it, hmm? Are you a whore for love, Mercy Marie?”

I’m shaking so hard. Every thought has stopped.

I don’t know what to do or how to react.

I just lay there, flush against him, while he pours sin into me, and damnit, I like it.

Why do I like it?

What’s wrong with me?

“So you don’t love me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So… you do?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

I can feel the tears in my eyes. I can feel the frustration mounting. I’m so annoyed. I just want him to talk to me, and he won’t.

Why can’t he just tell me the truth?

Sighing, I move to swing my leg over him, so I can retreat back to the bedroom, but the hand he has tangled in my hair is holding fast. I can’t get away.

He slams his mouth hard against me. His lips move against mine, hungry and demanding. It’s a kiss that steals my breath, my thoughts, and maybe even my very soul. A soft moan escapes my lips and he swallows it down, stealing it like it was his to have all along.

I kiss him back, stumbling and clumsy, but purposeful.

My hands slip between us and begin to explore, to seek, to find. I slide them down between us, until they reach the hem of his shirt. And then, tentatively, I dip my fingers beneath, touching the bare skin of his stomach.

His skin is so hot, like it’s on fire.

Like the fires of hell that I deserve.

Lustful whore.

He groans into my mouth, a low, feral sound that bounces around in my skull. I let my hands wander even lower, tracing his muscles, the lines of his tattoos, and lower still, beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wears.

And then, I feel it.

The hard, unmistakable evidence that I was looking for.

It’s hard. And the skin is really soft.

And…

Is it supposed to be that big?

My heart leaps.

My fingers wrap around it—well, mostly. They don’t meet on the other side.

That doesn’t seem… normal?

I break the kiss, gasping for air. My body trembles, my mind races.

This is too much, too fast.

I’m scared—no, I’m terrified.

But it’s not enough, somehow, at the same time.

I want more, need more.

I need to forget.

I want him to be the only one to touch me—the only one who ever has—but I know that’s not possible.

What does that mean?!

Do I love him?

“Draco,” I whisper. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Sit on my fuckin’ face, Mercy.”

“W-what?”

I’m still trying to figure out what that means when Draco’s hands suddenly grip my hips, so hard I know I’m going to have bruises in the morning. I barely have time to register his intent before he pulls me up his body, dragging me along as if I weigh nothing.

The world tilts, and I find myself hovering over him, my hands braced against the armrest of the couch to steady myself. His dark, hungry eyes lock onto mine when I look between my thighs at him.

“Don’t you fuckin’ move,” he commands.

I listen, because I don’t know what else to do.

His hands slide down from my hips, tracing the curve of my thighs.

His touch is hot, possessive, leaving a trail of fire that burns, but God forgive me, it feels so good.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, and I brace myself, my mind screaming warnings even as my body aches for his touch.

“Draco,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. A plea, a protest? I don’t know. “I… we shouldn’t…”