Page 25 of Penance

Draco

T he church spire looms above us, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little uneasy. I have memories of this place, and none of them are good. My stomach churns and clenches. I don’t like this.

I want to turn and run, but I won’t. I can’t be fuckin’ weak. Never again.

Mercy’s arm trembles in my grasp, her steps faltering as we hear someone call her name behind us. She whips around to look behind us. She swallows hard, and I can hear it click in her throat. I turn with her, and hell if it’s not a pretty sight.

Her mother’s hands flutter to her pearls, clutching them like a lifeline. Her father’s brows crash together, his lips pressing into a thin, angry line. I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, the questions and accusations.

“Mercy, what is he doing here?” Her mother asks, trying to sound curious and not disgusted. She fails miserably. She darts a nervous glance at me, her eyes widening as if she’s seen a ghost—or maybe the devil himself.

I offer a smooth smile, and I make sure she can see my confidence. I want her to fucking choke on it.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Clarke. I’ve recently reconnected with Mercy, and I wanted to be here to support her today.”

Her mother’s face pales, her hands trembling. She’s a delicate little thing, just like Mercy. So easily ruffled. Her eyes dart over to her husband and then back to me.

“But, but… you shouldn’t be here,” she stammers. “They excommunicated you, you—”

I deepen my smile.

“Actually, that’s been revoked on account of a large donation made by my father. He donated to the church in his will after his horrible accident.”

It wasn’t an accident, but they don’t know that, and they never will.

Her father’s expression darkens, his body language shifting from confusion to anger. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw working as if he’s chewing on his words.

“What do you want, Killian?” he growls.

My smile doesn’t waver, even as I feel the anger rising. I can’t get mad. No, they can’t see that. It will ruin everything.

“I want what’s best for Mercy, Mr. Clarke. Just like you do.”

His nostrils flare, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs. He’s like a boar protecting his sows, huffing and puffing like he thinks it will scare me off.

Wolves don’t fold so easily.

Mercy stands between us, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

I can feel her anxiety, her fear, her desperation.

She wants to run, but she doesn’t dare. I take a single step, placing my body between hers and her fathers.

It’s a single, tiny gesture, but it shows my ownership of her, and I can see how fucking pissed it makes him.

Good.

He doesn’t have anything else to say.

Even better.

“Seems like it’s about that time,” I say, tipping up my sleeve and looking down at my watch. It’s expensive, a Rolex my dad left me. I want them to see it.

I usher us towards the church, and reluctantly, they follow.

I grab Mercy’s hand as we climb the steps, squeezing it, not enough to hurt her, but enough to tell her I’m here for her without actually saying the words out loud. She seems to understand.

The heavy wooden doors of the church groan shut behind us, sealing us into my own personal hell of stained glass and silence.

Mercy slips past me, leading the way with her head down, and moves into a pew near the back of the room, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller, insignificant.

I slide in next to her, feeling the hard, unyielding wood against my back.

Her parents shuffle past us and sit on the other side of her, as close to her as possible, and as far away from me as they can manage.

I can feel the eyes of the congregation on us, their stares and their judgment. Whispers ripple through them like a wave that crashes over me, but I am unbothered. Mercy, on the other hand, is drowning. Her hands tremble in her lap, her fingers picking at the fabric of her modest dress.

I lean back, a smirk playing on my lips. I meet the eyes of every single one of the holier-than-thou bastards that dare to challenge me, and I stare them down. They all fold easily. They look away, but they start their whispering again.

Let them look.

Let them wonder.

Let them judge.

Their opinions mean nothing to me. But Mercy—she’s delicate. She’s scared, and she’s letting it get to her. Reaching out, I grab her hand again and hold it firmly in mine.

Maybe it will help, but probably not. It will probably make it worse.

The organ music starts to play, and it raises memories in me that I’d rather forget, but I shake it away.

I won’t let it make me weak. The minister takes his place, his eyes sweeping over the congregation, and I am acutely aware of the moment he notices me.

His gaze lingers on Mercy, then flicks to me again, cold and disapproving.

He doesn’t want me here.

None of them do.

Good.

Throughout the service, Mercy’s parents sit rigid and uncomfortable, and their disapproval washes over me in waves.

Her mother casts occasional glances at me, her eyes filled with unease.

Her father’s jaw is set in a hard line, his hands clenched on his knees.

I can see the pulse throbbing in his temple, a vein pulsing in anger.

Great. Exactly what I was hoping for.

The service ends, and the church begins to empty, and I can’t help but notice that it seems a little quicker than usual.

No one stops to mingle when there is a wolf in their ranks.

We step out into the blinding sunlight, and I take a deep breath, pulling in fresh air and diluting the incense that swims in me.

Mercy’s father turns to me, his expression grim.

Damn, he’s looking at me like someone died.

“A word, Killian,” he says, his voice a low growl.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

I’m not innocent, and he knows it.

Maybe he can sense it.

“Of course, Mr. Clarke.”

We step off the church stairs, leaving Mercy with her mother, and step out of the way, into the grass.

“It’s been nice to see you,” he says, but even with his kind words, I can tell he is uncomfortable. “It’s been a while.”

I nod.

“About 15 years,” I say, nodding in agreement.

“Heard what happened to your daddy,” he says, and he sighs. Mercy’s father and mine had been good friends at one point. “It’s a shame.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Nobody expected it.”

“Horrible way to die.”

It was, but he got what he deserved. A fiery car crash after a night of drinking. He hit that tree on purpose, ashamed of what happened to me.

No one will convince me otherwise.

He couldn’t look me in the face.

None of them could, the fucking cowards.

“I’m so sorry you lost him, Draco.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He extends a hand, an offer of civility, a truce. I look at it, then reach out, taking his hand in a firm grip. As I do, I turn my wrist, revealing the pentagram tattooed on the back of my hand. His eyes widen, his breath catching in his throat.

“What is that?” he demands.

I hold his hand a moment longer, relishing the horror in his eyes.

“Just the act of a rebellious teenager, Mr. Clarke,” I say, my voice smooth as silk. “Nothing to be afraid of. I was going through a lot at the time. Just lost my dad, shunned from the church.”

“Oh, of course,” he says, clearing his throat. He’s uncomfortable. Good.

We stand in tense silence for a moment, and sensing its safe to do so, Mercy and her mother make their way over.

Mercy is trembling.

I narrow my eyes on her mother, staring her down. I see her stumble as she moves closer to me.

I wonder if I scare her.

I hope so.

What did she say to my girl while I was away?

I clear my throat and pull my eyes away as she steps up to us, and I hear her sigh in relief.

“Well,” I say finally. “Why don’t we continue this discussion over lunch?”

Mercy’s mother blinks, her white-gloved hands fluttering to her throat.

“Lunch?” she echoes, as if the word is foreign to her.

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” I say, turning to her. “A meal that people enjoy typically in the middle of the day. I believe it’s quite common among civilized people.”

Her husband grunts, and it makes Mercy flinch.

“I suppose we could,” he agrees.

I watch as Mercy’s shoulders relax slightly, though her hands are still clamped tightly together.

“Wonderful,” I say, smiling at Mercy. “Shall we?”

She doesn’t look happy.

She looks like she swallowed a bee.

The restaurant is an old diner on the opposite side of town, with dusty lace curtains and faded photographs from the 1950s adorning the checkered walls.

From what little I remember of my mother, she took me here a lot when I was very young.

She might have been a waitress here. She died of a drug overdose when I was 6.

I remember walking into the bedroom to remind her that I needed to get on the bus, and she had rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. Green bile had pooled around her mouth and nose. I shook her, but she didn’t wake up.

I met my father for the very first time the next day.

He didn’t want anything to do with me.

I force the memory away and look over at Mercy.

She sits beside me, her spine as straight as a telephone pole, her eyes unblinking and fixed on the menu in front of her.

Her parents sit opposite us, their faces set in matching expressions of disapproval.

I lean back in my chair, letting my gaze drift from one to the other, enjoying the spectacle of their discomfort.

“So,” Mr. Clarke begins, trying to force a smile. “What is it that you do for work?”

I raise an eyebrow.

What an odd question.

I’ll humor him.

“A few things, actually,” I say. “Investments, mostly. Some computer work.”

“Does that pay well?” Mrs. Clarke asks, reaching out and taking up her mug of black coffee. It’s not lost on me that her fingers shake so hard that coffee slops over the side and stains the grimy white tablecloth.