Page 26 of Penance

“It does,” I say with a nod. “If you add what I’ve made to what my dad left me, I have, I think, around four and a half million in the bank.”

Mercy, who had just picked up her glass of water to take a sip, gasps.

Or she tries to.

With the water in her mouth, it was more like a badly botched self-drowning attempt. She coughs and sputters, placing the glass of water back on the table with a clink.

I just smile.

Mrs. Clarke shifts in her seat

“Mercy tells me you’ve been… reconnecting,” she says. She chokes on the last word, like it’s bitter and hard to bring up. I wonder if she chokes on her husband’s cock like that.

“Absolutely,” I say. “We happened to cross paths one day, and we started talking. So many old memories came up. We’ve gotten… very close over the last few days.”

Mercy clears her throat, and when I look over, I watch in real time as her cheeks flush pink. I can see the pulse jumping in her throat. I reach out, laying a hand on hers, and she jumps, her eyes lifting to meet mine.

“And what about your family?” Mrs. Clarke asks. “What do they do?”

I turn my gaze back to her, my smile fading.

This is where I’m supposed to act heartbroken, right?

“My family is… complicated. As you know, my father died almost 15 years ago now. About 5 years before that, my mom died, so I don’t have much family to speak of.

I have a half brother who lives in Cottonwood Falls.

He’s a firefighter, and an aunt up in Council Grove,” I say, with a shrug.

“But I didn’t invite you here to discuss them. ”

Mrs. Clarke’s eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat.

The other shoe is about to drop, and she knows it.

“Why did you invite us here, Draco?” she asks.

I think that’s the first time she’s used my name since she saw me.

I lean forward, my eyes locked on hers.

“I have a reason for inviting you here, Mrs. Clarke,” I say, my voice low. “A very specific reason.”

The table falls silent, the tension thickening like the smoke that drops after a forest fire. I can see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. And I savor it, letting the moment stretch, the tension rise.

I am in control here.

And they know it.

I watch as Mr. Clarke’s fork trembles in his hand, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his upper lip, behind the 5 o’clock shadow he wears today.

His wife’s eyes dart nervously between Mercy and me, her eyes growing wider and wider.

I can see the waves of discomfort rolling off them, and it delights me.

I look over at Mercy, who sits beside me so rigidly that I briefly wonder if she’s frozen, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. But that can’t be.

I can hear her heart pounding, like the beating of the telltale heart.

She is a vision.

Fuck, I want to take her right here.

Mr. Clarke clears his throat.

“Perhaps you’d like to share?”

“Of course,” I say, looking over at him. I pull in a deep breath, feigning nervousness. Except I’m not nervous. My hands are as steady as a surgeon. “I want to marry your daughter.”

The gasp that escapes Mrs. Clarke is so forceful that I wonder if it was painful. Her hand flies to her mouth in shock. Her eyes widen and then close hard.

Mr. Clarke, on the other hand, is stone still, his expression unreadable.

I think maybe he’s dumbfounded.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Clarke finally squeaks. “I demand an explanation. Why would you ask such a thing?”

Mercy’s breath hitches, her hands trembling in her lap. I can see the tears sparkling in her eyes. She’s trying to keep herself together, and she’s failing miserably.

“Why not?” I ask, cocking my head in his direction. It’s a dare. I’m daring him to challenge me.

“Marriage?” Mr. Clarke scoffs. “You’re not the kind of man we want for our daughter.”

“And what kind of man is that?” I ask. “A man who cares for her and supports her? A man with enough money to give her what you couldn’t? A man who—”

Mercy’s sudden intake of breath cuts me off.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air, and they seem to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Mrs. Clarke’s face pales. Mr. Clarke’s eyes darken, his hands clenching into fists on the table.

How far can I push him in public?

Can I make him explode?

I bet I can.

I watch as Mercy’s eyes fill with tears. She licks her lips and shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Dad. I’m so sorry.”

The color drains from her mother’s face. She presses a hand to her mouth as she pushes her chair back with a harsh scrape. She stumbles to her feet, the napkin she had placed across her lap fluttering to the checkered tiles.

“I… I can’t…” she chokes out, her voice a broken whisper. She turns away, her shoulders shaking as she hurriedly pushes open the door of the diner and steps outside.

She needs some air, I guess.

Mr. Clarke’s eyes fix themselves on Mercy. His face is beat red, and he’s blowing up like a bullfrog.

It’s hilarious to witness, actually.

“How could you, Mercy? How could you shame us like this?”

Mercy flinches, her tears falling faster. She looks like a wilting flower, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She’s twisting a napkin between her fingers, and I can feel the threads in the fabric snapping from the force.

“I… I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispers. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Never meant for this to happen?” he growls at her. “Mercy, you’re a grown woman. You know how babies are made.”

“I-it was an accident,” she whimpers.

It wasn’t.

I bred her on purpose.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

“It’s a bastard is what it is!” he spits at her.

That’s it. That’s all I can take.

I can feel the anger rising in me, and if I let it go on much longer, I’m liable to reach across this table and snatch him out of his seat.

“It’s mine,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him.

He fixes me with his eyes, but I don’t waver, and I don’t flinch away.

“Excuse me?”

I hold his gaze.

“It’s my baby. I’m responsible for this.”

Mercy looks at me, blinking hard.

“I can take care of her,” I say. “I will take care of her.”

“You expect me to believe that you will do right by my daughter? A little lying heathen like you?”

I don’t flinch, don’t react to the venom in his voice. Instead, I lean back in my seat and fix him with a calm, collected smile.

“I have an inheritance, more money than Mercy could ever need. I’ll buy her a house, and I’ll buy the baby everything they need. She and the child will be well taken care of.”

His lips curl into a sneer.

“Money isn’t everything, Killian. Mercy needs stability. She needs support and love. The child she carries needs to grow up with God in their heart, and I don’t expect you to know anything about that.”

“I have the means to give Mercy a comfortable life. Neither her nor that baby will want for anything.”

Mercy shifts beside me, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

She looks pale, her eyes wide and glassy.

She looks like a cornered animal, and for a second, I’m afraid if I reach out and touch her, she’ll bite the hand that, literally, feeds her.

She pushes her chair back, the legs screaming against the floor.

“I… I need some air,” she sputters.

I watch as she clutches her stomach protectively, her knuckles so white that the dress she wears almost looks brown in comparison. She walks away, her steps quick and uneven—jerky. Once she’s out of earshot, I turn back to her father, and I’m not calm anymore.

I’m serious.

I’m pissed.

“Mr. Clarke,” I begin. “I understand your concerns. But I assure you, I have only the best intentions for Mercy and our child.”

He scoffs, his eyes narrowing.

“I know all about your intentions . You got my daughter pregnant.”

His voice is low, a whisper.

He doesn’t want anyone to hear.

He and his wife could be excommunicated. Mercy could be, too.

“Mr. Clarke, I have to be frank. While I do hope for your blessing, I do not need it. Mercy is 25 years old. She is an adult.”

I lean back in my chair, and I make sure he’s watching as I flash him a wink.

“She’s all grown up now.”

He studies me, his gaze piercing, as if trying to peel back my layers, to see if I’m lying.

Because he thinks I am.

He leans back, matching my body language. I can see the wheels turning in his mind, the internal struggle playing out behind his eyes. I’ve given him something to think about. And now, I just have to wait, to let my words sink in, to let reality settle over him.

He leans in, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles bleed white, and the fingers pulse red. I can see the vein throbbing in his temple.

“How much?” he asks, his voice a low tone meant to keep our conversation private.

I cock my head, feigning ignorance.

“How much what, Mr. Clarke?”

“How much will it take for you to leave Mercy alone? To walk away from this… situation? Ten thousand? More?”

A surge of anger courses through me, hot and throbbing, but I keep it in check.

For now.

My hands, resting on the table, curl inward. I want him to see my tattoos. I want the serpent to stare him in the face. I want him to know what he’s up against.

“You think this is about money?” I ask, my voice a soft, dangerous whisper. “You think I can be bought?”

He scoffs.

“I think you’re a man who knows the value of a dollar.”

“I have millions,” I growl. “You have nothing.”

My anger morphs into something cold, something deadly. Now, it’s dangerous, and I’m worried. I should walk away, but I can’t.

“You think I’m a monster, Mr. Clarke,” I say, leaning in. “And maybe I am. But I’m the monster that will protect your daughter and her child. I’m a man who will put a ring on her finger. What will the church think of her if I don’t? An unwed mother is a pariah, and you know it.”

He sneers, a look of disgust twisting his features.

“You? Protect her? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re a poison, Draco. A poison that will ruin Mercy’s life.”

The darkness within me roars, and I lunge, the table rocking as I grip the front of his shirt. His eyes widen in shock and fear, his breath hitching as I pull him close, inches away from my face. I want him to hear every word—to feel it sink into his blood.

“Listen to me, old man,” I growl, and my voice holds the promise of violence. “That is my baby, and Mercy is my girl. If you get between us, and try to keep her away from me? I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Sir, please!” A waiter appears beside the table, a short, fat, red-haired man with crooked teeth, his hands fluttering nervously as he steps up to the table. “I-I need to ask you to leave. Now. P-please?”

I hold Mr. Clarke’s gaze a moment longer before releasing him with a harsh shove. He falls back into his seat, his face pale, his eyes wide. He looks like he wants to be angry, but he doesn’t quite have the energy.

Or the balls.

I stand, straightening my jacket with a sharp tug. The waiter steps back, his eyes darting between Mr. Clarke and me, his hands up as if fending off a wild animal. I can feel the weight of stares from the other diners, their shocked whispers buzzing in the air like flies after a bloated corpse.

But I don’t even look at them.

They don’t matter.

They are utterly insignificant.

Straightening my tie, I reach into my pocket, pull out a wad of cash, and throw it on the table. I think there were a couple hundred dollars in that handful.

Good. The waiter deserves a good tip.

Maybe he can get his fuckin’ teeth fixed.

“I want you to know,” I say, staring Mercy’s father in the eyes. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about this, and a lot of praying.”

“You, praying?” He snorts.

“Yes,” I say, still staring him down. “I spoke to God, and I said ‘Lord, have mercy on my soul.’”

I paused, just for a moment, for dramatic effect. I couldn’t stop the grin that split my lips, no matter how hard I tried.

“Though, I think you should know that by ‘my soul’, I mean my cock. And that’s exactly where she’ll be tonight.”

I flash him a wink and turn away from the table. The door chimes cheerfully as I step out into the world outside, sucking in a shaking breath to try to calm my nerves. I need to get home. I need to get home and take it out on her, just like she asked me to.

I need to make her cry.

I scan the sidewalk, the parking lot, my eyes narrowing as I spot her.

Mercy.

She’s sitting on a worn iron bench, her back to me.

Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her chocolate waves dancing around her shoulders with every inhale. The sight of her, so vulnerable and broken, stokes the fire within me, but I rein it in.

Not here.

My shoes crunch on the gravel as I step up to her. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know she feels me. I can sense the shift in her, the way her muscles tense.

“Mercy?” I say.

She doesn’t respond, she just cries silently. I sigh and sit down beside her, sliding closer to her.

“Where’s your mom?” I ask.

“She’s in the car,” she says. “She called me a whore. She says she doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

I follow her gaze, seeing nothing but a fat black crow perched on a nearby fence, its beady eyes watching us with keen interest. It tilts its head at me, watching me closely.

Can it sense that I’m a predator?

“She’ll come around,” I say.

“What if she doesn’t?”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s a fair question.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

I don’t know what else to say, but I think maybe part of me—a small part—means it.