Page 29 of Penance

Mercy

W hen I wake up the next morning, it’s still dark.

What time is it? How late did I sleep?

I see the outline of a shadow looming behind me, and for a moment, my heart clenches—but it’s only Draco, turned towards me, his breaths deep and even.

Part of me hadn’t expected him to stay.

I expected to wake up alone, with his side of the bed cold and unused.

But no, he was there.

He stayed.

I can feel a strange sense of relief washing over me. After nights haunted by loneliness, his presence is an unexpected comfort.

Who would have thought that I would be comforted by Draco of all people?

He had pulled away so hard after our falling out, who would have thought that he would be my island in the storm?

My eyes trace the tattoos onto Draco’s arm, protectively draped across my waist, pulling me close as if afraid I’ll slip away. I can see dragons, spiders and goblins, skulls and roses. It’s like a scene from a horror movie has been etched into his flesh.

Their meaning is still a mystery to me.

I should be frightened, repulsed, even

But instead, I find myself drawn to him.

It’s like, in a way, he’s still my best friend and we never lost touch.

My memories drift to the time from just a few weeks ago—mother’s laughter, father’s steady gaze—all gone now, and I got no say in the matter. I didn’t ask for this baby, even if I find myself more and more excited the more I think of it.

I didn’t ask Draco to take responsibility, but he did.

I didn’t ask him to—

Draco grunts in his sleep, a low rumble that makes my heart skip, and rips me out of my head. He’s offered me a lifeline, a way out. But at what cost? My gaze flickers to the pentagram tattooed on his hand.

It’s a mark of the devil.

Can I truly trust him?

Do I even have a choice?

He told my dad the baby was his.

What did that mean?

Did he do it because he wanted to save me, or because he wants to be a father?

Would my baby call him daddy?

I’m so stuck in my own mind that I don’t notice when Draco stirs, his arm tightening around me until I very nearly can’t draw a breath. I turn and look at him over my shoulder, and his dark eyes bore into mine with an intensity that steals what’s left of my breath.

How did he do that? What changed in him that gave him this power of me?

Or maybe, something changed in me?

“Morning,” he says, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” I say back, and my voice is small and flimsy in comparison.

He shifts closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of my jaw.

“Did you sleep well?”

I nod.

“Good, because you’re going to need all of your energy. I’m going to take you in the shower and fuck you until you cry, and then I’m going to buy my wife a house and plan our wedding.”

His touch is gentle, but his words are jarring.

My heart stutters, tripping over itself.

Wife?

House?

The word echoes through me. I search his face for any sign of doubt, or the tell of a lie, but there’s only certainty in his eyes.

“But… but, why?” I stammer, my thoughts spinning.

“You don’t want to marry me?” he counters.

“I didn’t say that,” I whisper back.

“Then what are you saying?”

“It’s just…” I sigh, trying to think of the words to say. “Why are you doing this? We didn’t talk for fifteen years, and now all the sudden you’re here and I just—”

I stop.

I don’t know what else to say.

I think of my parents and the life they planned for me.

It was so different from this—from him.

Trusting Draco is like leaping into the abyss, and right now, I’m not so sure I can make that leap. I always thought I would meet someone and fall in love. I always thought it would be a fairytale, not a marriage of necessity.

Do I love him?

Could I love him?

“I… I don’t know what to say,” I admit, defeated. I feel small, overwhelmed.

“You don’t have to say anything, Mercy,” he says. “I understand. It’s weird. It’s weird for me too.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

There’s a pause, but it’s short.

“Why not?”

I sit there, frozen, and I let him grab my hand. Draco doesn’t wait for me to speak, to agree, to disagree. Instead, he just… does.

He shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moves.

His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into his chest before I can even think, let alone respond.

The mattress falls away, and he moves with me as if I weigh nothing, and something about it is somehow so terrifying but so comforting all at once.

I can’t quite put my finger on it.

He moves with me through the dark hallway, a shifting mass of shadows and harsh angles.

He’s planned this, I realize dimly.

He’s thought out every step, every detail.

Marriage.

A house.

A future together.

It’s too much, too fast. My breath hitches, a small gasp escaping my lips as he pushes open the bathroom door and steps through it, still holding me.

Wait.

That can’t be true.

If he planned this, it had to mean he planned for me to come running to him, and that could only mean—

No.

My brain won’t even finish the thought.

That’s stupid.

That’s crazy.

By the time I’ve come back to reality, he’s placed me on my feet in the shower, and he’s climbing in behind me and flipping the tap on. The water hits me like a punch, a thousand needles pricking my skin.

It’s cold. It’s so cold that for a minute I can’t pull in a breath.

It soaks my hair, races down my spine, and I turn to try to chase away the chill as Draco steps in behind me.

I’m still wearing the thong I went to bed in last night, and he reaches down and forces the straps over my hips, then down my thighs. I step out of it and he tosses it over the shower curtain.

I can hear it hit the tile floor with a wet slap.

Finally, I can feel the water starting to warm, and I let out my breath in a deep shake that shivers throughout my whole body.

Then, it’s too hot, and I pull away, hissing.

He reaches over me and adjusts it, and within seconds it feels like a comforting hug, and all thoughts have fled.

Draco’s hands find my hips and pull me back, meshing me against his body until it feels like we are one person—one being.

My body is a traitor, reacting to his proximity, his touch.

I fold into him, pushing my body against his and feeling myself react.

Something between my legs aches for him, and the thought makes me blush.

What has he done to me?

Just a day ago, I would have recoiled, pulled away from him, and hid behind my faith. Today, I’m finding it harder and harder to care, and I don’t think I could force it even if I tried.

I barely have a moment to register the thought before I have his hands on me, his fingers playing across the front of my throat, and then falling down over my collarbone. His hands move in slow, deliberate circles, moving down my arms, then back up, tracing the line of my collarbone.

“Draco? Please?”

The words escape my lips in a whisper, like a prayer.

But a prayer for what?

For him to stop?

Or for him to keep going?

“Shh.”

His hands move across my chest and then over my breasts until they find the nipples, and he tweaks them into peaks, and the ache grows deeper, more insistent.

I groan, but I don’t know if it’s in need or from the pain of sensitive, hormone swollen breasts.

As if sensing my thoughts, he leans in, his arms falling around my waist and pulling me back, crushing me against him.

“I am giving you one chance,” he growls, his voice vibrating through the shell of my ear. “I told you I wouldn’t be gentle, Mercy, and I don’t plan to be. This is your once chance to get away before I do every single thing I’ve been thinking about doing to you.”

I swallow hard, blinking away droplets of water that cling to my eyelashes.

“Is it going to hurt?”

He nods, and when he growls against the side of my neck something inside me clenches.

“Yes.”

Part of me wants to pull away, to run, but I can’t.

I think maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe I just want to prove to myself that I can.

“Are you going to run? I won’t chase you.”

I shake my head, the wet hair plastered to my shoulders whipping out and hitting me in the cheek instead.

I want him to chase me.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I trust you.”

And I do.

I trust him.

It’s probably a bad idea, but it’s true.

Before I can even realize what I’ve done, his hands slide down to the spot between my legs and he cups it hard, pulling me back against him.

It feels bruised and sore, and his touch is anything but gentle.

The length of him presses against me, against the small of my back, pulsing and insistent.

My heart pounds, a frantic rhythm that matches the throbbing heat between my legs.

His fingers push against me and slide down, pressing into my core and then pushing past the folds and spearing my insides on the end of his long fingers.

His touch is no longer gentle, no longer tentative.

It’s demanding, claiming.

Possessive.

It feels like lightning, like I’m being electrocuted. I want to lean into it, but at the same time, I want to pull away.

He spins me around, pressing me against the cold tiles. The contrast is mind-numbing, the freezing wall against my front, his hot body at my back. I’m trapped, pinned, at his mercy. And I realize with a jolt, that this is exactly where he wants me.

He wants me to be scared.

He wants me to worry.

Why else would he tell me that it’s going to hurt?

His mouth finds my neck, his teeth nipping at my flesh until its sensitive and raw, and then his tongue comes behind and soothes it down with long, languid swipes.

His hands roam my body, touching, exploring, claiming.

He alternates between soft, feather light strokes that tickle and tease, and hard, rough grasps that are borderline painful, and I know there will be bruises when he’s done.

But I don’t make a sound.

Why?

Because I want to push him, I think.