Page 33 of Penance

That sound has always satisfied something primal in me. It says power, control. I could hit 120 MPH and slam this fucker into a tree and end my existence if I wanted to. I could splatter my grey matter across the windshield just like dear old dad.

It was really too bad that I liked myself way too much to do something stupid like that.

I pull away from the curb, steering us toward the outskirts of town.

“It’s beautiful today,” I say, glancing at her. The sunlight catches across her face, hitting her cheekbones just right, and when she looks over at me, she look’s like a goddess.

Fuck, she’s perfect.

“Yeah,” she says, flashing me a smile.

I can see the way her thighs press tightly together, her knees shaking.

I wonder if she’s still throbbing.

I bet she is.

“Not as beautiful as you are,” I say, purposefully pulling my eyes away from her. The way I looked away, she’ll wonder if I meant it, but the words will hit hard, digging deep into her core.

A push and a pull, to keep her right where she is.

Just a few more days, and I will have her soul, and I can worship her like something inside of me longs to do.

Soon, but not yet.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her fingers picking at the hem of her dress.

I wonder if she realizes she already asked that.

“It’s not far,” I reply, reaching over to still her hand with mine. I squeeze it, hard enough that she whimpers just a little. “You’ll see when we get there.”

When I pull out onto the main road, I gun it a little more than I need to, and I enjoy the way she grabs at her thighs, her flesh mounding between her fingers.

I like it when she’s scared.

The city thins around us, buildings standing farther and farther apart, streetlights fewer and longer between.

We cross the invisible boundary where city living gives way to the comfort of suburban life.

The roads narrow and four-way intersections give way to winding back roads, following the natural rise and fall of the land—not that Kansas has a lot of body to it.

I feel the change in the air as we pull up to the house.

The house has stood for over a century, absorbing the energies of those who lived and died within its walls—and I checked, there had been quite a few.

I turn down a gravel drive that cuts through twin rows of ancient oak trees. The tires crunch over the gravel, the sound oddly final, like bones breaking under heavy boots.

Then the trees part, and we can see the house in all its glory.

It was built in 1886, at the height of the Victorian era, and it shows.

Three stories of history, its ornate wood siding and elaborate trim work seeming to glow, as if lighted from the inside.

Ivy crawls up the eastern wall like grasping fingers, reaching toward the highest windows.

The bay windows that line the front of the house reflect the sunlight back at us, like wide open, all-seeing eyes.

I stop the car, allowing Mercy time to absorb the sight. Her gasp is audible, and it makes me smile.

“Woah,” she says simply, and I snort.

“Exactly,” I reply, killing the engine.

I kick up my door, exit the car and circle to her side, opening her door and extending my hand. She takes it after only the slightest hesitation, her fingers cold against my palm. It’s not lost on me how she reaches down and pulls at the hem of her dress in the front and the back.

I wonder if she’s still dripping.

Damn, I should have forbidden her from wearing underwear.

A figure steps out the front door and comes to meet us—the realtor, a tall man with calculating eyes and a forced smile that doesn’t reach them.

He’s been waiting, as arranged, with minimal paperwork and maximum discretion.

He’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue suit, and his shoes are polished to such a perfect shine that as he steps off the porch to shake my hand, they catch the sunlight and I have to squint against the glare.

“Mr. Killian,” he greets me, deliberately avoiding looking at Mercy for too long. He knows me too well to do something stupid like that.

He knows I’d kill him.

Damn. Now I’m really regretting letting Mercy wear underwear.

I could use some bloodshed.

“Ross,” I say. I reach out and grab his hand, and it’s a moment of back and forth, each of us gripping tighter and tighter until I feel the bones in his hand shift and he relents, pulling back.

“Wait,” Mercy says, looking around. She takes a step back, and I let her, but only because I know she’s putting the pieces together in her head. “This is…?”

“That’s right,” I tell her, grinning. “Pastor Thomas’ house. The one you used to gush over on the bus ride to school?”

She looks at me, her eyes wide open and her jaw dropped nearly to her chest.

Fuck, almost wide enough for—

“But the last time I saw it, it was a wreck. It was abandoned after he died for… years?”

“It was,” Ross tells her. “But it’s been beautifully renovated inside. Wait until you see it.”

I nod, keeping Mercy close as we climb the three steps to the porch. The wood creaks beneath our weight, not from weakness but from age, typical of houses like this one that are nearly 150 years old.

“And everything has been done?” I ask, though I already know the answer. The specific alterations I required—the reinforced cellar door, the particular arrangement of the master bedroom, the restoration of certain original features—were non-negotiable and handsomely paid for.

“Yes, sir. Everything to your specifications.”

The realtor shifts, uncomfortable when I fix him with my eyes. His eyes flick briefly to the pentagram tattooed on the back of my hand, then away.

“The features you were interested in have been preserved, and rather beautifully, might I add.”

Mercy stands rigid beside me. Maybe it’s because I’ve slid my hand down her back and over her ass, my middle finger playing at the hem of her skirt and touching the creases where her tight little ass meets her leg. Her discomfort is obvious in the tightness of her shoulders.

“Would you like the tour?” he asks, pulling a key out of his pocket and swiftly opening the door. We step over the threshold, and the moment we are inside, I notice everything around me is impeccable in every way. Exactly what I ordered.

“I’ll be paying in cash,” I say. “Leave the keys.”

Without waiting for a response, I remove an envelope from my jacket pocket—thick with stacks of bills. Ross takes it, not bothering to count. We both know the amount is correct, just as we both know this transaction will never appear on any official record.

I like my privacy, and Ross doesn’t ask questions.

That’s why I picked him.

“The keys are on the entryway table,” he says, already making his way to the door. He chances a glance at Mercy, but when his eyes return to me and I narrow mine, and he knows not to do that again. “All utilities are connected as requested. If you need anything else—”

“I don’t.”

He nods once, then hurries down the steps and along the gravel drive toward a car I hadn’t noticed parked beneath the trees. The crunch of gravel is our only sign that he’s gone, if you don’t count the squeal of tires as he pulls out onto the main road.

I scared him.

Good.

He should be scared.

“You bought this place?” Mercy asks, eyes wide as she takes in the intricate gingerbread trim, the stained glass accents in the upper windows, and the perfectly polished black cherry wood floors.

“I did,” I reply. “For us.”

She turns to look at me, and the look in her eyes is something I can’t quite place.

“For you.”

A soft sound slips past her pillowy lips, and she smiles at me.

It seems grateful, loving?

I wish I could call it worship, and maybe one day I will.

I lead her past the foyer, and into the dining room, pushing the heavy oak door open and allowing it to swing shut behind us with a soft sound like a contented whisper.

A staircase curves upward to our right, the dark wood banister gleaming with fresh polish.

To our left, double doors lead to what was once a formal parlor, but for Mercy, it’s become a library.

Straight ahead, beyond an arched doorway beneath a stained glass panel etched with beautiful red roses, lies the kitchen—and that’s where I’ll take her.

I see the keys on the table, exactly as promised, but I leave them there. Instead, I watch Mercy’s face as she takes in her surroundings, the way her eyes widen, the mixture of fear and reluctant appreciation in her expression.

She looks happy, but at the same time, she looks like she’s afraid to be happy.

“Why would you buy a house like this?” she asks.

“Only the best for the mother of my child.”

She stops, freezing in her tracks as she slowly looks up at me.

“It’s not—”

“It is,” I say simply, reaching up and loosening my tie. I’m careful to keep any expression off my face. “Because I say it is.”

“But Draco—”

“End of discussion, really,” I shrug. “I will be in the delivery room. I’ll be the first one to hold them, and my name will be on the birth certificate. Simple as that. I won’t have any complaints, and any push back will simply be ignored. It’s my baby.”

Why did I say that?

I didn’t mean to say that.

I could have given it all away.

She sets her jaw and turns away, looking towards the door at the opposite end of the room that leads to the laundry room.

I step behind her, closing the door with a solid thud that makes her jump.

Before she can turn around, my hands settle on her shoulders, fingers pressing into flesh through the thin fabric of her dress.

The tie I had been wearing dangles from between my fingers, draped over her shoulder like a line of blood.

“Welcome home,” I whisper. “I hope you’re ready to scream.”

Wrapping my arms around her waist, I lift her easily and step across the room with her, towards the island that lays in the middle of the room, the grey and black granite counter top gleaming in a way that’s inviting, begging for sacrifice.

I spin her around and place her down on it.

Perfect.