Page 4 of Penance

Draco

I step into my apartment only a few seconds before she locks herself in hers.

Shrugging off my jacket, I toss it onto an oversized black armchair as I pass, stepping into the spare bedroom.

I flip a switch and toss myself down into my throne, smiling as the electricity pulses to life, and light blooms in the darkness.

The room is dark, nearly pitch black, but then slowly, lights begin to blink to life in the shadows, like a million all-seeing eyes.

A bank of monitors flickers with life—her life.

Mercy’s apartment lights up the screens, dozens of different angles of every room.

My eyes rove over the displays, absorbing every little movement she makes.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as she moves from room to room, her hands shaking and her eyes wet with tears.

The satisfaction soothes the fire in me, a warm hum in my veins, like the lingering taste of a fine wine on my tongue.

With a few keystrokes, the camera changes, and there she is, stepping into her bedroom, unaware that it’s become her cage. Her eyes, those soft, innocent hazel eyes, dart around the room, fear leaking from the corners.

A shiver runs through her, and she hugs herself, rubbing her arms as if to ward off a chill that runs deeper than just the surface.

As she strips off her coat, I can see the subtle curve of her tits straining against her too-thick turtleneck.

I can see her throat bob as she swallows.

I watch her lips tremble as her tongue darts out and licks at them nervously.

I lean forward, my heart quickening as I zoom in on her face.

She’s unraveling, and it’s beautiful.

Every tear, every shiver—they make me hard.

I can feel my dick growing down my leg, and it’s throbbing.

I can almost feel her pain, taste her fear.

It’s intoxicating.

It’s like a drug, and I feed on it.

She steps up to her altar and falls to her knees, hands clasped in front of her.

“There you go, Mercy. Good girl. Get down on your knees for me.”

She can’t hear me, but the words are a promise. I’ve woven my web around her, and she’s mine to toy with.

Her lips move in silent prayer, and I can’t help but chuckle. She thinks she can find comfort in her god, but she doesn’t understand. There’s no escape from me.

I am her god now, and she will pray to me.

Her shoulders shake with sobs, and I watch, reaching down to tug at my jeans, tented between my legs. With a growl, I pull the zipper down, hissing as my cock springs free into the open air, rock hard and leaking.

She’s breaking, and it’s all because of me.

Fuck, she looks so good.

My eyes trace the curves of Mercy’s face as she pulls out a box of matches and begins to light the candles on her altar.

One by one, she strikes a match, lights the candle, and then shakes out the match.

Again. And again. Every lick of flame seems to caress her skin, just like I have, and like I will again.

I will have her, whether she gives in or not—though she will, eventually.

She’ll beg for me.

She will pray for me.

She’ll live for me, I’ll make sure of it.

It’s a carefully choreographed dance, and she’s my little ballerina—the star of this twisted ballet. I’ve directed every scene, adjusted every spotlight, planned every moment that has led her to this point. Her distress is my masterpiece.

She moves like a ghost as she rises to her feet, floating through her hallway and into her living room, her delicate fingers trembling as she clutches a worn, leather-bound Bible. Her lips move in silent prayers that she thinks will save her.

But it won’t save her.

Nothing can save her, not from me.

She’s mine. She’s always been mine. Every tear she sheds—they’re all for me—and I’ll lick the salty morsels from her perfect lips as soon as she lets me.

No. Regardless of if she lets me or not.

My thoughts drift back to a night a few weeks ago.

The memory is a dark lullaby, soothing the voices screaming in my head.

I stood in her bedroom, the scent of her perfume burning my nose as I stared at her.

She lay there, her chestnut hair spread across the pillow, her breaths deep and even, thanks to the sleeping pills she takes to fight her insomnia.

My demons, however, were wide awake.

Waiting.

Hungry for her.

Her bed creaked softly as I sat beside her, my hand reaching out to touch her cheek. I leaned in, my breath mingling with hers, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

“You’re mine, Mercy,” I told her. “Every breath you take, every inch of your skin, every dream you have—they’re all mine. They belong to me. You belong to me.”

I climbed over her, twisting her limbs and parting her thighs, and touching her in ways that she never would have let me if she had been awake.

She would have fought me—screamed and hit me.

How hard would she fight?

Reaching down, I palm my cock and growl at the thought.

I’d make her fight one day.

I’d make her scream and beg and cry.

Then I’d fuck her, anyway.

I watch as she clutches her bible tighter, her hands shaking and her eyes wide in desperation.

She’s fighting a losing battle, and she knows it.

I am her worst fucking nightmare.

“You can fight all you want, Mercy,” I whisper.

She’s crumpled on the floor now, her bible clutched to her chest, her lips moving in prayer, her eyes screwed up and pouring tears.

Beautiful.

Before long, she stands up, and I watch her step out of the room, still holding her bible.

“Where are you going, Mercy?” I murmur to the screens.

She paces her apartment like a caged animal, her eyes darting to the corners of the room as if she can feel my gaze.

She can feel my eyes on her like she felt the linger of my touch the day after I fucked her.

She has no clue that I’ve invaded her sanctuary, her privacy, her pussy.

I’m the whisper in the shadows, the chill on her neck.

I’m her nightmare, and she can’t wake up.

She’s trapped.

I stroke myself, hard, just once, and a pearly bead of pre-cum drools from the tip and slides over my fingers.

Maybe I’ll fuck her again tonight.

Her frantic pacing slows, and she comes to a stop as she passes her bedroom. Her eyes linger on the rumpled bed, fear etched in every line of her body. She knows something is wrong, something is off. But she can’t put her finger on it.

“That’s right, Mercy”, I say, my smile widening. “Feel it. Feel that something is wrong. That weight, like someone’s watching you—because someone is . Get scared baby. You taste so fucking good when you’re scared.”

She stops in the living room this time, still holding her bible.

What’s she looking at? Something on the coffee table?

My gaze lands on her phone, the simple pink case looking up at me through the monitor. She reaches for her phone, her hands trembling. I know who she’s going to call—her lifeline, her best friend since youth group as a teenager, Emma.

A smirk plays on my lips as I listen. I wiretapped her phone weeks ago. The whole thing will play through my speakers.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Pick up, Em,” Mercy pleads, her voice a soft whisper.

But Emma won’t answer.

Not today.

Never again.

I’ve made sure of that.

The way I scared her runs deep. She’ll remember the way I climbed into her bedroom window and held a knife to her throat. She’ll remember the way I told her to stay the fuck away from my girl, or I’d carve her into pieces and fuck her corpse.

She’ll remember.

She’ll remember that for the rest of her life.

Mercy’s support network is small, but it’s there. One friend, maybe two. Her parents. Her church.

It’s time to start cutting those ties.

One by one.

I’ll isolate her, bit by bit, until she has no one left to turn to.

Until she has no choice but to turn to me .

Isolate. Control. Manipulate.

Mercy’s breath hitches as the call goes to voicemail. She looks so small, so fragile, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to hold herself the way I should be holding her.

It’s pathetic.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she shakes her head.

I watch her sink to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together. Her prayers grow more desperate, her words tumbling out in desperate pleas. Her hands are shaking. Her stomach is blowing out and hollowing in, over and over again as she fights to keep herself calm.

She’s crying.

She’s begging.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

But all those prayers, they’re empty, meaningless. She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s not praying to her god—she’s begging me, her puppet master, to loosen the strings.

I won’t.

I can’t, until she’s strangling at the end of the noose.

Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her body folding in on itself. She’s breaking, piece by piece. She’s falling apart right in front of me.

The room grows darker, the shadows creeping in as if returning home, where they belong.

Soon, so will she.

She’ll crawl to me.

But tonight, I will go to her. I’ll go to her, and I’ll let her feel it.