Page 41 of Penance

Epilogue

Mercy

T he knife slices through the potato skin, and I watch them curl into the sink like ribbons. The sunlight streams in through the window over the sink, and dust floats through it. The knife moves mechanically in my hand, and I hum an old song, something stuck in my head from a long time ago.

It’s not a church song.

I think maybe it’s a children’s song from the shows Damien forces me to listen to in the background.

He crawls around under my feet, and I can hear the squeaky wheels of his favorite truck as he pushes it over the kitchen tile.

“Vrooooom,” he mumbles, and when I look down, he’s looking up at me.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

Damien shakes his head, returning to the imaginary road inside his head. I watch him for a moment, watching the way he crawls across the floor.

He looks so much like his dad. They could be twins born years apart.

“But you haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Daddy said we’re going to the park.”

“Daddy said we’re going to the park after lunch ,” I correct him, absentmindedly twisting the ring on my finger.

I told Draco it was too big, too clunky.

He insisted on getting me the most expensive one.

It’s obnoxious, laid with blood-red stones set in an ornately carved rose gold band. Still, I love it, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

“So I have to eat it?” Damien whines.

I chuckle.

“Don’t talk to your mom like that.”

A deep voice sounds from the entryway, and I turn around to see him in the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe, staring in at us.

His voice is smooth as aged whiskey, dark and burning.

His suit is charcoal today, impeccably tailored to his broad shoulders and thick biceps.

No tie—he rarely wears one at home—and the top buttons of his crisp black shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and the edge of one of his many tattoos.

I can’t deny that he’s beautiful, in the way fallen angels are beautiful in the old paintings—terrible and glorious and damned.

“You’re home early,” I say.

His lips curve into a warm smile.

“I am,” he says. “The meeting was pretty quick, and I’d rather be at home with both of you.”

He’s talking about the job he got after I had Damien. The job he didn’t need, because we don’t need the money, but he got anyway to teach our son by example.

He steps into the kitchen, dress shoes clicking against the hardwood.

The pentagram tattooed on the back of his right hand catches my attention.

I’ve caught him tracing it sometimes, in moments when he thinks no one is watching, whispering to it.

I wonder what it means, but it doesn’t bother me anymore.

We all have our vices.

Damien scrambles to his feet, clutching his favorite car to his chest as he rockets across the room.

“Daddy!” he shrieks.

Draco’s expression softens almost instantly as he looks down at our son.

“Hey buddy!” he says, crouching down as Damien throws himself into his arms. “Helpin’ mom in the kitchen?”

Damien nods.

I snort.

Right.

Helping.

Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls a small wooden figure—a knight or soldier of some kind. Damien’s eye’s light up when he see’s it.

“Found this for you. From the antique shop right next to the office. The owner said it was over a hundred years old.”

“Wow!”

Damien is like his father in a lot of ways.

He has a taste for the macabre, the ancient texts in Draco’s books. They are almost the same person, in all ways but one.

I won’t let Damien be broken. I won’t let the darkness take him.

“Go play in your room for a while,” Draco says, his tone gentle but firm. “I need to talk to mommy a little, okay?”

Damien nods and hops down off his father’s knee, his bare feet slapping across the tile as he runs to do what he was told, tiny chubby fingers clutching his car and his new toy.

I lean against the sink, standing there, watching him.

He’s become everything that glistens in my world.

He’s become my rock.

“I found something in the bathroom this morning,” he says, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants as he straightens, takes a step towards me.

I smile.

I already know what he’s talking about.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks.

He looks genuinely hurt.

I force a laugh.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I say with a shrug.

“Wasn’t the first baby enough of a surprise?”

“A surprise to me ,” I say, grinning. “Not to you.”

He’s quiet, just watching me.

I see something flicker behind his eyes, and I already know what it is. It’s guilt, and it’s not new. More than once Draco has woken me up out of a dead sleep holding me, squeezing me too tight and sobbing apologies into my chest.

I forgive him every time.

“Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise for you for a change,” I say with a shrug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I can see it in his eyes.

He means it.

He always does.

“I know.”

I pause.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“I know.”

He closes the gap between us and pulls me into his arms. The potatoes lay half peeled and forgotten in the sink behind me. I fall against his chest and inhale the scent of him.

That scent makes me feel safe, now.

It’s become home.

“I love you,” I whisper to him.

“I love you too.”

He does this often, and every time I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he knows I need the closeness, or if he does.