Page 21 of The Cruelest Chaos

The priest is dressed in his clerical clothing; black shirt and pants. Still, he’s got the Leviathan Cross around his neck hanging by a black cord, the infinity sign and double cross glinting silver in the garage light, reminding me just what kind of priest he is.

The garage is clean and tidy without my cars, nothing at all in here, which is how I like everything: empty.

I roll up my sleeves, get down on my knees on the cement floor.

Father Tomas sighs as he stands in front of me, his arms clasped behind his back. He’s in his mid-thirties, with thick brown hair that’s longer on top, stubble that he’s let grow since the last time I saw him, after the disaster at Sacrificium, a few weeks ago. He’s got brown eyes, thick brows narrowed on me as I look up at him, sitting back on my heels.

His hands are behind his back, but I can see the whip, nearly grazing the cement floor.

“Always with blood on your hands,” he murmurs to himself. And then, “You sure you want to do this?” But even though his words are kind, I can imagine him preaching fire and brimstone, telling everyone they’re going to hell and they should be thankful for it.

He’s the official priest of the 6, with no religious background whatsoever save for in Satanic studies. He has a church of sorts that’s his own little mashup of atheists and humanists. He’s a licensed therapist.

I trust him.

He used to take me from my parents’ house when I was a kid, when things got bad. After Malachi. After I earned my nickname, Mayhem, he’s the one that indulged me in my…desires.

He still does.

If any of the 6 knew he was here, and if they knew what he knows about my little basement debacle, they’d probably kill him for keeping my secrets. It’s how I know he’ll keep doing it, even though he’s tried to convince me to let Ria out. He’s kept my secrets for so long, it would be suicide to tell anyone about it now.

I pull my shirt over my head, drop it to the floor and kneel with my hands on my knees, my head bowed.

He was the one to suggest I bond with Sid over our mutual love of poetry.

No, thanks.

He was also the one to first find out Ria Cuevas was—is—living in my basement. He guessed as much when she “went missing”.

I don’t keep his number in my phone because I don’t keep anyone’s number in my phone. A way to keep my mind sharp, or maybe I’m just truly that masochistic. But I wasn’t surprised it was him that found out first.

He’s observant. It’s what’s kept him alive while dealing with a cult as volatile as mine all these years.

“Don’t ask me again,” I growl at him in answer to his question. I close my eyes, but I don’t squeeze them shut. I want to breathe through this. Feel every bit of it.

Before Sid, I hadn’t done this in a long, long time. And I’d never done it enough to scar. Never enough to draw blood.

But after her, and now with Ria and Brooklin, I can’t get enough.

“You know if you keep doing this, it’s going to fuck up your brand?”

I snort, shaking my head but otherwise ignoring him. My Unsaint’s tattoo—a skull with a U through one eye and smoke through another—is already a little fucked up. Scars from Lover’s Death, and now…this.

“How many?” he asks, adjusting his stance. I keep my eyes closed, but I can hear him move.

“As many as it takes.”

He blows out a breath. “Should’ve told me. I’d have cancelled my dinner plans,” he jokes.

I smile despite myself. “Should have.”

And then he’s done talking.

The first flick of the whip is like a shock to my system. Like stepping into a too-hot shower; something I also do. It startles me, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. But I don’t make a sound, and I taste iron in my mouth.

Father Tomas gives me five seconds before he flicks the whip again, right over the same spot he just hit.

He’s good, I’ll give him that.