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The black face with a white cross hovers above me like an angel come to punish me for my sins. Only, the angel is currently touching me in ways I’ve never been touched, making me feel so, so good.

So maybe he’s not an angel at all. Maybe he’s a demon.

Arousal has woken me before, and though I am no stranger to wet dreams, my new . . . illness has forced me to consciousness before in dire need of a reprieve.

I thought this was just another bout.

But I am very wrong.

The masked man hovers over me, his weight pressing on me as he straddles my hips. There are no eye holes in his mask, and something about that makes him feel even more unreal, even more of a monster than simply a man sneaking into my room.

And for some very, very deranged reason—I’m not really afraid. Maybe I’m naive, but . . . when he said he wouldn’t hurt me, I believed him.

I open my mouth to answer, but a shuddering breath escapes instead. The masked man watches, patient, and I take a deep breath in to try again.

“I was bad,” I say—though I’m not even sure that’s true. “I was bad and sinful in church.”

He tilts his head. The mask absorbing the small amount of light and making it look like a void spot in my bedroom. It isn’t leather, at least not in the way I know leather to be. It’s thick and stiff, and with his hood pulled up, the white cross jaggedly painted across it almost glows.

“And what sins are those?” he asks, gently wiping my other cheek of tears.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I not fighting this man off at all? Why am I not screaming for help or trying to get away?

I see the impressive bulge in his pants, feel its hard length pressed against my lower belly.

And, disgustingly, I’m so wet. I am so turned on by the smell of tobacco and not-quite-leather engulfing me, or the way I just know he’s studying my near-nude body. Some twisted part of me wants him to shred these teddy bear panties the rest of the way and touch me like no one has ever touched me before.

I can’t believe myself. My mother is right, I am a slut. I desperately want the man who’s breaking into my room to have sex with me. The masked man. It makes me sick, and I just know I’m broken. Damaged.

“M-My body.” I don’t know why I admit any of this. I don’t know why I’m entertaining him. My hands aren’t even bound. I have no excuse. “What are you going to do to me?”

The man straightens and I can feel his eyes devouring every inch of me. I stiffen under him, needing to avoid his gaze, trying to squirm away from it, but with him on top of me, I’m not going anywhere. And suddenly, I am so, so embarrassed by the shitty two bras I’m wearing. My cheeks heat and I feel the need to squeeze my eyes shut—to just get away , even if it’s visually.

He places a leather gloved hand on my ribs, and the touch feels absolutely forbidden as it sends a shiver down my spine. I can feel the goosebumps all over my arms and legs, and as the leather begins to trail up, I have to bite my lip from crying out.

“Your body is no sin, doll. It is a fucking miracle from God. Don’t let anyone else’s jealousy ruin that.” I gasp at his words, as his hand cups the bottom of my breast, massaging just where the underwire digs into me. His finger finds where it pokes out, jabbing into my skin.

In a blink, the masked man pulls a knife from his pocket, flicks it open, and slashes my bra just where the two cups meet in the center.

The cold bites my skin, but the relief of my breasts being released—and of finally being able to breathe—floods me.

“The wire . . .” He breathes, his fingers still grazing under my breasts, his knuckles brushing just under my nipple “It was stabbing into you.”

A shaky breath leaves me and heat pools between my thighs like never before. I clench my core, praying this mysterious man doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me.

I work to swallow around the lump in my throat. “Yo—You didn’t answer . . . what are you going to do to me?”

With his thumbs, he follows the curve under my breasts once more, squeezing both ever so gently. And then he lifts himself off of me.

“Nothing.”

The masked man caresses one gloved finger over my cheek, then walks back to the window. He turns, keeps his eyes—well, cross—on me, and then slips through my window. His form slowly backs away, disappearing into the bushes at the edge of our yard. But even once he’s gone, I still feel his eyes on me. All throughout the night.

Somehow, it makes me feel safe.

Maybe he is an angel after all.

I fall asleep after what feels like hours of staring at those bushes, trying to catch another glimpse of my Peeping Tom. But the hours of making men out of shadows quickly turn into tired, droopy eyes, and the next thing I know, it’s morning.

I’m still in my underwear and sports bra, the sliced bra now split in half around me, and the bushes outside my window are just regular, common junipers. No masked man in sight.

If it weren’t for the torn bra, every rational part of me would think what happened last night was a trauma-response dream. A masked man—a superhero—who came to help me after a slew of pain.

Only I would make my superhero a terrifying, jacked man in black who definitely should’ve made me fear for my life but instead made me incredibly horny.

But . . . the bra does prove it. He was real and here and . . . he didn’t hurt me.

Banging on my door snaps me out of my thoughts, and just as I jerk up from bed, I wince. My back is still raging, and every welt feels just as swollen as when the belt first touched my skin yesterday. The tears in my skin feel fresh and raw—and possibly infected.

“Junia! Wake up! We’re going to be late!”

Church. Again. Every day, and twice on Sundays. It’s never ending. Mother acts like she can’t stand that I’m still at home but . . . she doesn’t let me do anything that would let me get out of here.

“Coming!” I yell back, and try to ease myself out of bed. At least the slash on my butt won’t be too hard to clean, but I have to figure out if I should brave asking Mother for help on the two on my back.

I hobble toward the small dresser of clothes I have and try to pick the least offensive outfit I can. Nothing too tight—I don’t want to look like a slut—and nothing too frumpy—I don’t want Mother to point out how fat I am again.

It leaves me with another sweater and skirt combo, but the skirt reaches my ankles, and I add another cardigan over the sweater to cover my boobs even more. And as an added extra, I lay a sock flat on each of my nipples, just in case they feel like ruining my life by being pointy again. I trade out the teddy bears for Thursday panties I seldom wear on Thursdays, and then I hurry to the bathroom.

Just as I reach for the door, Daren throws it open and his body collides into mine.

“Well, good morning to you too.” He smirks, his gold mustache catching the light.

“Good morning,” I mumble.

He takes a step forward, his chest staying against mine, forcing me to take a step back in turn. “About yesterday . . . I want to apologize for goading your Mother. It’s awful what she did to you.”

I look up at him, a line forming between my brows. “From what I remember, you asked to take over.”

Daren runs his tongue over his teeth and raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. “That I did. See, June, you ain’t got a daddy figure in your life. I want to be that. I wanna be your daddy. And if that means punishing you for the wrong you do, then that’s just tough love.” He places a hand on my upper arm, slowly trailing it down. “But it’s still love. I ain’t gonna let you be anybody’s little whore.”

“I wasn’t—”

His eyes meet mine, his entire face darkening as he says, “Now. Go get ready for church.” He yanks my body against his once more and moves his hand to my back. As he steps beside me, he pushes me into the bathroom, his hand digging right into where Mother whipped me the night before.

I whimper at the pain, nearly falling forward, but Daren doesn’t stop. His hand only pushes deeper, and once I’m fully in the bathroom, he closes the door.

I don’t hear his footsteps leave the doorway for several moments. All the while my back radiates to new levels of pain and tears dot my eyes.

A shaky breath escapes my lips as the buzz of the fluorescent light above the mirror eats it up.

Finally, Daren leaves, and when I look up in the mirror, my eyes are bloodshot and the tears pricking my lashes become full sobs.