I used to lie to myself—I’m only doing this for her own good. She’ll have it much, much worse later if I don’t break her now. Those words are just as hollow as my diseased heart. I hurt her because I want to, because I fucking crave it, because I’ve become the monster my father always wanted. The same monster he is.
Drawing back, I savor the moment before the strike. The appetizer. With a vicious swing, I paint a red stripe across her ass.
She yelps and bucks, her ankles coming apart as her head hangs. I don’t give her a moment to rest. My beast needs to be fed. I strike again, her agony reaching my ears on an exquisite cry. Rearing back, I put even more strength into the last hit, letting the leather travel a little lower, striping across her most delicate flesh. Her howl lights up every pleasure receptor in my brain, and my cock pushes against my zipper.
Collapsing, she rolls over into the fetal position.
“We’re not done with this lesson.” I point to the rug.
She peers at me from beneath her curtain of angelic hair, then edges off the bed, her knees hitting the floor with an ugly thunk.
I refasten my belt and sit in front of her as she stares at the floor. “Like this, every night, understand?”
She nods.
“You can do better than that.” I want to touch her hair, soothe her. I shouldn’t. The desire doesn’t fit. It’s a soft curve in a sea of broken glass. I shake it off. “Delilah.”
She looks up, tears gleaming in her light gray eyes. “I understand.”
“That’s better.” I draw my finger across the red marks on her cheek.
I wonder how much self-control it takes for her not to flinch away from my touch. Her eyes remain locked with mine, though they give me no insight. They aren’t windows at all, but a steely wall she hides behind. Not that I can blame her.
“How did your gag reflex training go today, little lamb?”
She shrugs, her narrow shoulders barely rising. “I still gag.”
I grip her chin. “Open.”
She does, and I push my fingers against her soft tongue and to the back of her throat. When she gags, I draw back, then do it again, and again, and again. Spit pools and drips down her chin.
I withdraw my fingers and simply admire the slightly ruined look of her—watery eyes and a succulent red mouth. “You’re better than yesterday. It’ll take time. But it’s necessary.”
“Why?”
“There you go with the questions again.” I drag my fingers across my belt buckle. She doesn’t look down, but I know she can see the threat. “Besides, you know why.”
“The Prophet said we’d be safe here, that we—”
I smirk. “And you believed it?”
I don’t know why, but I get the sensation she’s toying with me. It’s unprecedented, and I can’t tell if I like it or not. I suspect I do.
Leaning forward, I grab a handful of her hair and yank her head back, bending her spine so she looks straight up at me. “I think you knew the Prophet’s promises were lies.” A hint of paranoia whispers in my mind. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
I know she isn’t. We’ve had the county sheriff on our payroll and his family in the reserved front row every Sunday. But there was something different about her. Off.
“Some sort of reporter?” I shake her, enjoying her wince of pain.
“No.”
The church has enough fingers in the national and local media pie to figure out if anyone has sent in a mole. So, it wasn’t that. But what?
“Why would anyone who knew what the Cloister truly is volunteer to be a Maiden?” I voice the question that’s been bothering me since the previous night. My other Maidens—they actually believed in my father’s circus sideshow. But Delilah isn’t like them. The fact that I can’t quite delineate what sets her apart is a thorn that is slowly working its way into my gray matter.
“God led me here.”
I release her and sit back. “Bullshit.”
She barely keeps her balance, but settles back onto her knees, those ethereal eyes locked on mine. “The Prophet will keep his promises. I am where God wants me to be.”
If she had any idea of what the Prophet truly intended to do with her, she wouldn’t be bothering with this charade.
“What other training did you get today?”
“They performed an…” Her gaze almost wavers, but she holds it. “Enema.”
“Do you know why they do that?”
She shakes her head, genuine curiosity in her eyes. The darkest part of me hungers for what she will reveal next. Shock, disgust, maybe even interest?
“For when I take your ass.”
Her eyebrows lower. “What?”
“They’re preparing you for when I decide it’s time for you to feel me deep in your ass.” I take a little too much pleasure in the explanation.