Page 32 of Acts of Contrition

If only I could scream, but that will do me no good. It never did. So I dive deeper into myself as he cleans my wounds, wiping blood away, pressing something to them.

Only when the pressure of his hands is gone do I slowly come back to reality and focus on the present.

“You may get up and put your gown back on,” he says, the heat of his body gone as he stands up and moves away.

I nod, willing my limbs not to tremble as I stand up and put the gown on, but it’s no use. I have no strength left; I used it all up keeping my composure. It’s difficult to lower myself to the bed to sit before I collapse. Sweat stings the wounds and runs down my face and I wish he’d leave so I could cry.

Looking up at him, he looks wild once more. His hair has come loose of the half man bun thing he had it in, and he too has a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

And I can’t miss how hard he is; that has to be painful. My blood is on his hands, splattered onto his white t-shirt. Seeing it, combined with his countenance, a wave of lust hits me and I want to die from humiliation.

How could I be turned on at the sight of a man who gets hard after making me bleed?

Thomas stares for a moment before kneeling down in front of me, studying me like he so often does. But the dark heat in his gaze, the barely concealed lust and rage, terrifies me and excites me at the same time.

He brushes his hand across my face, moving the hair stuck to my sweat-soaked skin, and I flinch away from his touch.

Leaning back, he opens his mouth, closes it, and finally says, “Okay, I need one answer from you now because it’s driving me crazy.”

Aren’t you already crazy?

“What is it?”

“You have dealt with my punishments without complaint, pleas, or flinching. Occasionally, you gasp or whine once, and that is all. Yet the few times I touch you without intent to harm, to punish, you behave as if I am prodding you with a hot poker.Why?”

He sounds absolutely exasperated, and that almost makes me smile. Another thing that intrigues me: he has questions about my behavior, just as I do about his.

This time, I can answer him honestly.

“Because … when you hurt me — punish me — I know what to expect. I’m indifferent to pain; I’ve been through worse with worse intentions behind the actions. But when you touch my face or my hair, and it doesn’t hurt, panic sets in. Because Idon’tknow what to expect.

“Pain and I? We are old enemies. I know what pain will do to me, and I am not afraid. Gentle? I don’t know what gentlenessis. I don’t know what you’re going to do to me, and that terrifies me.”

He regards me, taking in what I said. He is so transparent when he’s not torturing me; I feel like I can see the cogs of his mind working, decoding what I say and what I don’t.

“One day, you will open up to me. But answer me this, at least.” He pauses, waiting to see if I will protest, maybe. But I have to hear the question first. I will endure more pain as long as I don’t have to relive those three years.

“You can take pain. Have you ever given it?” The darkness I see in his eyes deepens, and a small, evil little part of me likes it.

I think about the principal. How making him bleed gave me a sense of euphoria I haven’t felt since. Sticky blood under my nails, on my lips, even in my teeth because I bit so hard. His screams of agony and shock. As my heart begins to race, something in my face must change because Thomas smirks.

“So it seems my little dove has more sin than I thought,” he murmurs. He moves a hand as if he is going to touch me and stops.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” I say.Unlike you.

“Pity. I should have not sheltered you; I should have brought you with me when I went to visit your former landlord,” he muses. “I am sure being chained to me would not have hindered you.”

I’m not that girl anymore,I think.I had the fight beaten out of me long before you ever laid a hand on me.

“I do wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes.” He stands, and I see my blood on his hands, and my heart has not calmed down from the rush of remembering my one taste of revenge.

“No, you don’t.”

Chapter Fifteen

Thomas

“UGH, THAT CREEPY dude with the potbelly walked by,” Lisa complains as she sits down with her gigantic mug. “I should’ve poked his eyes out after he looked at my stomach and said what a beautiful daughter I’d have one day.”

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