Page 31 of Devotion

“Um… right. I believe we’ve covered everything. How’s your sermon coming along?”

“It’s nearly done.”

Darwin either believes the lie or wisely chooses not to question me further, but in truth, I haven’t even thought of what I’ll say when I address the flock again. I suppose I’ve been a bit… preoccupied. Two weeks without a kill has me on edge, lacking the focus necessary to string together any sort of meaningful message. It seems now that the beast has been awakened, he’s not so easy to keep on his leash.

I’ve taken lives before. Several dozen, actually. The occasional nuisance tossed off the roof of a building, a throat cut here and there when I’m disrespected, so on and so forth. But only recently have I begun to sign my artwork, taking credit for my masterpieces. This new habit, the consistency… it’s spoiled me. No longer suppressing my nature, no longer satisfying my urges—however dark they may be—is the freedom I never knew I needed.

But despite my innate impatience, I’ve chosen to wait. And the experience has been oddly similar to edging—being on the brink of orgasm, only to pull back and deny myself the pleasure of releasing.

But it’s all for her.

All for Layla.

I’m determined to await her instructions on who my next target will be. Handpicking a mark of her choosing was… euphoric. As my knife sliced through the delicate flesh of that woman’s throat, I was surprised when my dick hardened, imagining the moment Layla would realize the lengths I’ll go to for her.

Onlyher.

A blood-curdling scream disrupts my thoughts, and my gaze shifts toward the noise when the sound of glass breaking follows. Darwin and Cole chase after me when I take off in the direction of the shriek, but they fail to keep pace. Which is why I’m first to burst through the double doors leading to the storage pantry, and the metal one that’s been left slightly ajar. Then, I’m first to lay eyes on the scene that’s just added a new task to the top of today’s agenda.

A small, wide-eyed woman stares back at me from where she’s been forcibly bent over a small cart in the back corner of the pantry. A bruise is already forming across her cheek where I’m guessing she’s been punched by the burly asshole with his hand up her dress, his fingers looped around the waistband of her underwear. I lock eyes with him, and it’s clear he knows this will only end badly for him.

He's silent as he quickly backs away from the woman, stuffing his sad, stubby dick back inside his briefs, going limp out of embarrassment, of fear. The woman moves away as soon as she’s able, brushing tears from her face with the back of her hand. To my surprise, she doesn’t flee, but rather hides behind me for protection. The man’s eyes flit to her, and I don’t miss the anger and hatred within them. A clear sign of his lacking remorse.

“Are we… interrupting?”

There’s a surprising lack of rage in my tone despite how it bubbles within me, like a simmering lake of magma.

“Sir, I know what this looks like, but you must understand. She’s mine. Well, nearly,” he stammers. “We’re to take covenant and be handfasted in a few weeks. This is just a misunderstanding.”

That word draws a small laugh from me. “A misunderstanding.”

“Yes, Sir,” he asserts.

I step closer, not missing how his gaze lowers to my feet as the space between us disappears.

“Well, let me see if I can make heads or tails of things. From the sound of her screams, the bruise on her face, and that scared shitless look in your eyes, I’m willing to bet we got here just in time.”

“No, Sir. It’s not—”

“Shh, shh, shh…” My beckoning quiets him. There’s maybe a foot of space between us now, but it still feels like too much, so I don’t stop until the toes of my shoes touch his.

Then, I lift his chin, bringing his focus to mine as he trembles and sweats as I stare down at him.

“Apologize.”

His pulse races at the base of his neck, bringing awareness to the slow steady beat of my own heart.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean—”

“Not to me,” I cut in, briefly glancing over my shoulder to the woman he believes belongs to him.

His eyes shift to her, and his jaw flexes, as if the idea of apologizing to her causes him physical pain.

“I’m sorry,” he bites out, and I smile down on him, pleased with his obedience.

“There, now, was that so hard?”

He swallows deeply, and before he can utter a“No, Sir”or an even more fitting“I’m a fucking idiot, Sir,”my knife plunges into his gut. There’s this moment where the tip of the blade finally breaks past the skin’s fragile resistance, and pushes into the soft, vulnerable organs, and it’s just so… fucking… satisfying. Knowing that, in that moment, you’re that person’s god. No, not the giver of life.

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