Page 11 of Daddy's Sinner

As I contemplate my next move, the woman steps outside with a bin of laundry to hang. God provides. I wait until her back is turned, then creep up behind her, my heart pounding in time with each step. When I’m close enough, I place a hand over her mouth, feeling her breath quicken under my palm. I lean into her ear, my voice low and calm, “Hi.”

She tenses, her body going rigid against mine, and I can feel the fear radiating off her.Good. Fear keeps people obedient.

“We’re going to have a little chat,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with the promise of what’s to come. “Move your head if you understand.” She nods, her body trembling, every muscle tight as a wire.She knows she’s caught, knows there’s no escape.

I guide her toward the backdoor, unprepared but trusting in divine providence.The Lord always provides a way.As soon as we step inside, I see it—a knife, just laying on the kitchen counter, almost as if placed there for me.Thank you, Lord.I silently give thanks, my fingers curling around the handle. I press the knife to her neck, feeling her pulse jump under the cold steel, and remove my hand from her lips.

“Shh,” I whisper, “say anything and you will bleed out before he can get to you. Nod if you understand.” She nods. But there’s no mercy here. Not for her. Not for any of them.

“This is the devil's house,” I whisper, my voice steady as I press the knife a little harder. “A place of unholiness. Sin has festered here, hidden beneath a mask of righteousness.”

She whimpers, a soft, pathetic sound, but I ignore it.She’s just like the rest of them—complicit in the corruption, too weak to stand against it. And she will be punished like the rest of them.

“The Prophet speaks of absolution,” I continue, my voice cold. “But what does he know of true judgment? What do any of you know of God’s wrath?”

She shakes her head slightly, tears gathering in her eyes. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’ll do anything....”

Of course she will.They always beg when they realize there’s no escape. But it’s too late for that. She will die tonight.

“Adultery. That's a sin,” I reply, my voice firm. “Punishable by death.”

Her body goes taut, a shudder ripping through her as she realizes there's no bargaining here. This is divine retribution, and there's no mercy in it.

I shove her forward, forcing her toward what I assume is the pantry. “Open it,” I command, my voice sharp. She stumbles, her hands trembling as they reach for the door. When it swings open, the sight of a hunting closet greets me—filled with knives, ropes, and other tools of their twisted faith. The Lord truly provides.

“Grab the ropes,” I order. She hesitates for just a moment before obeying, her fingers fumbling as she clutches the tan cords. I watch her closely, reminding myself that she’s part of this sickness. Just like the others. She'll pay for her sins, just like her husband.

“I can please you in any way,” she whispers, her voice cracking in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to save herself. She’s offering herself as a sacrifice, trying to buy her way out with her body.

“That's a sin,” I remind her, my grip tightening on the knife. “And it won't save you.” She flinches, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. But before she can say anything else, I hear footsteps—heavy, deliberate.

“Emma,” a man's voice calls out, causing her to tense further. He’s coming. Perfect timing.

I push her forward again, the blade pressing harder against her neck, a thin line of blood seeping from the pressure. “Walk,” I whisper, and she obeys, her steps shaky as we head toward the sound of the footsteps.

As we enter the room, the man stops dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock when he sees us. I meet his gaze, my expression cold and unyielding.

“We need to talk,” I say calmly, the knife still pressed against her neck. “Let’s sit down.”

He nods slowly, leading us into the room where he violated Marisol, where he dared to touch what’s mine. Rage boils within me, but I swallow it down. Not yet. I need to stay in control.

“Sit,” I command, and he obeys, his eyes flicking between me and his wife, fear etched into his face. I press the knife a little deeper into her skin, drawing more blood, causing her to wince. She’s afraid. Good. She should be.

“I can give you money, sex, women… young women if that’s your thing,” he says, desperation creeping into his voice. Pathetic.

I smirk. “I'm not interested in anything but Victor Morales.”

His nose flares in anger, but he tries to hide it. “The Prophet?”

I nod slowly. He swallows hard, realizing the situation is slipping further out of his control.

“Let her go first,” he pleads, trying to negotiate. But I shake my head, not letting him get the upper hand.

“Emma,” I say, addressing his wife for the first time, “tie him up for me.”

She hesitates, her eyes darting between us, but then she moves forward, her hands still shaking as she begins to tie him up. She’s surprisingly good at it, securing the knots tightly. How many women did she practice these knots on? The thought disgusts me.

“Emma, what are you doing?” he demands, his voice filled with betrayal.

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