Page 23 of Priest and his Anarchist

“Are you scared?” It’s meant to be a question, but his monotone makes it seem like a chore.

“No,” I whisper. “No, I’m not scared.”

Silence for a moment. A long exhale leaves me that I didn’t even know I was holding.

“Have you ever been scared?” It’s as though he’s reading my mind. “What about even after what I just did to you?”

“No, I have not, and no, even after that.”

In the blanket of darkness, my stomach dips with surprise when a hand is in mine. “Let’s fix that.” He directs me further into the room by his finger. I hate the way my body seems to respond faster than my brain.

Thanks to a weak spray of light, obsidian walls cave in around the small room, where a wingback chair sits at the center. Beside it, a small table serves as a bar cart, holding a single bottle of whiskey.

His hand slips from mine and that same hollowness returns as he swipes the bottle from the table and lowers onto the chair, keeping his eyes fixed on me.

Carpet softens my steps when I move forward, making the cuts on my soles bearable. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, and the longer I stand here, the more I relax.

He traces his upper lip with his finger. “Draw me a picture.”

I pause. “What?”

He keeps the same expression trained on me, gesturing to his side. “Draw me a picture. Anything.”

“I—” I look between him and the small box of chalk.

His head tilts to the side a little. Nothing has made a lot of sense since being here, so challenging him over drawing a picture seems ridiculous.

I pluck out the first one I see and straighten. Like the river of life, the longer I’m in it, the darker it gets. Chalk powders against the wall when I press the tip against it.

“Please…” I stiffen, the intrusion of her whimper holding me in place.

“Focus on what you’re doing, Madness,” he warns with a lazy drawl.

The air tightens around my throat. “What am I supposed to draw?” It’s probably not a good time to tell him I’m not an artist. I can barely draw a stick man.

The leather of his chair complains when he shifts. “Whatever you want.”

“You said you loved me…” The girl behind me sobs.

“Oh, but I do.” I’ve never heard him be this soft. “Spread your legs.”

My hand stops as curiosity burns through my body like live wire. I turn to the side, enough to see what’s happening.

“Like this?” Sugar drips from her demure tone. Gone is the girl who was begging for her life. She widens her legs asthe chandelier above exposes the pale color of her naked body sprawled out at his feet.

Out of instinct, my eyes fly to his. Relaxed in his throne and wearing nothing but unbuckled jeans and Jordans, he holds my stare. “Yes. Like that.” He finally looks to the girl.

Long brown hair falls around curves you’d find on models, and judging by the swell of her side-boob, it’s clear she likes a visit with the good surgeon.

She must be older. There’s no way she’s anywhere near my or Priest’s age.

“Touch yourself.”

His words knock the air out of my lungs.

She smirks, turning over her shoulder a little, just enough for me to catch it. I don’t know what she’s smiling at. I’m not sure I’d want Priest’s attention if this is the kind he gives the girls he likes.

French-manicured fingers find the spot between her legs, and I force myself back to my picture. I don’t want to explore the reasons why he’s making her do this with me in the room. I’m not sure I want to know. She moans softly, and before I get my head stuck in what the hell is happening, I start scribbling in a flurry of white and black until chalk shavings stain my hands.

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