THEY SAY THE FIRST SEVEN YEARS are the building blocks of a child’s life. Science points to the fact that during those formative years, our brain waves are in a different state, almost like hypnosis, letting the ideals settle into concrete foundations for what we’ll believe. For who we’ll be the rest of our lives.
Well, I was seven years old when I ran away from the orphanage and took to the streets of Paris, and now, twenty-nine years later, it’s still those first few years that haunt me the most.
“Little demons who don’t learn their lessons get the whip again.”
“Please, Sister,” I beg. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
Her eyes blaze as she stares down at me, the smell of dirty concrete and salty tears masking the rest of my senses.
“And what is it that you’ve done?” she questions, the leather belt hanging loosely by her side.
I swallow, because I don’t know what I’ve done. I never know.
She leans in close, her breath sickly sweet on the shell of my ear.
“There’s a sickness in you, child. And God wants me to beat it out.” Whistle.
Strike. Pain.
The memory of Sister Agnes’s voice wakes me from a nightmare, the punishment for being bad sticking to my skin like a leech.
Every action has a reaction, every choice a consequence.
And I learned early that if you do something wrong, you pay with a pound of flesh.
Sometimes I still wonder what it was about me that she seemed so hell- bent on beating out. If maybe she could sense the monster blooming inside me before anyone else knew it was there. Or maybe, as she often said, she was trying to cure me, and in the end, I was just too broken to be fixed.
But the most likely reason is that she didn’t like the simple fact that I existed.
After all, if even my parents didn’t want me, why would anyone else?
But I was still made in God’s image, and He listens when I pray. He’s happy when I atone.
My penance is my gift. One I’ll continue to give, because my self-control is a distant mirage in the heat of Amaya’s presence.
She blinds me to my purpose, hiding me from even Him.
And now we’re stuck together so I can prepare her to marry another man.
Disgust bubbles in my gut at my thought.
Maybe if I immerse myself in her long enough, it will numb me to her spell until she’s merely another face in the crowd. And now that I’ve been instructed to appease Parker’s ridiculous demands, she’ll be talking to me. Tempting me. Close enough to taste and touch and fuck.
Let Parker have her.
My chest twists.
After I sent her away yesterday, I spent the rest of the night in my office, vacillating between the need to whip myself for my sinful thoughts of her and the urge to stalk her and watch her every breath.
The indecision made me stagnant. And that’s how I’ve stayed for the two nights since.
I haven’t followed her, haven’t sought her out in the crowds. I’ve put my head down and focused on the parish. On everything I’m supposed to be doing.
But a monster only grows stronger in the dark, and tonight I’m too unwell at the thoughts of where she is, who she might be with.
So even though it’s the coldest night so far this year, I’m a man on a mission.
My breaths puff from my mouth, crystalizing the second they hit the icy air, and my nose is numb from the cold. But my veins are full of heat as I maneuver between the bushes in front of her apartment and crouch down, peering into her window as I watch and wait.
Again.
Something clicks into place, like a puzzle piece that’s been missing as I settle in, peering around to make sure nobody else is near, that I’m well hidden even if they were to walk by.
It’s only one a.m., and usually she’d be working for at least another hour before making the trek from the bus stop back to her place. But here she is, the sight of her so unexpected that it steals my breath and cramps my chest.
She’s wearing nothing but a fluffy white towel as she stares at herself in a mirror propped above a chipped dresser. Her dark wavy hair surrounds her face in wet ringlets, dripping water down her body in such a tantalizing way that my mouth dries, wanting to lick the wetness from her skin.
Her left hand squeezes the front of her towel together tightly, and even through the window, I can see she’s white-knuckling the fabric. Her hold drops, and blood rushes to my groin as I soak in the sight of her wet, naked body.
Merde.
She’s beautiful, a goddess, her skin glistening from the shower and her curves perfect and thick. My eyes soak her up greedily, my fingers flexing from the need to pop the button on my pants and grip my aching cock.
I want to stroke myself to the sight of her so badly it hurts.
Her breasts are heavy and full, areolas dark and puffy, and when she reaches up and rolls one between her fingers, I bite the inside of my cheek so hard the taste of copper floods my mouth.
I palm myself over the fabric of my pants, pressing firmly as my hips thrust involuntarily into my hand.
She releases her breast, dropping her fingers to the top of the dresser, her body hanging like she’s disappointed in herself for giving in. The new position arches her back, and I’m sure if I angle my vision, I’ll be able to see the perfect lips of her cunt peeking from between her thighs.
I move, the bush’s leaves jostling when I do. She snaps her head up, and my heart falters.
Because she looks directly into my eyes.
