Like a light switch turning on, I’m awake. Breathing hard, my body twisted in the damp sheets, my hands clawing at the bed. It takes a few seconds for everything to normalize, for the sensation of F’s heavy breath on my neck to recede.

I turn on my side, aware of the soft mattress beneath my body. The hazy early morning light is just beginning to creep in through the massive white-curtained windows of the bedroom. Eventually, my muscles unclench, my hands sore from gripping the mattress so hard.

My mind shifts first to prayer, as it has been taught to do for so many years now. I get off the bed, kneeling and genuflecting. I make the sign of the cross, mumbling the words with numb lips.

I spend a few extra moments on the floor, face pressed against my steepled hands. Aside from being the normal wake up routine at the convent, praying seems to help shake the cobwebs from my soul. It helps me to pretend that Father Derrik never says any of the things he so often whispers in my ear.

I imagine them as living things, wisps of dark smoke that I can cup in my hands. When I pray, I offer the wisps up to God, trusting in him to deal with their dark messages.

Of course, I can’t help but wonder what it means that I have ended up here, with Dryas. I squirm, just thinking about the things he has threatened me with. God works in mysterious ways, but…

Dryas seems to operate outside those rules.

Crawling back into bed, I close my eyes. It’s still early. I’m still tired. From the drugs, yes. But also, from years and years of never getting quite enough sleep.

At the convent, five hours was considered enough.

Here, I’m not staying up late doing chores. I’m not up early, to lift my voice up in service of God. I don’t have much to do, it seems.

So, I’m bad. I let myself sleep in a little, sinking back down into the inky abyss. My sleep this time is dreamless and unmarred. It’s only with great reluctance that I let it go.

It slips off, like endless grains of sand sliding through my fingers and falling away.

When I open my eyes, I feel him before I see him. His hand touches my thigh, which makes me instantly curl in on myself. He bites his lip, his hand clamping down. His eyes remind me of a jungle cat, sparkling with the same dark intention as a jaguar on the hunt.

Making a guttural noise in the base of my throat, I claw at the bed. I try to fling his hand away, but he only grips my flesh more tightly. As fair as my skin is, I know there will be a bruise, a perfect hand mark left on my skin.

“You’re pretty when you sleep,” he husks, his voice low and heavy. His eyes are intent on my face.

My mind whirls. He looks unhinged. My breathing is harsh as I try to pry his hand off again. “What are you doing here?”

He eases his grip, but he doesn’t let go. His eyes bore into me. “I dreamt about you last night. That’s rare.”

I push back my hair, steadying myself. “What?”

D moves closer, his large size dominating mine. I notice that he smells faintly sweet, yet smoky as he leans over me. Is that alcohol that I smell on him?

He puts his nose in my hair, just below my ear, and sniffs delicately.

“You smell good,” he whispers. I’m terrified, my breath coming to a shaky halt. “Like vanilla. And something else… roses?”

Though he is perhaps expecting a response, I just stay still. Leaning away, I slowly turn my head. Tears prick my eyes.

Protecting my throat, I suppose. After all, his behavior is that of a wolf’s right now. But what did I do to arouse the wolf’s ire?

Dryas grabs me by the thighs and pulls me to the edge of the bed, shrieking. He grins devilishly, parting my thighs in order to push his legs between them.

“Stop!” I scream, trying to push him away.

He runs his hands down between my legs, feeling the scrap of lace that is my only barrier. I think he might be drunk, the way he leers at me.

“No!” I sob. I feel useless like my limbs are jelly. That’s how much of an effect I seem to be having on him. Turning my head to the side, I cry. “What do you want?”

He pulls his hand away, lifting his fingers to his nose. He inhales, a sly smile overtaking his face. “You smell like fucking magic. Did you know that?”

I shake my head, trying to calm my hysterical tears. “Dryas…”

He leans over me, covering my body with his, using his weight to pin me against the mattress. He is heavy, almost enough to knock the air from my lungs.

Pulling my hair away from my ear, he talks through his teeth. “I can’t wait until I can have you. And when I do, you’ll be screaming with pleasure. You’ll be so turned on, begging me to fuck you… the whole room will smell like roses.”

Biting my lips, I try not to sob. I can hardly breathe with him on top of me. Choking, my nose running, this is how Father Derrik liked me to get before he took his turn.

I close my eyes and pray for Dryas to do it now, to get it over with. He’s going to rape me anyway. The sooner he begins, the sooner it will end.

But Dryas doesn’t. Instead, he heaves himself upright, stands and looks down at me. Our eyes meet. For a moment, the earnestness there outshines the insanity.

“You will want to fuck me,” he promises. “And we will both fucking love it.”

Then, as if he hadn’t just said something like that, he wanders over to the dresser by the door.

“You’ll want to read these.” He picks up a heavy sheaf of paper, tapping it against the top of the dresser. “This is the contract that dictates the terms of your surrender to me. Without this, I won’t fuck you.” He turns back to me, smiling wolfishly. “No matter how prettily you ask.”

He leaves through the open doorway, disappearing down the hall. I sit up, not understanding. What was all that?

Raising my knees, I rest my head on them, crying for a good long while.