He steps forward, barefoot and reverent, his voice a velvet rope wound around my throat.
“Strip.”
I hesitate.
But the leash is still clipped to my collar.
And it tightens without his hand.
“You’re not here to be touched, little lamb. You’re here to be purified.”
I obey.
Slowly.
I peel off the last of the ruined fabric from my hips, already bloodstained and stiff. My knees ache as I shift. My body feels stretched thin over something holy and hideous.
He walks in a slow circle around me.
Tips the bowl slightly—enough for a drip of liquid to fall onto my shoulder.
Warm. Sticky. Thick.
Blood.
My blood?
His?
Someone else’s?
It doesn’t matter.
He dips two fingers into it, drags them across my lips.
“Say you’ve sinned.”
I close my eyes.
Open them again when I feel the leash yank.
“I’ve sinned,” I whisper.
“Louder.”
“I’ve sinned.”
“Say what you did.”
I hesitate.
His fingers smear blood across my chest now, over the moth brand, down between my breasts.
“I let him break me,” I say. “I begged for it. I came for him when I shouldn’t have. I loved it.”
He hums. “Say it again.”
He drips more blood between my thighs.
