The whip scored across his back, shocking a grunt from his throat.
“Answer me, Paladin Morrow.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t know what else I’ve done wrong.”
Another hit made his spine arch, and he dug his fingers into his thighs to keep himself upright. Hawley didn’t like it when he doubled over.
“Youliedto me,” Hawley said. “Remember? Right outside, you told me you killed those demons quickly.”
Oh, right.
He was ready for the next hit, the pain hot and sharp behind his eyes. The next one was barely noticeable, as his mind drifted away. Pain was inconsequential—a temporary discomfort at worst—but it was all Hawley had to keep him in line.
Sometimes he liked to imagine what it would be like to turn the tables on him, to stand up and rip the whip from his hands, wrap it around his throat andsqueeze. Self-preservation was sometimes the only thing that stopped him. If he laid a hand on Hawley, Sloan would kill him. Even if he didn’t, Isaac would be excommunicated from the guild. It was the only home he’d ever known. He lived on the grounds. Without the guild, he’d have nothing. Bowing to their whims was better than the unknown that lay beyond these holy walls.
When he noticed an absence of fresh pain, he let his mind refocus on the present. His back was sore, but he wasn’t sure any of these wounds even broke the skin. Bruises he could handle.
His body shook, an involuntary response he’d never been able to stop, and he bit down on his anger. If Hawley saw even a flash of it in his eyes, he’d start all over again and keep going until Isaac begged him to stop. But if these sessions had taught him anything, it was how to play his part.
“I know it isn’t truly possible for someone like you to feel remorse.” Hawley’s voice was laced with pity, and Isaac bowed his head to hide his fury.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked.
“You may think you are.”
“I’ll try to do better.”
“See that you do,” he said coldly. “Now, put your shirt on, recite the Hail Mary, and then go get some rest.”
Isaac nodded deferentially, hoping that was the end of it.
“And Isaac.”
He looked up at the sound of his first name. Hawley rarely used it.
His murky brown eyes were layered with ice. “Don’t lie to me again.”
He ducked his head once more. “Yes, Father.”
Hawley strode away, his steps echoing on the wood floor, and his office door closed with a resoundingsnap. There was no need for him to stay and make sure Isaac obeyed. He knew better than to risk it.
Tugging his shirt over his head and down his sore back, he began, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
Isaac had gone huntingbecause he couldn’t sleep, but now he was too angry to try. With the sun inching higher into the sky, he made his way to the cafeteria. A handful of early-risers were already roaming the grounds, but few greeted him or even looked his direction. Most people tended to give him a wide berth.
It hadn’t been a big deal at one time. He’d had friends. Luke Morgan, Nathan Accardi. They were both on the wrong side of the war now. Cyrus Perron was loosely a friend—more like an occasional training partner. And while he still attended the secret meetings that some of the paladins had been holding, the ones who didn’t agree with Sloan’s recent policies, he barely knew most of them. Isaac wasn’t sure of the point, really, but Sloan had instructed him to continue attending the meetings so they knew what was being said.
Sometimes he wondered what they would do if they found out he was ratting them out—not that Sloan gave him much of a choice. He’d just been shown, yet again, that lying was wrong, and they always seemed to know when he tried.
The cafeteria was still mostly empty at this hour, and the cooks were just beginning to put the food out onto the steam trays. He took a place in line with an absent mind and layered food onto his plate, his gaze drifting over to the stained glass windows on the far wall. Each depicted a different scene from different books of the New Testament. There was no escaping God’s judgment here, or anyone else’s for that matter.
He chose a random spot as far from the windows as he could get and stabbed at his scrambled eggs. They were the same as always, bland and chewy, but there was a grim comfort in the familiarity.
A figure swooped into the chair across from him, and he schooled his expression. Daniel’s dark curls were wild and his scruff was verging on beard territory. His warm hazel eyes glanced around them seriously before setting on Isaac’s.
“Meeting in the library soon,” he said. “I sent a text; you’re the only one who didn’t respond.”
Isaac patted one pocket and shoved half a slice of toast into his mouth. “Hello to you, too. Sorry, don’t have my phone on me.”
