Decimation (The Brethren Lords #6)

1. Leandra

The darkness is absolute. It presses against my skin like a suffocating blanket, heavy and unyielding. My head throbs with an ache that pulses with every heartbeat.

I blink, trying to ground myself, but there’s nothing. No light, no sound, no sense of where I am. Panic claws at my chest, and it’s everything I can do to not completely implode.

Where is my Mother? What did they do to her? And where is Konstantine? The last thing I remember is him hurting me, him pinning me down, and no… I can’t think it. I can’t go there. I can’t.

I try to sit up but my body feels sluggish, uncooperative.

My limbs are leaden, my thoughts muddled.

I’m lying on something hard and cold - stone, perhaps?

My fingers brush against it, and an involuntary shiver runs through me.

The air is damp, carrying the faint scent of mildew.

My mind races, but it’s like trying to grasp smoke and everything slips through my fingers.

Then I hear it. A sound, faint but unmistakable.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, echoing in the emptiness.

My breath catches in my throat. Oh god, someone is here. Someone is coming.

A figure appears in the doorway, silhouetted against a faint light that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The light is dim, but it’s enough to outline his shape; tall, broad-shouldered, imposing.

He steps forward and the light catches his face, casting it in sharp relief.

My breath hitches as I realise who it is, but he looks…

wrong. His features before were twisted, as if he was wearing a mask of madness but now, now he looks not mad, but something else entirely.

As if he’s just learnt the very reason for existence, the meaning of life.

And that look in his eyes - he looks like the devil come to claim my soul.

I want to scream, to run, to do anything but I’m paralyzed, frozen in place by a terror so profound it feels like it’s rooted in my very bones. He steps closer, his gaze fixed on me, and I can feel it; the weight of his attention, the hunger inside him.

It’s unbearable, and yet I can’t look away.

He’s standing over me now, his shadow engulfing me. I can smell him, sweat and something else, something primal and animalistic.

Those colours that before were all yellows and grey are now blues and purples and moving in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat.

It’s beautiful, mesmerising. Addictive even.

I bite down the whimper, biting hard on my tongue because I remember this movement, I remember this feeling of awe too; it’s how Ezekiel made me feel.

It’s how he managed to manipulate me, managed to control me.

Is this man the same then? Is he not just the Grand Master but another prophet, put on this earth by God?

My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure it will burst from my chest. I shut my eyes as if I can become invisible.

Maybe if I play dead, he’ll leave me alone.

Maybe if I lie still, he’ll lose interest.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he kneels beside me, his breath hot against my skin. I can feel his hands on me, rough and calloused as they explore my body with a possessiveness that makes my stomach churn.

He didn’t touch me like this earlier. No he was too busy trying to get his dick into me, but now this doesn’t feel like brutality, this feels like reverence. As if I’m some long lost lover come back to him.

I hate it. I hate it all. But if I’m going to survive, I need to play dead. I need to…

His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he tears at it with a ferocity that shocks me. The fabric gives way easily, and I’m exposed. I want to scream, to fight, but my body won’t obey.

“Mine.”

I hear the growl, hear the word ring out as he speaks it and then he’s on me, his weight pressing me into the cold stone beneath me. His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding as he explores my body with a desperation that borders on madness.

I try to push him away, to fight back, but my strength is no match for his.

He’s too strong, too determined.

His hand finds my clit and I gasp, a sound that’s equal parts shock and something else, something I don’t want to acknowledge. His touch is rough, demanding, but there’s a skill to it that makes my body respond despite my mind’s protests.

I hate it. I hate him.

My body doesn’t care. It’s betraying me, responding to his touch with a heat that’s impossible to ignore.

With a yank he tears my underwear off entirely and as I register what that action means, he pulls my legs apart enough for what he want,s and then he’s pushing himself into me.

Oh God.

Oh God.

He’s big. So fucking big. Thrusting with a ferocity that’s terrifying. I want to hate it, to despise every moment of this violation, but my body after all those years of conditioning won’t let me.

It’s responding, arching into him, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that’s as shameful as it is undeniable.

I’m panting, writhing. Caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, pain, and a shame so overwhelming it’s tearing my soul apart.

He’s forcing me to come, his hand is still on my clit, his thrusts relentless.

I can’t stop it.

I can’t fight it.

My body is betraying me, responding to his touch with a fervour that’s impossible to deny.

Oh God, I’m doing it. I’m giving in, my body is convulsing with a pleasure that’s as intense as it is deeply wrong.

I hate it. I fucking hate him.

He’s panting now, his movements becoming more erratic as he nears his own climax. I can feel it building inside him; the tension in his body, the desperation in his thrusts. And then he’s coming too, his release hot and wet inside me.

I can feel it, the warmth of him, the finality of his violation.

He collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my skin. I’m trembling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, but my mind is a whirlwind of confusion and shame. How could I enjoy that after everything I have been through, after everything I have endured?

He rolls off me and I’m left lying there, exposed and vulnerable.

I can feel his eyes on me, studying me with a curiosity that’s almost childlike.

He’s muttering again, words I can’t understand through the fogginess in my head, but the tone is unmistakable; he’s fascinated by me, by what he’s done to me.

I close my eyes, trying to block him out, but it’s impossible. His presence is overwhelming; his scent, his heat, his madness.

I can’t escape him. I can’t escape this.

I realize then that I’m not in any world I know. No, I’m in hell, and he’s the devil.

I’m his plaything, his toy to fuck and abuse as much as he wants.

I’m a sinner. A thing cursed for abandoning my prophet.

And this right here, is my divine punishment.