Mistress sat upon her throne, languid, predatory, her newest plaything kneeling before her, awaiting judgment.
Adele, such a conflicted little thing, had spent her life tangled in a whirlwind of religious torment. Kneeling in pews, whispering her devotion, and yet, crawling into the arms of temptation whenever the darkness called. A girl who had teased demons with her submission, only to flee back into the arms of her absent god.
It was pathetic.
Mistress was done with the game.
The rosary tightened like a noose.
Adele let out a strangled gasp, the final shreds of air slipping from her trembling lips. Mistress’s fingers curled around the beads, wrapped the black chain tighter, the cross clutched between her fingers like some cruel parody of devotion.
The girl shuddered beneath her, her face flushed, her eyes wide, drowning in panic. It was almost… endearing.
Mistress leaned in, her breath warm against Adele’s ear, her grip tightening just enough to steal another gasp.
“Pray harder.”
A pause. The whisper curled into a chuckle, low and amused.
“Maybe He’ll listen this time.”
With a final, merciless tug, the rosary snapped.
Beads scattered like lost prayers, clattering against the cold stone floor, rolling into the dark—forgotten, abandoned.
For a moment, just a breath, Adele thought she could breathe again. She gasped, chest rising, lips parting, the briefest taste of relief—
Until Mistress caught her by the throat.
Fingers tightened, nails pressing into delicate flesh, sinking in just enough to promise bruises. The pressure was unyielding—calculated. Not enough to strangle her outright. Not yet.
Mistress tilted her head, watching the girl’s desperate struggle, her own amusement curling into something darker.
“See? Even your faith is fragile.”