Nameless Ghoul

Consequences

***⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING for graphic depictions of violence and implied sexual assault. Please skip to the next chapter if you aren't comfortable reading about that ⚠️***

Itzal walked along the basement corridor to his living space, feeling like a dead ghoul. Through their bond, he sensed Santos’ unfiltered rage swirling and churning like dark storm clouds. The wards brushed over his skin like cobwebs as he stepped through the doorway, and he shivered. These were his own personal wards, designed by the witches to keep him contained when Santos loosened his leash so he could rest. Tonight, it would be a long while before Itzal was his own master again, and he braced himself to escape into the sanctuary of his mind.

He couldn’t recall the last time the preacher had been this angry. It had been a long, long time since Santos had lost his temper completely, but the tell-tale burning in his chest warned him this was going to be really fucking bad.

His body went through the motions, as it had countless times before. He stripped off his clothes quickly and efficiently, then stood before one of the ancient wooden beams that held up the church. He faced the wood, grasped the large, rusting metal ring embedded in it, and closed his eyes. Usually, his mind would wander away from the here and now. Soon, he hoped, he’d be running through the Fields of Scorn again, or wherever it took him that time.

Tonight, though, he was so off-kilter that when he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, all he saw was a pair of kind violet eyes staring back at him. He opened his eyes again and silently prayed to Satan that he could leave this place.

A hot breath tickled his ear as Santos leaned in. His heavily accented, velvety voice sent goosebumps down Itzal’s neck.

“Our entire purpose here is to regain our rightful place as the Clergy,” Santos said. “I thought I had trained you well enough to carry out my tasks to the letter. We need to revisit the basics, yet again.”

Footsteps echoed as Santos moved to a cupboard, grabbed what he needed, then stood behind Itzal. He tried again to calm himself enough to slip away until the worst was over, but failed miserably.

He heard the creak of leather, then the swoosh as Santos swung the whip in a few test swipes. He whined, breath shallow and heart racing. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment. Almost.

“I thought we were past this, Itzal,” Santos said, regret in his voice. “You think I enjoy punishing you like this? I am not a monster. I just have too much at stake to fuck this up now, and I cannot have my ghoul messing things up for us when we are so close to our goals. You need a little reminder, that’s all.”

Santos stepped into view and pressed a kiss to the centre of Itzal’s forehead before stepping back behind him. In his mind, Itzal willed his body to do something—anything—but it remained traitorously still, waiting for punishment obediently.

The first lash cracked across his shoulder blades, and his body flinched involuntarily. Agony flashed as the whip’s sharp tongue tore flesh open, and he dragged air in with a harsh gasp. The cold wood of the beam pressed against his front as he rested his cheek on it and closed his eyes again.

He desperately tried to float away in his mind, but it was too late. Concentration failed him, and he surrendered to the pain. The lashes came in a frenzy as Santos’ rage consumed him, and Itzal growled through gritted teeth, bracing himself against the storm.

He must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes, he was on the ground. A pair of black boots loomed in front of his face. His back felt like it was on fire. A hot tear rolled down his cheek and pooled on the floor. The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils.

His gaze rose to Santos, whose usually pristine white shirt was rolled up from his forearms, flecked with blood. His face twisted in absolute fury.

“Get. Up,” he growled.

Itzal tried but failed to get on all fours. His arms gave out, and he collapsed back to the floor. Santos kicked him in the ribs, flipping him onto his side.

“I told you to get up, you worthless piece of shit! Now do it!” Santos spat, grabbing the metal collar at Itzal’s throat and dragging him upright so he was on his knees. Itzal coughed, choking, and tried to slip a hand underneath to relieve the pressure.

Santos yanked the hair at the back of his head and dragged him toward the small dining table in the corner. He bent Itzal over the surface and slammed his face down several times so hard he saw stars.

“Don’t you fucking defy me, ghoul. Today was not the day to fail me. I’ve got enough shit on my plate already!”

Itzal’s eyes widened in horror as Santos pushed his knees apart and pinned him down. Through the bond, he felt it. The shift from fury to something darker, hungrier. Possessive. Predatory. The weight pressing into his back. The unmistakable hardness.

Panic flooded him.

No. No no no.

He tried to ghost away, to dissociate, to leave, but the collar’s shock brought him screaming back into himself. He tried again. Harder.

This time, it worked.

Warm, hazy sunlight filled his vision. He drifted. Away from the pain. Away from Santos. Away from the world.

Home. At least, the only home his mind had left.