Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

20

Edward

She’s gone. She left me. I had allowed her to walk out of here. I had encouraged her to walk out of here.

I didn’t stop her. Didn’t ask her to come back. Didn’t run after her and grab her and haul her back to me. I’d watched as she’d stepped out of my home, and the door had snicked shut behind her.

Then, I had glanced around the familiar surroundings of the place that had once brought me so much comfort—the serenity, the sparseness, the starkness of it, a reminder that I had made my choice. I had chosen the greater good over my selfish needs. I had chosen my loyalty, my devotion, my faith. I had chosen Him. After one brief slip up when I had come so close to realizing how it could have been between us, I had walked away. I had reached inside myself, drawn on the last reserves of my self-possession, and I had turned away from her. I had held onto my principles, everything that I hold dear…

So why is there a nagging pain under my rib cage? Why is my stomach knotted and twisted? Why are my shoulder muscles bunched up? Why is there a heaving sensation in my guts? The bile bubbles up my throat and my belly churns. I pivot, race to the bathroom, and lean over the commode. I empty out all the contents of my stomach, and dry heave until I can’t hold myself upright anymore. Managing to flush away the disgusting mess, I rise to my feet, head for the sink and rinse out my mouth, before sinking to the floor.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’d slipped up and come all over her face and it had felt like I had marked her, branded her, tied her to me irrevocably. Just like He had staked his claim on me.

Then I had found my conscience and turned my back on her—and the anguish in her eyes, the hate and helplessness in her features, combined with her vulnerability, had me reaching for her again. Only I hadn’t. I had told her that I denied that she was mine. I had lied.

She is mine.

Nothing changes that.

Just as I belong to Him.

And He comes first.

He always has.

Nothing can change that.

Nothing. Not even her. Right?

Everything that I hold dear...

My stomach churns again, my insides twist, and I turn to the commode just in time to dry heave again and again. By the time I sink back to the floor, I am shattered. It feels like I have puked my very guts out… And my heart… And my soul. Everything of meaning to me has deserted me.

Except Him. I still have Him. I lurch up to my feet, splash cold water on my face at the sink. I dry my face, then turn and walk over to the cross hanging on the wall in my bedroom. I sink to my knees next to the bed…next to where I’d lowered her recently. I turn away from it, tip my chin up toward the skies. I raise my arms, close my eyes.

Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

I couldn’t control myself.

I allowed myself to be weak.

How should I punish myself this time, my Lord?

How many times should I atone for what I have done wrong?

I empty my mind of all thoughts and wait. And wait. Sink inside, into the deep, quiet space inside of me where no one else is allowed… Where there’s an infinite expanse, waiting to be filled by Him. His voice. His presence. I wait and wait. And the answer seeps into my subconscious mind.

Twenty.

I wince. Almost ask Him if he is sure, but of course, He is. And I am not one to question the Lord. I rise to my feet, walk over to my closet and pull out my discipline. I peel off my shirt, walk over to the center of the room, then whip myself. Pain pulses up my spine, my skin gives, blood seeps down my back. The pent-up pressure inside me lessens and my muscles loosen. I whip myself again and again. By the time I reach ten, my arms ache and my back hurts. Blood runs down to drip onto the floor. I draw in a breath, whip myself again, and the strands of the whip curl around me, to slice open the skin on my belly. I grunt, allow the pain to absolve me, whip myself faster and faster. Sweat pools under my armpits, drenches my back and sinks into my blood. Pain thuds at my nerve-endings, at my temples, behind my eyes. I don’t stop until I hit twenty, then lower the discipline to my side. I glance up at the wooden cross on the wall, my limbs trembling, my throat dry.

Do You forgive me now my Lord? Am I still Yours?

I squeeze my eyes and wait, wait.

There’s no answer.