I didn't say anything at first. I just looked at her. Her, on her knees in my office—yes, my office, because now everything here belonged to me, even her—in that white lace that had replaced her sacred vestments. She still tried to keep her head high, but I could see her breath trembling, her thighs pressed together, and the troubled glimmer in her eyes.
I stepped forward and grabbed her chin. Her skin was burning, her throat quivered under my fingers. She dared to meet my gaze, but it wasn't faith burning in her eyes—it was a fever she could no longer hide.
— Crawl.
A single word. She flinched, barely. Then her knees slid, her hands pressed to the floor, and I saw her move toward me on all fours. The Saint. The sacred figure. On her knees, reduced to crawling like a bitch. The lace stretched over her ass tightened with each movement, and her white hair trailed across the carpet.
