The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“My child, you are truly blessed.” He runs his lascivious gaze all over her body. “And because of this, your name shall be—”

“Mary.” Noah rolls his eyes. The first one is always Mary.

“Mary.” My father proclaims.

“Thank you, Prophet.” She reaches for her shift.

“No, my dear. Stand proud with your sisters.” He points to the next girl as a Spinner pulls the girl’s shift from her grasp.

Over the space of the next ten minutes, each girl is required to strip, their bodies laid bare as the men watch. The recruiters picked well this year, brainwashing mostly attractive women into the Cloister program with promises of safety, peace, and sisterhood. The sales pitch leaves out a few key elements, but they’ll learn it all soon enough.

When it’s my Maiden’s turn, I find myself becoming a little too interested.

She approaches my father, and, unlike the other girls, removes her shift before he even asks, and tosses it to the floor. Now, for a man like my father, he’d take that as a sign of faith in him, of devotion to the Cloister. But me, I take it for what it is—an open “fuck you” to my father. She’s meeting the ugliness of the charade head on. The bird flaps its bony wings inside me again, waking after a long slumber.

“You, my dear, are sacred. Just look at you.” He twirls his finger, and she turns in a circle at his command. Her long white hair flows down her back, light pink nipples pebbled in the cool air, and a hint of blonde curls between her thighs. Her gray eyes remain hidden from me. I want to see them, to see her. Not her body, but whatever simmers inside.

“Come closer.” My father takes her hand and pulls her until their knees are touching. He darts his tongue to his lips.

My hands close into fists. It’s not his time. It’s mine.

“What’s the matter with you?” Noah must have been watching. “You’re all tense.”

“I’m fine.”

I loosen my fingers as my father asks, “And who is your Protector, sweet girl?”

She turns toward me, her gaze finding mine with ease. He follows her look.

“Noah? Adam?”

I nod.

“Well.” He turns his focus back to her and grips her waist, his hands profaning her smooth skin.

She doesn’t flinch.

“I think I’ll need to deviate a bit here. Give you a name that suits anyone who has to deal with Adam on a daily basis.” He fakes a consoling look. “Not that he’ll hurt you, of course. He’s a Protector, after all. Hmmm.”

I itch to punch him in his smug face even more than usual, which is saying something.

“How about we call you Delilah?” His hands slide lower, easing across her hips.

“Thank you, Prophet.” If you weren’t paying attention, you could miss the faint tremor in her voice. I hear it just fine.

“Go on now.” He lets his hands drop, and she steps back into line, all the girls bare for the leering assholes below them.

“God is good.” Dad stands and motions to the Spinners. They rush forward, golden dresses in their hands, and help the girls put them on.

Once the show is over, the men disperse and sit down at the tables, their rough voices overcoming the quiet chatter on the stage.

“When is he going to stop doing this?” Noah yawns and motions his Maiden over to him. She comes like an obedient little dog, her gold dress skirting her ankles.

“I suppose whenever these girls stop falling for this shit.”

Noah’s Maiden gives me a shocked look before inspecting the floor again.

Noah leans close. “Don’t let Dad hear you saying any of that.”

“I’m careful.”

“I know. But we can’t risk it.”

“I know.” I walk away from him, ignoring whatever warnings he wants to add. My Maiden, Delilah, stands at the edge of the stage, the gold dress giving her an even more unearthly look.

“Come.” I take her hand and pull her to the nearest table. She sits opposite me, not a word from her light pink lips.

Who was she before she came here? I’d have to investigate her file. Plenty of the girls who expressed an interest in the Cloister came from broken homes and, above all, had intense daddy issues. Ones my father took full advantage of. Is that who Delilah is? Another broken cog in a wheel that was never made for her?

It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. Who she was doesn’t matter. Because now she’s in the Cloister. She likely didn’t notice it when we walked in, but each door with outside access has a keypad, cameras set up everywhere, and the windows similarly monitored. Once the faithful supplicants enter my father’s clutches, they don’t leave. Not on their terms, anyway.

“What’s your name?” The question pops from my lips though it should have stayed tucked away with all the forgotten things that resided in my mind.