The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

He opens the door for us, and we walk into the office, the familiar smell of cigars tainting the air as my father scrutinizes us through the smoke.

“Are you two happy with your picks this year?”

“Sure.” Noah sinks onto the tufted leather couch as I stand next to the fireplace.

“And you, Adam? What do you have to say about that bright white gal you got?” He opens a cross-shaped box—handmade by one of his congregants—and scoops a bump of coke onto his pinky nail, then snorts it.

“She’s adequate.”

My father laughs, though no lines appear in his forehead, no crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Botox is a hell of a drug. “Adequate?” He chuckles. “Is this the year when you take one for yourself?”

“Is that what you want?” I keep my tone level.

His eyes narrow. “If you want to challenge me, boy, best come at me with all you got. If you don’t, I’ll end you.”

“Dad.” Noah’s gentle tone floats through the acrimony, falling like a gentle snow on my father’s anger. “He’s just not ready yet.”

“He’s thirty years old. Plenty ready!” He takes another sniff of powdery courage.

“Sure, but he’s in charge of our operation. His focus is—”

“I can defend myself just fine, Noah.” I level my father with a glare. “I’m not taking one of these fools as a wife. If they’re stupid enough to fall for your song and dance, then I want nothing to do with them.”

Dad stabs his finger through the air. “I am the Lord’s Prophet, Adam. God has chosen me for this. And He has chosen them to serve me.”

Out of my father’s many delusions, this is his favorite. I could argue, could spell it out that he is a whoremonger of epic proportions. I don’t. All I want is to go to bed and forget this day happened. That isn’t really an option. I’ll be met with my fucked-up reality the second I wake up in the morning. But the bliss of sleep—hours of nothing but utter darkness—is my only remaining pleasure.

His anger turns suddenly serene, which is never a good sign. “I was going to let you say goodnight to your mother, but since you both insist on being obstinate, I think I’ll pass.”

Noah holds a hand out. “Dad, please.” He doesn’t realize that pleading will only feed my father’s refusal.

Besides, it’s a trick. Dad hasn’t let us get near our mother in years. She’s watched even more closely than the Maidens.

“That’s fine.” I stand and stretch, easily hiding my hatred in nonchalance. “I’m ready to hit the hay anyway.”

When my father realizes he can’t make me squeal, his ire returns triple-fold. “Get out of here! Both of you. Service in the morning. This one will be beamed in at our new ministry in India. Surely some of those dot-head idiots can gather up rupees to send over here. Godless heathens.” He stubs out his cigar in a crystal ashtray, his dark eyes cutting into my back as I walk away.

I lie in bed, my thoughts drawn back to the ritual, to Delilah. Her thin file rests on the pillow next to me, a snapshot of her oval face pinned to the front. Twenty-one, went to college, from northern Louisiana where her parents still live. She started attending services at Heavenly about a year ago, right after the murder scandal broke.

She came to church every time the doors were open. Always alone, despite a handful of attempts from some of the male members of the congregation. Perfect for the Cloister—a spotless record and distant parents. She’d come to Alabama for school, but like so many others, she’d fallen for the siren song of the Prophet.

I drum my fingers on my bare chest, her image on the backs of my eyelids. The way she’d looked on that bed. Jesus.

I’ve trained a Maiden every year for the past five years, and I’ve never reacted to one the way I did to her. I pushed her too far, forcing her to look me in the eye and give me more of her than I’m allowed to have. And I was hard on her, but not as hard as I will be. Going easy on her like Noah does with his Maidens would only end in trouble. My hand strays beneath the sheet to my bare cock. It’s already hard—the simple thought of her, legs spread, small hands fisting the quilt—that’s all it takes. I begin to stroke myself, imagining devouring her sweet cunt as she writhes, fighting the pleasure and then giving in. When she comes on my face, I shoot a thick load all over my stomach.

When I come back down from the euphoria, I realize I can’t let this happen again. Fantasizing about her will only cloud my mind, will make me rethink all the shit I have to do to prepare her. I wipe myself clean and toss the sheet to the floor.