The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“Just a few scratches.”

They aren’t scratches, more like tears, and there are bruises forming a ring around each wrist.

Gripping her forearms tightly, I ask, “Who did this?”

She blinks a few times. “The Head Spinner.”

“Why?” I skim my gaze down her body and find more bruising between her thighs. Red coats my vision for a moment, and I taste blood.

“The man you killed.” She swallows hard. “It was my fault for tempting him. So the Head Spinner—”

I reach up and grip behind her neck, yanking her face down to mine. “I killed him, not you.”

“She said that it was my fault.”

“She’s a moron in a costume who hasn’t the faintest clue.” Her lips are close to mine. Her breath whispers across my lips, her long hair tickling along my cheeks.

“I’ll have a talk with her.” I’d have to do it for the Winter Solstice preparations anyway. Fuck.

She tries to shake her head, but can’t while she’s in my grasp. “Please don’t. She already has it in for me.”

“You don’t tell the wolf what to do, little lamb.” I push her back down to her knees. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. You said you wanted to please me.”

“Yes.” Her voice quavers.

“What do you suggest?”

Her fingers tangle in a knot, and her cheeks redden. “I could… I could—”

“Suck my cock?” I love the flare of her nostrils, the fear that darts across her features.

“I-if that’s what you want me to do.”

“Of course I do.” I grip her hair and pull her close, then nestle her face against my erection.

She stiffens, letting me hold her still but doing nothing else.

I laugh. “If this is how you sucked your last cock, I can’t imagine a happy ending to that relationship.”

She pulls against my grip. “It wasn’t a relationship.”

“No?” I release her, and she sits back, her breasts heaving as she tries to calm herself.

Looking away, she says softly, “It wasn’t my idea.”

I pinch her chin and pull her to face me. “Who was the not-so-lucky fellow?”

“My stepfather.”

Chapter 14

Delilah

I’d never told anyone, not even my mother, and here I was spilling my guts to a cult leader who intended to rape me, at the very least.

“How old were you?” He leans back on the bed, but still seems to loom over me.

“Twelve.” I don’t let the memory creep into my mind, not his smell, not the way he told me I was his ‘good girl.’ My eyes water. “I-it happened only once.” I trip over the words as I fling them out. As if it happening just once means that I’m not dirty. I know it wasn’t my fault, but deep down, I’ll always carry the stain of what happened to me. “When my mother was away. And then they broke up not long after, but it was over something else.”

“Twelve.” His face pinches, but then smooths out, his dark eyes trying to pry me apart and see inside. He lies back and stays silent for several minutes.

Fear seeps through my pores and wets my underarms. But I don’t know if I’m more afraid of the memories or of Adam’s judgment.

I begin to think he’s fallen asleep, but then he sits up. “Get on the bed. Spread your legs.”

Fighting back my tears, I obey. Part of playing this game is doing what he says. Trying to get close to him to learn what I can. I have to repeat this litany just to get on the bed. He stands as I lie down.

“Legs open.” He stares as I ease my heels apart.

Dropping to his knees, he prowls over me, his eyes burning through me with an intensity that verges on terrifying. His shirt brushes against my taut nipples, and I suck in a breath.

“This is how you show obedience to me. To your Prophet.” He practically spits the last word. “You do what I say when I say it. You don’t ask questions. I expect your complete trust.”

I want to ask what I get in return, but I don’t dare. Not when he’s on top of me like this. Not when the only thing separating us is inconsequential fabric.

His eyes, pools of darkness that I can’t begin to fathom, focus on me with unmistakable predatory intent. “Trust.” He lets the word slide along his tongue until it ends with a flick. “Can you do that? Trust me?”

Trust isn’t something I can give anyone. Not in this place. Not after what happened to Georgia. “I can try,” I answer honestly.

He dips his head, his lips at my ear. “Trying isn’t good enough. I need your word, little lamb.”

Goosebumps race down my flesh, and I grip the blanket. A weight settles in my mind, as if my choice will sway the balance of my life irrevocably. Why is he asking me for anything? He could take it, just like he said a few days ago. Why would he care if I trusted him? I chew my lip and think back to when he killed Newell. Though I’d tried to block out the blood, I couldn’t forget the look in Adam’s eyes, the pure rage. He wasn’t a man I wanted to anger. Not ever.