The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

“Including mine.” I say it calmly, though everything inside me is twisting into a vicious knot.

“Including yours.” His voice is low and almost thin, too worn and stretched.

I sit up and dry heave, but nothing comes up. I’m empty on all levels, hollowed out by how sick the Prophet is, how debased every single part of Heavenly Ministries has become. Was it ever a righteous place?

My thoughts run, each one stumbling over the last. There is no escape. I knew that when I started this, but I didn’t know the cost. None of the Maidens did. The abuse, the brainwashing, the drugs—would I be here if I’d known? A flash of Georgia’s blonde curls crosses the path of my thoughts. And I know the answer. Yes. I owe it to her to find the truth, to punish who hurt her.

I stare at Adam, and I’m looking into the broken mirror. He’s on the other side, the jagged shards piercing his image just as they do mine. The Prophet is crushing him, maybe in different ways, but annihilating him all the same.

I let out a long breath. “I want it to be you.”

“What?” He glances at me, his brows furrowed.

“I want you to take my virginity.”

Fire ignites in him, the one that burns just beneath his veneer. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

I scoot over to him. “I do.”

“No, you don’t. The consequences are unimaginable. For both of us.”

I slowly drop to the floor and wedge myself between his knees. “I won’t let your father take it from me.”

He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips. “It’s no longer yours to give. When you joined the Cloister, you gave up the right to yourself.”

“That’s not true.” I shake my head. “I’m still me. It doesn’t have to be this way between us.”

“We can’t be together. I’m your Protector. I’m here to prepare you for the Prophet and, after that, for whatever man chooses you during the trials.”

“Trials?”

He tenses even more. “No more questions.”

“So, I get ‘chosen’ or I wind up at the Chapel? Is that it?” I can’t keep the bitterness from my tone.

“There or worse.”

Ice trickles through my veins. “There’s worse than the Chapel?”

“Things can always be worse, little lamb. You should know that by now.” He sighs and pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him. “Why do you fight me?”

“I can’t help it.” Honesty is the only thing my heart can give.

“You have to stop.”

“You like it.” I peer into his dark eyes, trying to see a glimpse of soul.

He smiles, a little lopsided, a lot perfect. “Maybe, but I can assure you the Prophet won’t appreciate it.”

I lean closer and whisper my lips across his. “Take me, please.”

His hands slide up my thighs and around to my ass. He squeezes, pulling me closer until my bare breasts press against his dress shirt. “No.”

I capture his bottom lip between my teeth and bear down.

He groans and kneads my ass. “You’re going down a dark road.” The warning in his voice comes out ragged.

“Are you waiting there to catch me?” I wrap my arms around his neck, and spread my legs until I feel his thick cock against me.

“Fuck.” He claims my lips, rough and hungry. His scruff scratches along my smooth skin, and I breathe him in. His hands rove my back then settle low again, gripping hard and pulling me down on his rigid cock.

I am devoured. His kiss is ownership, more permanent than a tattoo and more scarring than fire. I open wide for him, his tongue seeking and finding mine. Dusky tobacco, hard whiskey, and him all dance along my taste buds.

Twining my fingers in his hair, I clutch the strands, pulling until he groans. I drop my lips to his throat, nipping and licking. Salty and sultry, his taste whispers in some primitive part of my brain, and I want to sample him everywhere.

He wraps his large palm around my shoulder and pulls, leaning me back until my breasts are upturned to him. Lowering his head, he kisses down the valley between them, then licks around one nipple over and over until I’m squirming and desperate. As he claims the stiff peak in his mouth, my back arches and a quivering moan escapes my lungs. He lashes my nipple, sucking and biting, then performs the same torture on the other one. I scrabble at his buttons, but he yanks his shirt apart, shucking it off, then pulling me to his chest. Skin to skin.

“We can’t do this.” He claims my mouth again, his kiss even more insistent, the need in him matching my own.

I reach down and unclasp his pants, pull the zipper down, then slip inside. He tenses as my hand wraps around his shaft. Soft yet hard, the skin is so warm. I rub up and down, the same way he did when he came on me. Just the memory of him coating me in his release spurs me to grip him harder.