The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

Another Protector already holds it open for us, and Zion walks me through and shoves me into the passenger seat of a golf cart. The sun is bright overhead, but no warmth reaches me. I peer through the trees for any sign of Adam, but he’s gone, taken to the same pit where I suffered. Zion speeds up the hill and through the compound to the main house. The Prophet is already walking in as we drive up.

“Out.” He walks around and pulls me with him into the house and up the steps.

He jerks his chin at the Prophet’s bodyguard. “Where do you want her?”

He points to the same sitting room with the piano. “There.”

Shouting echoes through the two-story foyer as Zion shoves me into the sitting room and slams the door. I collapse on the nearest couch and let my tears flow. There’s no end to them. I berate myself, wondering if I could have stopped Adam, if I could have found some other way. But nothing comes to mind, no matter how hard I try. Maybe I should have just accepted my fate and gone with the senator.

I sob into the arm of the sofa. You’re weak, Emily. So fucking weak. You let him sacrifice himself for you. And now they’re going to kill him. I wish I could tell the voice to shut up, but I’m too afraid it’s all true.

The door bursts open, and I push back into the arm of the sofa.

Evan rushes toward me, his face red.

“No!” I try to get up, but he slams me back down and holds me by my throat.

“Whore!” he shouts in my face and lifts my dress with his other hand.

I scratch him as he presses his hand between my thighs then yanks it back and stands.

His fingers come away pink and wet. He sniffs them, then scowls and pulls out a handkerchief, wiping his hand clean, then tossing the fabric on the floor. “You would have been the wife of a senator. Everything you ever wanted, I would have given you.” He spits at my feet. “Now you’re just a piece of trash.”

The Prophet rushes in behind him. “Now, Evan. I think you’ve got the wrong idea. My son forced her. She would never have agreed to—”

“I don’t give a shit how he did it,” he barks. “He fucked her right out from under me. Took her virginity when I was signing the goddamn check.”

The Prophet adopts an equitable tone. “Oh, come now, Evan. That doesn’t mean you can’t have her.”

“She came for him.” He spits again, his saliva slapping against the shiny wood floor next to my feet. “I don’t buy damaged goods.”

“Of course you do.” The Prophet moves closer, his shrewd eyes assessing Evan. “You just don’t pay full price.” He hovers even nearer. “Look at her, Evan. Just look. Where will you ever find another one like her? You won’t. She’s still ready for whatever you want, ready to be bred. Nothing will come of this one violation; she’s on the injections. For your purposes, she’s still very much intact.”

Evan’s color is fading back to normal, but rage still burns in his eyes. “I’m not making any decisions today. I’m leaving.”

“Evan, please—”

He strides past the Prophet. “I’ve been insulted enough for one day. I need to cool off.”

The Prophet follows him into the foyer, their voices fading. “Might I send over some ladies from the Chapel to ease you?”

More footsteps approach, and I shrink back against the couch and pull my knees to my chest.

Noah stops in the doorway, his face cast in shadow as he watches me. He sighs, the sound almost as heavy as my guilt. “I hope you were worth it.”

Chapter 30

Adam

A harsh slap wakes me, but I can’t see who laid the blow on my swollen cheek. It’s too dark in the Rectory. Am I in the same room where they kept Delilah? Emily, her sweet voice reminds me gently. My name is Emily.

“Wake up, pendejo.” Castro smacks me again, whipping my head to the side.

“Fuck you.” My voice is a croak. Someone managed to get a decent throat punch in at the Cloister, and I’ve been tasting blood on my breath ever since.

He unlocks the shackles holding me upright against the metal frame of a box spring. “Should have listened. Should have stayed in line.”

I spit in his face, and he hits me again, the shock to my jaw adding to the rest of the pain pulsing through me.

He drags me from the small, gloomy room into a dim corridor. The room at the end is bright, and I squint as we get closer. Tossing me inside, he stands in the doorframe, his hand on the semiautomatic rifle slung across his shoulders. I don’t know why he’s so worried. At least one of my ribs is broken, my left arm likely out of the socket. I couldn’t do a thing to him, though it pleases me he’s still worried.