The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

“Here’s the blushing bride!” The Prophet doesn’t stand as he beams up at me. All the disarray from the previous day is buried, hidden beneath his thin veneer of civility and kindness. “Have a seat. Let’s enjoy a good breakfast together before service.”

Grace takes the seat closest to the Prophet, and points to the chair beside her. I take it, my eyes down as a servant places a plate of food in front of me. Not the stuff we get at the Cloister, but real food—a biscuit covered in sausage gravy, fluffy scrambled eggs, and three slices of thin, crispy bacon. My stomach growls loudly, and Evan laughs.

I catch his eye. He’s looking especially handsome today, his face closely shaved and his hair neatly clipped. Wearing a crisp dark gray suit, he is the picture of masculine beauty, his blue eyes shining like ice as he surveys me. “Eat up, Delilah. You’ll need your energy for today.”

Encouraging words when delivered by anyone else—from him, they’re a threat.

Grace hands me a napkin, and I smooth it in my lap. “Do as your husband commands.”

He’s not my husband. I bite my tongue to keep the words from coming out. But Evan smirks, as if he knows I thought them.

I pick up my silverware and slice off a piece of biscuit. When I put it in my mouth and chew, the room seems to relax, as if the walls had been holding their breath.

“Now, Evan. Tell me more about Washington. I’ve never had much of a hankering for politics, but DC sure seems like the fast lane, you know? All that power swirling around.”

Evan finally turns his hawk-like stare back to the Prophet. “It’s definitely different than being here at home. There’s always something going on, some sort of deals being made, and tons of trouble to get into if you’re up to it.”

“I bet you’re always up to it.” The Prophet laughs. “A young buck like you. What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock.”

Grace eats with prim precision, her faint smile brimming with viciously positive energy. I try to eat, but my stomach rebels, aching as the too-rich food hits it.

The Prophet and Evan continue to make small-talk. I’m relieved that they don’t expect anything from me. Not right now, anyway. After all, Grace has always taught us that Maidens are better seen and not heard.

I take small bites and sip the orange juice by my plate. It’s too sweet, the shock of sugar like a revelation on my tongue.

“We have big plans. So much can be accomplished here at Heavenly, and we can do even more with a little help from our friends in Congress.” The Prophet finishes his meal.

Evan places his napkin next to his plate. “You know Heavenly always has my support.”

The Prophet pauses, as if expecting more of a pledge, but Evan doesn’t offer it. A sour note seems to grow for a moment, then the Prophet stands, his jovial mask in place. “Service will be starting soon, but I have some business to attend to first.” He glances at Grace and me. “And I think it’ll be a treat for all of you to see it. You, too, Evan.”

“Sure thing, though I’d like to have some private time with Delilah first, if that’s all right?”

“Of course.” The Prophet motions for Grace to join him. “We’ll just be in my office. Come on over when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” Evan doesn’t take his eyes off me as the Prophet, Grace, and Castro leave us. Once the room is cleared, he stands and walks to my side of the table.

When his hands come down on my shoulders, I jump.

He squeezes. “Almost mine, darling.”

I don’t move, barely breathe, but he takes my arm and pulls me to my feet, then embraces me. I force myself to return his hug, wrapping my arms around him even though it feels wrong, every bit of it off and dirty and tarnished.

“Don’t worry about this dress.” He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll have another ceremony in a few months. A real one. You can have any dress you like. A big cake, huge reception, dancing, flowers—all of it. This hillbilly ceremony is just a little formality.” Pulling back, he stares down at me. “I’m not like them.”

I’m too unsure to respond. What does he want me to say? That I believe him? I don’t.

“You’ll see.” He grips my upper arms. “I have some quirks; I can admit that.”

“Quirks?” I can’t hold back the incredulity.

“My dark side, yes.” He peers at me, and I swear for a moment that he’s actually trying to speak to me on a level as equals. “I can’t deny it, and I want you to revel in it like I do. You have it inside you—the fight, the fire. You’ll come to want our sessions, you’ll see. But that’s just one part of our lives together. I want this marriage to work. I want you to shine on my arm wherever we go. You are my future.” He strokes my cheek, his palm warm, his words treacly sweet like concealed poison.