“You truly are a Cursed,” he announced, his cheeks flushed. He reached out and combed his fingers through my hair. “I like blondes best,” he said, stepping closer to me. His finger circled under my eyes, “And dark, dark eyes.”
The prophet directed his finger down my cheek, running the tip over my lips. With every new exploration of my features, the prophet’s skin became more and more flushed . . . his eyes seemed to grow darker.
I bit back a moan of protest as his fingers tracked down my neck and onward to my breasts. The prophet’s breathing became heavy as he circled my nipples. I closed my eyes, trying to block out his touch. “Open your eyes, devil’s whore,” he snapped.
I complied, and Prophet Cain rewarded my submissiveness with a proud smile that sent flashes of revulsion to my stomach. Suddenly, Prophet Cain bent down at my feet. For a moment I wondered what he was doing. I did not have to wonder long. He gathered the hem of my dress and slipped his hand underneath. His fingers landed on my bare ankle and slowly traveled up my legs. I whimpered at the feel of his touch on my naked skin, searching for the breath that seemed to have been stolen from my body.
But the prophet did not care. His fingers crawled up my thighs. I could not take any more. Without conscious thought, I reached out and took hold of his wrist, halting his assault. I heard the gasps of people around us.
My eyes widened as I realized what I had done.
The sound of running feet came toward me, no doubt the guards coming to punish me. Prophet Cain held out his free hand, and they stopped.
I stayed still, my hand paralyzed on his. With his free hand, he grasped hold of my wrist. When I met his eyes they were filled with challenge and anger. I opened my mouth to apologize, but my heart would not let me utter the words.
Prophet Cain squeezed my wrist until the pain became an inferno on my skin, my bone under pressure from his vise-like grip. His head tipped to the side as he slowly rose from the floor.
His chest scraped against my breasts, his fingers tightening around my wrist until I released my clutch on his hand on my thigh. He pulled me flush against him, his cheek brushing past mine, his mouth landing next to my ear.
I froze.
The prophet’s hand on my thigh began moving upward to my most private place. I closed my eyes. He was too strong to fight off. I did not even try. He was the prophet. No one went against the leader of our faith.
I had to let him do as he wished.
Prophet Cain’s warm breath circled my ear as he exhaled. “A whore that likes to fight before she is celestially cleansed?” I felt him smile against the shell of my ear. “My favorite kind of sinner. One that needs to be broken, then made pure by my hands.” His warm breath brought out cold goosebumps on my neck. “It is the evil resisting my exorcising touch. That evil will never overcome me, whore. You should learn that lesson now.”
On his final word, Prophet Cain cupped me harshly between my legs. I cried out. My wrist, still in his grip, was trapped between our chests, preventing me from moving. The fingers between my thighs began slipping through my folds, slowly. My skin crawled with disgust. Tears of frustration built in my eyes, but I did not let the drops fall. I would not give him that satisfaction. I could not give any of these men that satisfaction.
The prophet ran his explorative fingers over my core, back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to end. “Bare,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire. I felt his hardness pressing against my hip, bile rising in my throat. “You have been prepared well. Ready for your prophet.”
I did not respond. He was not looking for me to say anything anyway. The men in my faith did not care for the feelings of the women.
I breathed deeply, long soothing inhales and exhales. Prophet Cain released me and pushed me backward. I cried out as searing pain radiated in my wrist, the blocked blood rushing to occupy my empty veins. I cradled it to my chest.
When I looked up, Prophet Cain was staring at me. There was challenge and excitement his eyes. At that moment I did not care how handsome the new prophet was, for his dark soul rendered him utterly unattractive to my eyes.
The prophet walked back to his seat, acting as though nothing had transpired between us. My dress remained up at one side, caught in my fallen headdress. I pushed the hem to my feet and clutched my veil and headdress to my chest.
I looked up as a young girl walked from the right-hand side of the room to stand next to the prophet. She was a pretty blonde with blue eyes. My stomach dropped. She looked no older than fourteen. She was just a child.
My stomach dropped further when she placed her hand on Prophet Cain’s shoulder and he covered her hand with his own. He looked up at her, and I could see the affection he held for her in his gaze. She was admiring him with the same, if not a greater, passion.