The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

“I think so but—”

“Good.” She ignores me and flips a page in the binder. “Your guy is thirty-five, handsome, and from what we’ve gleaned at the Chapel—really into power play. Never married, a big up-and-comer in D.C., and known to visit certain sex clubs under an alias. Now, tell me how you intend to use this information to better the Prophet.” She looks up at me expectantly.

I’m a kid in school, naked, and without my homework done. “I, um… I would—”

She rolls her eyes. “Why’d he have to pick a dumb one?” Utterly gone is the beauty queen façade. Here, she’s all business and fully invested in the Prophet and his message—and particularly shrewd about it. “Let me ask that in a way someone like you can understand.” She laces her fingers together on top of the binder. “From what I’ve just told you, what tools do you have in your arsenal to please your husband?”

I grab the low-hanging fruit. “Perfect obedience?”

“Jesus.” She shakes her head at me like I’m an utter idiot. “Perfect obedience is for all the stupid sheep, not for us.”

I don’t point out that she’s wearing granny clothes solely based on the Prophet’s teaching of “perfect obedience.”

“Look, your guy is into power play. That means he wants to feel challenged, but in the end, he wants to be in control.”

“So you want me to challenge him?” At least that comes naturally, though this entire prep session is just a hypothetical. I’ll never belong to Evan Roberts.

“Obviously.” She sighs. “Fight him a little. Give him something he feels he has to overcome. That sort of thing excites him. Then let him be alpha and do whatever he wants with you.”

“Okay.” So not okay.

“But that’s not what’s important.”

“It’s important to me.”

“Listen, Mary or Sharon or whatever your name is—there is no ‘you’.” Her eyes harden, and she reminds me of a predatory bird, some sort of hawk. “Not anymore. Everything you are belongs to the Prophet. You exist only to further his goals. You owe everything you have to him. It doesn’t matter what Evan Roberts does to your body. He can fuck you, cut you, hurt you, do whatever his little depraved heart desires. And you will let him do it because it pleases him. Pleasing him is your job, because by pleasing him, you can please the Prophet.”

I cross my arms over my chest and return her icy glare. “What else?”

“You’re finally getting it.” She drums her nails on the table. “Once you get him where you want by being the perfect sex toy, he’ll feel comfortable to share things with you. Pillow talk. About what he’s doing in D.C., dirty secrets, desires, plans. All of that information is what you will send back to the Prophet. Understand?”

“So, I’m a spy.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Her tone grows more conspiratorial. “First you have to get his trust by fucking him the way he likes. Men are easy like that. If they want you, they trust you. So you have to keep the bedroom hot at all times. That’s how you’ll get him to share information with you. And after that—once you’ve proven your worth—the Prophet will give you instructions.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see. But, usually, it involves nudging your husband in the right direction.”

“You mean nudging him to do something to benefit the Prophet?”

“Oh, look who’s not as dumb as she seems.” She smirks.

“This is how you live as the governor’s wife? Perfect fuck toy, obedient wife, but a spy for the Prophet?”

She looks away, finally, staring at an empty corner of the room. “I do what I have to do to serve the Prophet.” The snark is gone from her tone, replaced by a bone-aching sort of tired that seems too heavy for her to bear.

“Don’t you ever want anything for yourself?”

She whips her head back around, her brief moment of honesty fading behind a thin smile. “I don’t need anything except the Prophet’s love and approval. He gives me plenty of both, and I’m guaranteed a spot at his right hand in our heavenly home.”

“He tells you you’re his favorite, doesn’t he? He told me the same thing. That I’m chosen, that I’m special. He tells all of us the—”

She leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “But with me, he means it. Don’t mistake your place. I don’t care if you marry the president, you aren’t above me. You’ll see. I am truly chosen.”

Some delusions are far too strong to be broken.

Eve sits next to me at lunch, her knee knocking against mine beneath the table. I glance up, scanning the room for any Spinners who might be looking our way.

“Sarah.” That one word in Eve’s broken whisper haunts me, and I have to take a deep breath to fight off the tears.

“I know.” I squeeze her hand.