The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

“Can I be a Maiden one day?” she’d asked.

Her mother replied, “If you are faithful and obedient, you may be chosen by the Prophet.”

And there’s my answer. Even without Adam, even if the pain of losing him rips my soul into a million pieces, I will fight to destroy Heavenly until my last breath. No more lambs to the slaughter, not if I can help it.

My door opens, the room deep in gloom this late at night.

“Who’s there?” I peer through the darkness, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

“Me.”

I don’t know the voice. “Touch me, and I’ll scream. I’ll claw your fucking eyes out.” I try to sit up, but the pain in my backside has me balancing oddly on one hip as I ready for the attack.

“I’m not going to—” He steps closer. “I won’t hurt you.”

Noah, his voice a little smoother than Adam’s, his stance a bit less aggressive. He eyes me warily and circles around the bed to stand at the foot.

Blood roars in my ears. Am I looking at my sister’s killer?

“You shouldn’t have come here.” I stand, the lash lines stinging across my skin.

“Dad assigned me to be your new Protector.”

I raise my fists, though I realize I probably look especially pathetic. I don’t care. I’ll do as much damage as I can before he overcomes me.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t need protection.” I follow his steps.

He holds up both hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. I swear!”

“So you won’t hurt me? What about Georgia?” Just saying her name out loud frees some part of me—the one I’ve held back even from Adam.

“Georgia?” He blanches.

Guilt! My heart sings the word, triumph in the note. He looks guilty.

How long have I waited for this chance? Too long. Vengeance sings in my veins. I don’t care about the camera or the microphone or the Spinner in the hall. All I care about is exacting my pound of flesh from the man who killed my sister. An exuberance fills me, lightens my steps. Judgment is here, and I am her sword.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?” I follow him until his back is against the wall.

He nods and keeps his hands out in front of him. “Mary. She was my Maiden.”

“A confession?” I ease closer, staring up into his eyes that I once thought were guileless. I know better now. “I already know what you did to her. I read the police report. I know every cut, every gouge, every fucking bruise, even that the slice to her throat was just over four inches wide. Thorough. You made sure she didn’t have a chance.” Despite my rage, my voice is calm. So calm, like a placid lake with a razor-mouthed beast lurking just beneath the surface.

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” I’m directly in front of him now, our eyes locked, the faint hint of whiskey on his breath.

“I never would have hurt her. Never.”

“Liar.” I rear back and slap him. Hard.

“I’m not.” He suffers the blow, then returns his gaze to mine. “I swear on my life that I never hurt her.”

“I don’t believe you.” I slap him again. My palm rings with the reflection of his pain. It feels good.

“Delilah.” He grabs my shoulders.

I fight, struggling out of his grip.

“Don’t!” he yells as I swing, my fist hitting his cheek with a fleshy thunk. The impact radiates through my knuckles, a deep, jarring pain. But I swing again, on fire, ready to hurt him, to show him at least a tiny slice of the agony I live with each day since he took her away from me.

“Stop this!” He wraps his arms around me, pinning my hands in tight to his chest.

I kick and struggle, but he walks me to the bed and lays me down, my ass on fire, my hands desperate to rip him to pieces. He straddles me and pins my wrists next to my ears. I’m trapped, too weak to escape.

I spit in his face. “Do your fucking worst.”

He lets out a low, frustrated noise, like a growl deep in his throat. “I need you to calm the fuck down.”

I turn my head away, my chest heaving with each breath. At least I gave it all I could.

“Listen.” He squeezes my wrists. “Or wait, no.” He shakes his head. “Talk. How do you know Mar—Georgia?”

“Her name was Georgia, you piece of shit. Not Mary.”

“Okay. Georgia.” He seems to try and adopt a soothing tone. “How do you know her?”

I turn back to him, giving him my honesty like a knife through his worthless heart. “She was my sister.”

He closes his eyes and hangs his head. “Fuck. She talked about you.” His voice gentles, and I could swear that sadness rolls his shoulders forward a bit, tinges his words with grief. “You’re her Firefly, aren’t you?”