The bishop closed a fist in her friend’s hair and wrenched back his head. “What are you to her?”
“Just a friend,” Vito wheezed, his eyes wide with horror.
“Your thoughts reek of lust. How dare you lay a hand on Larissa?”
He pronounced her name Lar-ees-ah.
“That was the first time I kissed her! I swear, man, I was a Boy Scout up until thirty seconds ago! She started it!”
Bishop King growled, his glare snapping back to her.
“Feeding, Bishop King. I was only going to feed. My hunger pains… they’re… frequent.”
The bishop released Vito. “Get up.”
Despite his coughing and notable weakness, Vito was compelled to obey. He stood on shaky legs.
“You will leave this place with no recollection that you were here. You will forget meeting Larissa. You will forget me. Any memories of tonight are only leftover pieces of a dream. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Get out.”
Vito shuffled toward the door only to pause when he noticed Larissa sitting on the floor, tears streaming down her face in a state of obvious distress. “Miss, are you okay?”
“Do not speak to her!”
Larissa flinched at the lash of the bishop’s voice and silently wept as Vito left. She would never see him again.
Her sniffles and sighs broke the silence. The bishop reached for her, speaking in a soft voice. “Come off the floor, child.”
She recoiled. “Don’t touch me.”
“Larissa—”
“I did not give you permission to use my first name.”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, “Sister Hartzler—”
Ice formed over her heart, frigid and solid. She glared up at him with cold disdain. “My name is Sister Hostetler. It’s the name you and the rest of The Elders sentenced me to use, the name of the brute you married me to and are so determined to return me to.” She stood, without assistance, and raised her trembling chin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Do you fear Silus?”
“Fear is useless.”
His brow pinched. “I want to help you.”
“Help me?” The man was her absolute enemy. “Do not pretend that we are friends when all you want to do is return me to misery. I’ll be lucky if I have all of my fingers by the end of the week. So, excuse me, Bishop, when I see you on the farm and do not wave.”
He drew back as if she slapped him. “I don’t intend to make your return a miserable one.”
“You just attacked my only friend and erased every memory he had of me.”
Something close to regret flashed in his eyes but then his jaw hardened. “That man harbored lustful thoughts of you, and you left me flailing in human waste two days ago.”
“What you did was worse.” She moved to walk past him toward the door and he caught her arm.
“You need to feed. Your hunger is beating at me.”
“I’m fine.” She couldn’t bear his presence. Her arm tingled where he touched her, so she yanked it free of his grip. “I want to leave.”
“You will feed now.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
She glared at him. “Silus would take issue with my feeding from another male of The Order.”
“So let him.” His eyes narrowed. “Silus does not worry me. Your hunger does.”
She scoffed. “Don’t pretend to suddenly care about my wellbeing.”
He caught her arm again, a stunned look taking over his face. “I care very much.”
Her lips firmed. She supposed it was a bishop’s job to worry, but she wasn’t convinced he considered anyone else's concerns when making decisions. Besides, if he insisted on taking her back to the farm, Silus would detect another male’s blood in her system the moment he scented her. “I prefer to wait.”
“Your pain is unacceptable to me,” he snapped. “As your bishop, I order you to feed.”
His command infuriated her. As if she had not been stripped of her independence enough.
A scream built in her mind and she wanted to let it out. I should hit you, you arrogant male! I’d like to rail at you until I’m all out of strength and then you will truly know how empty your orders have left me.
“Then do it,” he said, apparently overhearing her thoughts. “Strike me if you wish. My actions earned it. But first, you’ll feed.”
She frowned as he looked away from her. “What’s wrong with you?”
He appeared rather frustrated with himself. “I don’t know how to communicate with you.”
“It would help if you stopped ordering me around.”
His jaw ticked. “Your willfulness is infuriating, yet I find myself wanting to compromise, wanting to do something to soften your dislike for me.”
“Why?” It should make no difference to him if she liked him or not.
Rather than answer her, he asked, “Would it help if I allowed you another night?”
“What?”
He refused to look at her. “Perhaps another twenty-four hours here would make your return to the farm more bearable.”
Was he negotiating with her? “I don’t understand.”