I pull my knees up against me as Abigail does her usual muttering at the projector. No one has looked me in the eye this morning, and I’m glad. I can’t deal with connection, or thoughts, or memories, or even feelings. Everything is cold, and every thought leads me back to Sarah. If I blink, I see Adam holding her in his arms. So I try to keep my eyes open, to keep the ugliness at bay. But it doesn’t stop. It can’t.

Grace walks in and hurries to the front of the room. She takes a moment, as if choosing her words, then begins, “I know that what happened last night may be shocking to some of you.”

I would laugh if it wouldn’t lead to a never-ending pit of sobs and grief.

She clasps her hands together in front of her and clears her throat. “But you have to understand that the Prophet knows God’s plan. Sarah is blessed, sacred, and holy. She will live forever in the light of our Lord, and the Prophet—”

“Killed her.” Eve’s voice, high and trembling, cuts through Grace’s lies. “He made his son kill her. She isn’t going to heaven. She’s dead. Murdered. Right in front of all of us.”

“Eve.” Grace shakes her head. “That is the worldly interpretation of what happened, and is a blasphemy against the Prophet.” She toys with the end of her baton. “Because I understand that emotions are running high, and because it is Christmas Day, I will let your comments pass. But if you tell any more lies, I’m afraid you won’t escape punishment.”

Eve covers her face with her hands and rocks back and forth.

“Good.” Grace lets her gaze rove over the room. “As a Christmas treat, we will forego training for the day and, instead, will have a screening of ‘The Passion of the Christ’.”

I groan on the inside, but settle in for the movie. At least I won’t have to interact with anyone. I’ve become an expert at blocking out whatever “instructional” video is playing and spending the time in my own head.

“Delilah.” Grace’s voice cracks over me like a whip. “Come with me.”

My bones ache, and grief weighs me down, but I still can get no respite. Not even now. I stand and follow Grace from the room, her black skirt swishing against the cold wood floor. She leads me back to the dormitories and my room.

“Get dressed.” She hands me a white dress that’s similar to what I’m already wearing, but with a high collar and thicker fabric. “We’re paying a visit to the Prophet’s home.”

“What? Why?”

She shoves me. I’m so weak that I stumble forward and fall onto the bed.

“Just do as you’re told, Maiden!” She throws the dress at me. “Now!”

I strip my usual dress over my head as Grace watches. She inspects my nudity with a critical eye, as if she’s adding up my shortcomings.

Once I’m dressed in the long gown and white flats, we leave my room. Chastity passes us in the hall, her hair up in a net and a vicious new bruise on her cheek.

Grace glances at me and smirks. “I saw her in your room. She broke the rules. She paid. The same way you will if you do anything to cross me on this little trip.” She grabs my elbow and shoves me aside as she enters the code to open the outer door.

A golf cart waits just outside, one of the Protectors at the wheel. He tosses his half-smoked cigarette away. “Get in. It’s fucking cold out here.”

I sit on the back bench, and Grace settles in beside the driver, his greasy hair shining in the morning light. I stare at the road ahead as the cart moves smoothly up the pavement. Asking what this is about will get me nothing but a whack with Grace’s baton. Does it have to do with Adam? I swallow hard as my mind falls into the next possible conclusion. Do they know the real reason I’m here? After what happened to Sarah, I have no illusions about what they’d do to me if they had any doubts about my loyalty to the Prophet. As far as they know, I broke in the Rectory and will never question the Prophet’s divinity again. Keep it that way. I force myself to resume the mantle of brainwashed Maiden. Whatever happens, I have to play along, to convince the Prophet that I’m devout. It’s no longer just about me infiltrating this place to find out about Georgia, now it’s deeper, angrier, and more focused. I’ll destroy them from the inside out.

We roll to a stop at the rear of the huge Georgian mansion, and the Protector walks up to a set of back doors. After entering a code, he opens the nearest door and ushers us inside.

I follow Grace, matching my footsteps to hers as we pass a bar, a pool table, some chairs, and corridors on either side that lead deeper into the lower levels of the basement. One door to my right has what looks like a metal plank that can be thrown to bar it.

We climb a staircase that opens into a luxurious foyer. Everything here gleams—the wood, the marble floors, even the artwork. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I realize just how austere and oddly woodsy the Cloister is in comparison.

“In here.” Grace points to a sitting room with a piano in one corner, a large fireplace, and various couches and chairs. “Sit down, don’t touch anything, and don’t speak to anyone until I come back.” She delivers her edict with narrowed eyes before disappearing farther into the foyer.

I sit on the end of a leather sofa and stare at the fine things the Prophet can afford from all the tithes he collects in the Lord’s name. Just one piece of furniture or art in this room could have funded quite a few semesters for me at Alabama. I run my fingers down the buttery soft leather. The house even smells rich—like some sort of sweet cigar scent mixed with furniture polish and money.

Faint voices barely make it to my ear, but I can’t tell what they’re saying or where they are. I shrink back into the cushions and focus on the steady thump of my heart. It still beats, despite what it’s been through, despite what I’ve seen, despite the pain of losing Georgia and Sarah. How it manages to keep going, I’ll never know. What’s worse, is that it’s a traitor. Even now, I peer out into the foyer and hope for a glimpse of Adam. He murdered my friend before my eyes only a few hours ago, but I still seek him out. It’s wrong, and I hate myself for it, but my heart—that bruised and battered organ—still yearns for him. I shake my head at myself.

A door clicks open nearby, and then footsteps approach. I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the floor—the picture of perfect obedience.

“Delilah.” The Prophet’s voice stabs into the room.

I stand but keep my gaze downcast. “Yes, Prophet.” Clenching my eyes shut, I wait for some sort of accusation from him, maybe even a sentence, since he’s judge, jury, and executioner on the compound.

“Good girl.” He comes in and stands in front of me, his shoes gleaming along with everything else. “I have a visitor to see you.”

That’s it? “Yes, Prophet.” I keep the relief out of my voice, even though it washes over me like a tidal wave.

“Treat him nicely, and give him the blessing of your holy presence.” He lowers his voice. “But nothing more.”

How different he is than his son. Adam hates it when I don’t look him in the eye. The Prophet prefers it.

“I understand, Prophet.”

“Good girl.”

I wonder if he’ll pat my head like a dog. But he doesn’t, simply strides away.

His shoes are replaced by another set, this pair not quite as shiny, and the door to the foyer closes.

“Delilah.” Evan reaches out to take my hand and smiles down at me.

“What are you doing here?”

He sits on the couch and pulls me down next to him. “I simply couldn’t wait.”

“For what?” I meet his gaze. The Prophet isn’t here to see my little rebellion.

He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “To put in a bid.”

Hatred, the sort that eats away at you like a poison, saturates my blood. “Oh?”

“I want you, Delilah. For myself.” He runs his fingers down my cheek. “All of you. Not the Prophet’s leftovers.”

I want to bite his fingers off. Instead, I remain still and let him talk.

“I’ll have to marry you—that’s one of the Prophet’s rules that can’t be broken, but I don’t mind. A woman like you would make the perfect wife. Obedient, mostly.” He grins knowingly. “But I know there’s a little bite back inside you, and that’s one of the reasons I want you. I’ll get to break you myself.” He grabs a strand of my white hair and rubs it between his fingers. “And you’re perfect for breeding.”

“Get off.” I slap his hand away.

“There it is.” He grabs my wrist and squeezes it until my eyes water. “That little something extra. You know, I’ve been coming here for years, checking out the crops of little virgins the Prophet collects. But you’re the first one that’s caught my eye.” He reaches for my throat with his free hand.

I scoot back, but he yanks me forward by my wrist, then slams me back onto the couch. When I cry out, I expect the Prophet or maybe Grace to barge through the door. No one comes.

“Stop!” I struggle as he yanks at the button closure at my throat, then rips my dress open. “Grace!” Desperation puts her name on my tongue.

“No one’s coming.” He grabs a handful of my hair and holds me in place while he rips my dress the rest of the way off. “But don’t worry, I’ll play by the rules.” He sits back and stares at me, his gaze roving over my nudity.

Hot tears pool in my eyes, and I struggle to free myself. He only pulls my hair harder and keeps me pinned to the leather.

“I’m going to let you go.” He pulls a phone from his pocket. “And take some pics. But if you fight me, I’ll hurt you.” He whips a hand back and hurtles it toward my face, halting only an inch away. “Next time, I won’t stop. Don’t fucking move.”

Tears inch down my temples as he releases me and stands back. With one hand, he pushes my knee aside, opening me to him. He licks his lips, and I close my eyes to try and go to some other place. A place where this isn’t happening.

“Open your eyes. I want to see the tears.”

I shake my head, but do as he says.

“That’s it.”

I can’t hear the click of the camera, but he stands still every so often. He takes a close up between my legs and violates me every way possible without actually touching me.

“Now I want you to say ‘please stop, Evan’.” He stands over me, the bulge in his pants impossible to miss. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Please stop, Evan.” I do mean it.

He moves the phone closer to my face, as if he’s focusing on my tears. “Beg me to stop.”

“Please stop.” I speak to him, not the camera, but he is looking at me through a lens and nothing more.

“Ask me not to hurt you.” He runs the heel of his palm across his hard cock.

Humiliation overwhelms every other emotion firing inside my head. It’s all too much.

He grabs my hair and grates at me, “I said ‘ask me not to hurt you.’”

I don’t feel myself snap so much as I simply act. My left hand curls into a fist, and I jab it straight out, nailing him in the crotch.

He lets out a yelp and falls to his knees.

I jump up from the couch and run to the door. Though I twist it and yank the handle as hard as I can, it doesn’t move. A primal scream tears from my lungs as I beat on the door.

A groan from behind me—too close behind me—makes me turn around. Evan’s face is bright red, his eyes lit with fury, as he rushes toward me with one hand on his crotch.

I scream and dart to the side, then wedge myself behind the piano.

He lurches around to me, then leans on the keys with a discordant noise and takes a deep breath. “Bitch.”

“Fuck you.” I’ll fight and claw and scream and kick and do whatever the hell I have to do to keep him from touching me ever again. “Come near me again, and I’ll go for your fucking eyes.” My voice is a hiss, the promise of violence despite the odds. He’s too big, too strong, and I know I’ll lose, but I’ll take a piece of him with me if it’s the last thing I do.

The door bursts open, and Grace and the Prophet rush in.

Grace stops, her mouth agape, and the Prophet points at me and shouts, “You goddamn harlot! Get out from behind there!”

I don’t move.

He steps closer, the kindly man mask falling away and replaced with hateful indignation. “Girl, you do as I say!”

“Delilah!” Grace’s voice is shrill as she edges around the other side of the piano, trying to cut me off. “You’re ruining your placement, disappointing the Prophet, and forgetting your place.”

Evan holds a hand out behind him, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Grace turns to him, her eyebrows high.

He smiles and straightens. “This is what I want. Exactly what I want. When can I have her?”