Page 73 of Unmasked Prophecy

Here we go.

Just like I knew he would.

He turns, and like the sheep they are, everyone turns with him. The two men lead me to the cross, right out in the open, and I know for certain that right now, the cameras are on me. I hate that the club is watching this, and I know it will be difficult for them, but I also know it needs to be done.

“String her up,” my father growls. “Ten lashes, then we’re going to perform our ritual to purify her sins. She carries the child who will lead us, we must remove the evil from her body.”

Well, this should be a blast.

The two men bring me up onto the platform where the cross sits, and release me, tying my legs. I take a small moment to squirm, crying out and cursing, flipping my body around and making things difficult. I’m not doing it to escape, I’m doing it so I can reach in and take the blade from my jeans. I manage to get it in my hand, and I close my fist around it, feeling the burn as it cuts into the flesh on my palm.

The men get control of me again, hauling me up. The knife bites into my skin as I’m tied to the cross, my arms pulled high and the weight of my body straining my shoulders. I can barely breathe around the pain, but I know this is what I want. This is what they need to see. Knowing that so many people are already watching is enough to give me strength.

“Prepare yourselves,” my father calls to the assembled crowd. “Everyone gather. Watch as the girl who defied the word of the Lord is purified.”

They step back, but my father stays close. His eyes are cold, triumphant. I watch him, defiant, as the first lash cuts across my back. My world spins, my breath catching in my throat, and the scream that tears out of me is raw and broken. It echoes through the sickening silence. Nobody makes a sound.

The second strike is worse, the pain searing, white-hot. Blood runs down my back, warm and slick, soaking into my jeans. Ibite down on my lip, hard, trying to stay conscious, trying to hold on.

“Again,” my father orders, his voice merciless.

Another lash, and I feel the skin split, my entire world tilting. I can’t hold back the sobs now, and they break free, jagged and desperate. I don’t know how much more I can take, but I have to. I will. For Lily. For the club. I choke back the tears, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Fuck you. Asshole.”

“More,” he thunders.

They don’t stop. The pain is a relentless tide, each blow taking more and more. I count them, the screams ripping from my throat, until I lose track. Until I’m not even sure I’m still breathing.

Finally, it stops. I hang there, my body a mass of agony, blood dripping onto the wood platform below. The world fades in and out, blurred and distant, but I hear him, my father’s voice, so calm, so damned sure of himself. “Let her hang while we prepare the ritual. We will cleanse her soul before the child is born.”

They leave me there, hanging in the bitter cold.

My entire body trembles, but I won’t give up now.

No, this is where it ends.

THE KNIFE IS SLICKwith blood in my hand, and I twist my wrist, trying to angle the blade against the rope. The strain is agonizing, my shoulders burning, and I bite back a cry as I maneuver, my breath ragged. I have to get free. I have to do this. I won’t let them do whatever ritual it is they think is going to purify me.

I’m getting out of here.

Hopefully, the world has seen enough.

The police must be on their way.

Theyhaveto be.

I push through the pain, twisting my body, feeling the knife bite into the rope. It’s slow, too slow, and I grit my teeth, desperation clawing at me. The fibers start to give way, and I pull harder, my vision blurring from the effort. Finally, the rope snaps, and my arm drops, limp and heavy, the blood rushing back in a dizzying wave.

It takes me a moment to gather myself, trying desperately not to pass out.

I move as quickly as my body will allow, freeing my other hand, then my legs. I’ve just cut the last rope on my ankle when I hear them. It starts off as a low hum, things I can’t quite make out, but it is familiar all the same. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the white spots popping in my vision, ignoring the torn skin and bloodied wrists.

They get closer, and as they do, I realize they’re chanting.

Fuck.

What sort of twisted ritual has my father got planned?

The air is heavy with their chant. I force myself forward, stumbling over myself as I frantically make my way to the edge of the platform, but I’m too late. They emerge from the tree line, the white of their clothing blinding against the night sky. A sea of them, moving in unison, the sound deafening now, pulsing in my head, in my chest. My father's voice rises above the rest, a booming certainty.

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