Page 53 of The Preachers' Promise
I consider going outside, so I can put my knees in the dirt and lift my face to the sky, but I’m aware of the guards patrolling the perimeter, and I’d be humiliated if one of them saw me. This is personal, between me and the gods, and, although I’d prefer to be outside and at one with nature, keeping this ritual respectfully private matters more.
I get to my knees on the mat.
The wall directly in front of me is lined with mirrors. I catch sight of myself on my knees, my blond hair falling onto my face, the jump rope clutched in one white-knuckled hand. There’s a wildness to my eyes I’m not sure I recognize. Perhaps Ophelia and the others would be better off without me. They treat her far better than I do.
I don’t even ask the gods for strength, or my ancestors for guidance. It feels like I’d be insulting them to do so.
I grit my teeth and lash the knotted rope across my bare back. I jerk at the impact, arching my spine and throwing my head back. The flash of pain ricochets through me, and I clamp my jaw shut to hold back the yell threatening to burst from my mouth.
Before the sting fades, I bring the rope down hard on my back again. It strikes the same spot, and the pain deepens.Fuck, yes.I hold back a groan.
My cock gets harder, but I can’t take care of myself here, on this mat, can I? That’s so degrading. Why should I, when I have a bed full of people upstairs who I should be able to go to? I could slide into the bed while Ophelia is still naked and asleep and push inside her pussy without waking her.
Gods, there I go again. What the fuck is wrong with me? That is the sort of shit my uncle would do. I’m disgusting.
Whack.I hit myself again.
I groan once more, a painful, pitiful sound. I can’t do that sort of shit. Not only because Ophelia deserves better or because it makes me like my uncle, but also because if I get into bed shirtless, someone is going to notice all the marks on my back. They’re not bleeding, but I’m sure if I twist to look over my shoulder in the mirror, I’ll discover there are welts. Ophelia and the other Preachers will ask questions, and how am I supposed to answer them? Why do I do this to myself?
To punish myself, yes. But also, because, deep down, it feels good. It gives me the kind of release I get from an orgasm, but without the deep-rooted shame that still lingers.
No, that’s not entirely right. I do feel shameful about doing this, clearly, or I’d let the others see, but it’s a different kind of shame. I can’t link this to anyone else, and it doesn’t bring back memories I’ve tried desperately to block out.
Sick of my carousel of thoughts, I try to close down my internal monologue the only way I know how.
I hit myself again and again, until all I know is the pain and the flare of bright heat in my skin. I hit myself until all rational thought leaves my head and finally, I find peace. I let the rope fall from my grip and try not to see the red patches of blood marring the white fibers.
Breathing hard, I drop onto my side on the mat. I let my eyes slip shut and curl into the fetal position as blessed oblivion takes over.
27
OPHELIA
I wake with a start.My mouth is dry, my head foggy, and a headache lingers behind my gritty eyes. I feel hungover, but I haven’t been drinking. I’m hot and sticky, and I realize two bodies are pressed in close to me, trapping me in their heat. I swallow past a dry throat and slowly disentangle myself from the limbs wrapped around me. In the dim light, I see Cain on one side of me and Mal on the other. I glance around, looking for Roman, but he’s not here. My stomach sinks at the realization that he’s crept off while we’re sleeping again. Why does he keep doing that?
My bladder protests when I move. I really need some water and the bathroom. Carefully getting up from the bed, not wanting to wake the two men, I pad across the room to the bathroom. I pee first, then turn on the faucet and bend down to drink from it. On a whim, I grab one of the wrapped toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet behind the mirror above the sink. I quickly clean my teeth, then splash my face.
Feeling more human, I head back into the bedroom. I pull on one of the guy’s t-shirts—Cain’s, judging from its huge fit—and sneak out the door.
The house is silent. I’m disoriented at first and not sure which way to go. I don’t know this house, and it’s big, with long corridors, and lots of rooms off them.
I check every bedroom, and Roman isn’t in any of them. I try the door to the master, but it’s still locked, so he hasn’t found a way in there. He must be downstairs. I flick the hallway light on so I can see to take the stairs. Darkness has fallen, but I have no idea of the actual time. I’m feeling adrift, lost, and a little scared. Despite the three men being with me to protect me, I’ve got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this is all just a temporary lull in a storm. It will all be ripped away from me again, and then what will I do?
Where do we go from here? Back to Verona Falls? How? My father isn’t paying my tuition anymore. Even if I had the means to pay them myself, and I don’t, I doubt the dean would let me back.
Shit, this is such a mess. I almost wince at my internal monologue using that word.Shit.I’ve started to get more used to people cursing around me and have automatically picked some of it up myself. It doesn’t feel as forbidden as it once did. In the past, it would have seemed so transgressive.
Sinner.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my breath hitching in my throat.
You think you can say these words? Do these things without consequence?
A feeling grips me. A fury like I’ve never felt before.
“Fuck off.” The words are loud and clear, and they echo in the sterile downstairs hallway.
I swear I hear the Prophet’s low, diabolical chuckle as if he’s right next to me. I used to hate that dark laugh of his. It always seemed like it contained the depths of hell, right there, in a simple sound.
