Page 3 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. But I can see the nasty crater on one side of his face. It looks like paint. It looks like syrup. It looks like…

I forget about the sin of hysteria in that moment. I gasp as the shocking realization scorches through me like a lightning bolt. I collapse and scurry backward on my hands and knees, as far away from Father Josiah’s body as I can get.

“Oh God, please, no…” I beg to no one in particular.

I stare desperately at the flickering candles as tears start to run down my cheeks. Each drop carves a track in the thick makeup.

“Stop,” I plead helplessly to my reflection in the silver mirror. “Stop staring at me.”

The simple facts click together ruthlessly. I woke up with a bloodied metal swan in my hand. There’s a dead man in the bed with a hole in the side of his head. One plus one equals two.

I killed him.

I killed him.

I killed him.

The candles flicker brighter, as if they know what’s going on inside my mind. I rip the veil off my head and hurl it at a cluster of candles in the corner. It catches fire immediately and starts to crackle.

The shivering comes back. As do the memories—some of them, at least.

Tonight was supposed to be my wedding night. We’d spent weeks in preparation. The event of the decade: Father Josiah had finally decided to take a wife. And he had blessed my family with the highest of honors.

He had chosen me.

But even though the past few weeks start coming back to me, the last twenty-four hours are a complete blur. A black hole that hides the secret to what happened in this bedroom.

I shake my head, unable to look at Father Josiah’s body. I’d agreed to marry him. Of course I had. He was the leader of our commune, the Sanctuary. He was strong and brave and kind and honest. He was the savior of so many families, including my own.

I’d been chosen.

And then I’d… killed him?

I look down at the paperweight where I dropped it, waiting for the last piece of the puzzle. But nothing comes. All I have are black shapes, wavy images, and fleeting emotions that I don’t recognize.

But the facts are the facts. I killed Father Josiah. I killed my husband.

I don’t quite understand what comes over me in the moment that follows. All I know is that my eyes drift to the burning wedding veil in the corner. I stand and rush over to it, though it feels like I’m not even in control of my actions. An out-of-body experience, I think they call it.

I snatch up the biggest candle. Hot, molten wax sears my skin, but I barely feel it.

It’s not a conscious decision. But I am distantly aware of the hysteria twisting into something else. Something that feels like… survival.

I push the open flame against the filmy material of the curtain tied up on to side of the window. It catches fire immediately and the roar grows quickly. The fire spreads fast.

Then I throw the candle at the bed. I don’t look to see where it lands. I just turn and run.

Down the stairs.

Out the door.

My high heels sink into sand as I cross from the patchy yards of the commune out into the wild desert. Gasping, I kick them off and keep running.

I don’t look back. My eyes are on the glow of lights in the far distance. I know those lights. I’ve watched them my whole life.

Las Vegas.

I’ve never been myself, despite it being right at our doorstep. The Sanctuary is all I’ve ever known. To want more was to accept sin into your life. To venture beyond was to turn your back on the commune.

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