Page 7 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

It’s the coward’s way out. But I can’t deny my true nature anymore: I am a coward. The worst kind. The kind that knows exactly the mistakes they’re making, but continues on anyway.

My only justification is my son. I’ve sacrificed everything I ever loved to give him the security I can’t give him on my own.

It stings. But I can’t escape the harsh reality anymore—I was not made for the real world. I am only suited for the world within these walls. The confines of the Sanctuary, the rules it follows, the lifestyle it leads… that is what I know. That is what I’m made for.

I was a fool to think I could survive out there for long.

The only reason I lasted as long as I did was because I had Charity.

It takes me a moment to register that Zipporah is still talking. Her voice is bright with enthusiasm as she fluffs the bottom of my dress and talks about The Garden.

“…I love babies,” she’s saying. “So this is perfect for me. And not everyone gets chosen, you know. I was hand-picked by Father Josiah.”

Everything she’s saying sounds so hauntingly familiar. Like a past life that I can’t quite remember. But the truth, the memory, the understanding—it’s all lingering on the horizon, just out of reach.

I hope to God it stays there. I have no interest in uncovering everything my mind has chosen to bury.

“How long does this responsibility last?” I ask.

Zipporah gets to her feet and looks at me with genuine surprise. “I don’t quite know,” she replies, as if it’s a bizarre question. “As long as the powers that be require your work, I suppose. But you’d know more than I would, wouldn’t you?”

“Why is that?”

Her eyebrows rise a foot. “Well, you did your service there, didn’t you?” she asks. “Least, that’s what I heard. And I’ve heard a lot about you lately. Forgive me; I don’t mean to gossip. I know that’s a sin.”

I cringe. “To be honest, I don’t remember much of the past few years.”

“Really?” Zipporah remarks, giving me a strange look. “That’s weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

She looks conspiratorial for a moment. Then she lowers her voice. “I was told I wasn’t supposed to ask, but… did you really—”

I wince and wait for it. But before she can finish the question, the door opens.

I say a silent prayer and turn to my savior—though my heart shudders a little when I see who’s in the doorway.

“Father Josiah!” Zipporah crows. “Hello.”

His smile is calm and polite. “Dearest Zipporah,” he says, a fatherly twinge to his tone. “How lovely to see you here. Helping my bride, are you?”

“Yes, but… you’ve seen her dress?” she says uncertainly, glancing back at me as though she’s trying to decide if she should jump in front of me to hide the dress from my betrothed’s view.

“That’s okay,” he laughs. “I picked the dress out. So I’ve seen it before.”

“Oh.”

“Zipporah, would you mind giving us a moment, please?”

“Yes, of course, Father Josiah.”

“May grace guide your steps,” he croons after her.

“And yours.” She gives me a glance over her shoulder and leaves the room without a word. Just before she shuts the door, I see the curious gleam in her eyes.

Sighing, I move back to the bed and sit down. “You look tired,” Josiah says.

“I am.”

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