Page 8 of Whispers of Fire

And he called me sweetheart.

Never have I ever, in my entire life, heard someone call me like that.

And honestly, I don’t hate it.

I’m flushed and breathless as I run away from him and the possibility of his touch. It would have been a sin to touch another man's skin before my husband’s.

But it didn’t feel like one.

The way he didn’t react when he figured I couldn't speak and how he tried to reassure me when I refused his hand makes me confused and intrigued.

Who is this man?

Since birth, I’ve been told that the outside world, outside of the Faithful Lambs I mean, was an evil place filled with twisted individuals and temptations.

Yet I’m drawn to him like a flower to the sun.

It was my first time seeing a man's bare chest from this close. Once in school, a classmate removed his shirt after football practice, where us girls were not allowed to participate. From a classroom window, I tried to get a closer look at what was hiding beneath the fabric, but the boy was too far away so I couldn’t really see anything.

Although the last time was more of a scientific study, this time had nothing to do with it. Vox’s chest is strong and muscular, like he was carved from stone. His tattoos come alive with every movement he makes, the ink flowing all over his abs and arms. His chest looked like a canvas of his story where the ink seemed to come alive with every movement. It was as if I could trace the lines with my fingertips and uncover the secrets hidden beneath the surface.

Rose, get yourself together.

Every muscle seemed to ripple beneath his skin, and I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way it moved when he breathed. Like a work of art, so captivating I struggled to look away.

I’m sitting on my bed, closing my eyes and picturing his smile when he said my name out loud. There was a gentleness in his voice that resonated with me.

“Rose, down, now!” Jumping at the sound of my father's command, I hastily push aside my thoughts of Vox, removing my apron and hurrying downstairs with my Ascendium under my arm, my notebook and a pencil case.

“Come on, I don't have all day,” he says, annoyed at me when I'm, in fact, on time.

We go outside, entering the car, my father driving and me in the back. While he starts the car, I look at the stranger’s house.

His bike is parked in front of it, a black metal beast with flames painted on its sides. I imagine him seeking freedom on the open highway, feeling the wind on his face and the blood pumping under his flesh. He must be fearless and adventurous, quite the opposite of me. Too bad he’s put up curtains; I wish I could see what his house looks like inside.

Rose, you’re going to put yourself in trouble at this rate.

We arrived at the Institute twenty minutes after a long silent drive. I walk to my study class, taught by one of my least favorite teachers, Mr. Collins. He’s an Elder, a member of our community who has reached a higher state of consciousness and showed undeniable commitment, and by that, took the new role of guiding the younger members into following his steps.

My father is an Elder too. It’s a role reserved for the men of our community, the only ones worthy of reaching the highest rank to the Ascension. I used to follow their principles without asking myself a single question, but since the accident, I wonder more and more why I should even listen to them.

It’s a dangerous path I’m well aware of… But I find myself unable to resist. The more contradictions I see, the more I want to dig further.

Why must we girls be offered in marriage like sheep to wolves when our male members have the freedom to choose to marry or not?

Why do some of us ride expensive cars and wear luxurious watches when the Shepherd ordered us to spartan belongings?

Also, the wedding ritual faced by each bride-to-be isn’t written in the Ascendium, but somehow it’s performed each time even if it has killed two of our members in the past.

Questions appear in my head at the speed of a racing heartbeat, each one a thorn of doubt digging deeper into the fabric of tradition.

Something isn’t right but I can’t put my finger on it. Why so many disparities between our members?

I spend all day in class, learning about the tales of our Shepherds and his many victories, fighting holy wars in his past lives. Greta and Jezabel, my closest classmates, are listening carefully, writing every single word coming from Mr. Collins’ mouth.

“And that’s how, children, he made the ground open under his feet and called for the Divine to choose him a woman to bear the fruit of our community,” he says, his palms in the air. Stopping to write, I stare at him.

What?

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