Page 1 of Wicked Devotions

Chapter

One

HARPER

Eighteen months ago my life was upended by a sea of navy-jacketed FBI and DEA agents descending upon my childhood home. They confiscated every computer, laptop, phone, and tablet, and my father, Pastor Scott Flynn of the largest megachurch in the south, was hauled out in handcuffs. His evil and arrogant expression haunts me to this day. The sneer on his face was bone chilling as he watched Mom put her arm around my shoulders and pull me to her side, while, for the first time in years, we both felthope blanket us.

Now as I sit in the back seat of a blacked-out SUV on my way to my future stepfather’s house on Briarwood Island, my skin goes cold. It’s not from the cool air blowing on me or the air-conditioned leather seat beneath me, but the feeling that I’m not out of the woods yet. I’ve been sequestered at my aunt and uncle’s ranch in Texas for the past few months, so I wouldn’t be dragged through the media circus that was my father’s trial.

Luckily all his power and money couldn’t save him from the long arc of justice. With any luck I’ll never see him again. Unfortunately, I fear those prayers will go unanswered, as have most I’ve tearfully made late at night. My knees have permanent bruises from the time I’ve spent begging and bargaining with God for a reprieve from my father.

Sunlight filters through the Spanish-moss-draped live oaks, each one standing sentry along the long drive to my uncertain future. My mother isn’t marrying Cillian because she’s in love. She’s doing it for survival. Safety. I’m not sure what the terms of their marriage are, and I don’t know much about him, aside from the vitriol my father would spew about him and his business.

The fact that my father hates him makes me automatically want to give himthe benefit of the doubt. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that. I just wish I had an idea of where my life was going in the next week, months, years.

I was raised to be a polite, submissive young lady. Bred to be a trophy wife and homemaker. Every night from as soon as I learned to read, I had to read bible verses for my father. Some nights he’d only want me to read a small passage, other nights he’d force me to keep going well into the night. If my eyes drifted closed, he’d smack my knuckles with a ruler.

That wasn’t the worst of it though, far from it.

An iron gate swings open as the driver pulls up to the property. Large pastures line one side of the driveway while a rocky beach lines the other. The view is as incredible as I anticipated it would be just from knowing the Ambrose estate is situated at the southern tip of the island. The Atlantic is calm today with gentle waves washing along the rocky shore.

I try to let it comfort me as a good omen, but my stomach refuses to settle.

The driver puts the SUV in park and gets out. I give myself a few seconds to take in the large home looming over me. It isn’t what I expected, more Victorian in architecture than the typical Federal-style homes I’m used to seeing.

A rounded turret rises from the southeast cornerof the structure. I step out of the safety of the SUV and make my way up the short flight of stairs to the wrap-around porch. The door swings open, and I’m met by my mom’s petite body wrapped around mine before I can even open my mouth to say hello.

“I missed you so much, honey.” Her voice trembles with emotion, drawing the painful sting of tears to my own eyes.

“I missed you, too.”

For the longest time we only had each other. I know that what I endured would have been so much worse if she hadn’t directed my father’s ire away from me. Her body bears many more scars than mine. That knowledge has dug a deep well of guilt within me over the years. If only I had tried harder to be a more ideal, perfect daughter for him, he wouldn’t have lashed out so much.

“How was the flight?” She releases me just enough to lean back and look me up and down.

“Fine. Pretty boring.”

“That’s the best type of flight to have,” a rich, deep voice draws my attention from over my mother’s shoulder. Cillian Ambrose stands taller than my father, his hair dark as midnight, save for the distinguished silver strands threading through at his temple.

“I suppose it is.” I can only hold his green-eyed gaze for seconds, my body stiffening instinctively under the scrutiny of a powerful man. Mom gives me a sympathetic smile, sadness coating her eyes as she squeezes my hand comfortingly. “I’m Harper,” I manage to introduce myself without my voice wavering. I’ve seen Mr. Ambrose around the country club and town at certain events, but I can’t remember ever being introduced. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

“Call me Cillian, please.” He offers a hand which I hesitantly accept. “Declan is around here somewhere I believe. Do you remember my son?”

I’ve never forgotten him. His eyes, a shade darker than his father’s, like the depths of the forest at twilight, danced with mischief when he pulled the ribbon from my hair on his first day of cotillion classes. My father witnessed the interaction and told me never to speak to him again. When I asked why I couldn’t, he slapped me across the face hard enough that the inside of my cheek bled.

Ever since then I’ve kept myself far from Declan. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel his gaze when we’re in the same vicinity. Luckily, he is two years older than me and attended a privateCatholic school whereas I attended public school. It made avoiding him much easier, aside from society events.

“I do, though we rarely crossed paths.”

“That will surely change now.”

I follow my mother into the house. The foyer has black and white marble tiles and a round table in the center with white peonies, my mother’s favorite flowers, arranged in a mason jar. The warm mix of coastal design with punches of sleek contemporary pieces is surprising in the best way. I didn’t know what to expect from these two men, but this definitely wasn’t it.

We walk past a library and formal living room, then into a great room open to the kitchen on one side and with a stone fireplace on the other. Whiskey-colored leather sofas are arranged around a sleek walnut coffee table. The sight of various magazines fanned over the surface makes me do a double take. There are no coasters, rather rings on the magazines as if they haphazardly set their drinks wherever.

My eyes dart to meet my mom’s, and I see a gleam of acknowledgment in them. It’s as if she’s trying to let me know that it’s a whole new world for us. As much as I wish I could just slip into this newlife easily, I’m too unsettled from eighteen years under the thumb of my father to just relax.

“I’ll show you your room.” Mom gestures toward a staircase tucked away behind the kitchen.

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