Page 53 of Of Heathens & Havoc

Heath bounces on his toes, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Strip for us, little lamb. Show us what you’ve got.”

“What?” I try to ask, but the words are garbled by my mouth being forced open by the rosary beads that bind my cheeks and the cross on my tongue. I shrink back, and Saint sighs.

“Take off your clothes, or go home,” he says. “You’re wasting our time.”

Slowly, I peel off my cardigan, my eyes locked on my brother with all the hatred and fury I feel burning through my limbs. If he wants to humiliate me, show me off to his friends, I’m powerless to stop him. But I still have power over my actions within this contract, and I won’t cower before him. He knows what he’s taking from me, what it’s going to cost me, and I won’t pretend otherwise to appease his conscience.

They stand motionless, faceless in their silent witness while I peel off my shirt and drop my skirt.

Then Heath snickers, and whatever bravado gripped me and gave me the bravery to stare down Saint while I undressed vanishes. I’m suddenly smaller and more defenseless than I’ve ever been, scared and shaking as I stand exposed in my bra and panties before three men who are as emotionless as statues, as immovable as mountains.

“Please,” I whimper around the beads. If they’ll just let me stop now.

“What’s up with the underwear?” Heath asks. “You on your period or something?”

Another one of them chuckles, but I can’t tell where the sound comes from, since they’re standing together, their expressions hidden by the skull masks.

“Are you?” my brother asks.

My face burns even hotter, and I shake my head, covering myself with my arms.

“No use doing that,” Heath says. “We’re going to see every inch of you tonight, little lamb. Inside and out.”

“Shut up,” Saint growls, elbowing him in the ribs.

“What?” Heath asks. “It’s true. That’s what she’s here for. Now show us, little sister.”

Saint shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. They’re all standing there watching me. I want to cry, and I’m shaking all over, and I feel like I might be sick.

I could pick up my clothes and put them back on and walk away. Every instinct and good part of my soul is screaming for me to do it, to keep whatever parts of myself remain pure and protect them like treasure.

But then what? They wouldn’t just show the world my confession. They’d leave me on my own, to fend for myself against all seven Sinners. And while I’m not scared of that prospect, I need them to think I am. I need them to think I have a reason to need them that doesn’t involve Eternity and their secrets. I need a way in, and this is it.

So with trembling fingers and a heart racing like a scared little rabbit, I turn away and quickly unhook my bra, dropping it to the polished wood floor next to the altar, then drop my panties and kick them off. I take a deep breath, trying to get oxygen so I don’t faint. On shaking legs, I turn back slowly.

No one speaks for a solid minute, and my knees are so weak I know I couldn’t run if I tried. They just stare at me,three robed sentinels covered from head to toe, not even their hands or faces bared, while I’m in nothing but a necklace and the rosary beads bisecting my face. My breath hitches, and my eyes sting with tears suddenly.

“Let’s get her on the cross,” Saint says quietly.

nineteen

The Merciful

My brother steps over the long beam to reach me, lifting me gently into his arms. I cling to his neck as he leans down, lowering me to the cross. This time, my head is facing the bottom, and I tense when I feel the other two grip my ankles, their leather-clad fingers firm but gentle as they tug them flat. They each reach into their pockets, drawing out a rosary. They wrap them around my ankles and then the crossbeam. I ignore them so I won’t have to think about what they’re doing, what they’re seeing in the shadowy, candlelit sanctuary. Instead, I bury my face in Saint’s neck, clinging on and drawing every ounce of strength I can from him, stealing it like a succubus.

Finally he eases me back, taking my wrists in one hand and bringing them above my head. He’s not rough or forceful, his methodical, guiding touch reminding me that I could still pull away if I wanted. I want to, but I don’t do it. Instead, I let him draw me flush with the upright beam of the cross until I’m stretched along it, my legs bound open by the ankles, which are secured to the shorter cross section.

Saint uses the rougher rope that bound our wrists earlier, which is still wrapped around my left hand. He ties it securely around the cross, then around my other arm, so my hands are stretched above my head. Even though the incline is slight, I can feel blood start to travel toward my head, but I’m thankful it lets blood flow stay in my hands as well. When they all step back, I close my eyes, trying not to unleash the sobs that swell insideme when they all survey my nakedness like a specimen under a microscope.

“Let’s get some wine,” Heath says after a minute.

“Good idea,” Saint says, turning away without a second glance my way. Somehow, that crushes me even more than having my brother stand over my bare body, looking down at it as it waits like an offering. It seems wine is more appealing.

He moves behind the altar, to the back of the church where the priests break the bread for us and say the blessing. He retrieves a bottle of wine, opens it, and returns.

Angel takes it, lifts his mask, and takes a drink. “To corrupting our innocent little lamb,” he says, handing the bottle to Heath.

Heath pushes his mask on top of his head and takes a swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Can we do body shots while we wait for the Master?”

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