Page 39 of Turn That River Red

Deacon Price’s knock on the door nearly scared me out of my skin.

“He didn’t tell you I was coming?” Deacon Price’s frown deepens. “It’s late, Mercy. He doesn’t want you wandering around by yourself.”

Then he shouldn’t ask me to perform my duties.The thought slams into my head, but I hold my tongue. “Of course.”

“And I’m leading the patrol tonight. I swore to him I’d get you there safe.”

He stares at me, his gaze hard.

“He also said to tell you to pack a change of clothes. You’ll be sleeping in the suite tonight.”

My chest tightens—he never asks that. Madelyn doesn’t allow it.

“It’s dangerous, Mrs. Gunner,” Deacon Price says. “You can’t be wandering off by yourself. Go on and pack. I’ll wait here.”

I nod and slip back into my cabin, my thoughts numb. I don’t want to spend the night in the marriage suite. I don’t want to go to the suite at all. I want to stay here, with the doors locked tight, and curl into my bed and daydream about riding into the sunset with Ambrose, my hair loose from its braids, Max’s head in my lap. All of us going somewhere far, far away.

But that’s not a life I’m allowed to have.

I pack quickly, folding up my nightgown and fresh clothes and sliding them into a little knapsack. Deacon Price is still waiting for me when I step out of the cabin, and he stares at me as I lock my door. I can feel his eyes burning through my skin.

“It’s good you’re here for him,” Deacon Price says as we step onto the walkway. “Sterling. He needs someone vivacious to keep up his spirits.”

My cheeks burn.I stare at the dark street.

“For the devil to get so close to his home—” Deacon Price tsks. “Our enemies are closing in. And you help keep him clearheaded.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, because there’s nothing else I can say.

When we round the corner to Reverend Gunner’s house, my chest squeezes so tight I think I’m going to stop breathing. But of course the body is gone. All the blood has been washed away. A large slice of the fence has been taken down, leaving an entranceway into the backyard.

“Did you call the police?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Deacon Price says. “This is spiritual warfare. The police can’t help us.”

I knew he was going to say that; he said the same thing after Raul’s death, although I hadn’t asked that time. Madelyn had, her voice hard and glinty and frightened. And she disapproved of the answer, I could tell. Not that she said anything.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, briefly putting his hand on my shoulder. I tense up, and he snatches it away—he’s not supposed to touch me if we’re alone like this. No man is.

I think of Ambrose and shiver.

We go into the backyard through the gate, and Deacon Price doesn’t follow me into the yard, only gives me a little salute, his eyes still boring through me as I walk up to the door of the suite. All the lights are on, but the curtains are closed tonight.

Lord Jesus, I hope Ambrose doesn’t try to sneak around the bunker entrance tonight.

The door’s unlocked, and when I go in, Reverend Gunner is waiting for me like always. He’s upset. About the murders? About me going to Ambrose this morning instead of him? Probably both. I can feel the anger in his silence as he watches me go through the usual motions: locking the door, peeling out of my clothes.

“On your back.” The first words he says to me.

I do as he asks. It’s not like doing what Ambrose asks, which is like sliding into a warm bath. This makes me feel cold and empty.

Maybe that’s why I let myself think about Ambrose as Reverend Gunner pants on top of me. I think about his long fingers sliding up inside my body, his wet tongue probing against my clit, his fist clenched tight around his cock as his cum spurts out, marking me as his.

If he makes you go to him, go to him. But you’ll still be baptized in my name.

Thinking about the way he said those words, his voice soft and dark and his eyes boring into me, changes something. It makes Reverend Gunner’s arrhythmic thrusts feel—good, sort of.Not as good as Ambrose’s hands or tongue, not good enough to undo me, but good enough that my breath quickens and Reverend Gunner mutters that I must have needed this as much as him, didn’t I?

When he finishes, I look at the curtain pulled tight across the window and imagine, with a tight hot pulse, that Ambrose is watching me like before, stroking himself to completion.

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