Page 97 of Turn That River Red

He smooths the gauze tape over my skin, and I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Hope or disappointment or confusion or disgust or affection. Or all of them, all at once. Maybe that’s why I say what I say next.

“I always wanted to get married.” I pull away from him and run my hands over the wound dressing, the tape rough beneath my fingers. I keep my gaze fixed on it as I speak. “I thought—I thought it would make life a little more bearable, having a husband who loves me. But Reverend Gunner—” My voice catches. “He took that away from me.”

The mattress shifts and creaks. I moved away from Ambrose, but now he’s moving closer. Chasing me.

He grabs my chin, pulls my gaze toward him. And what I see there, in his expression?—

It terrifies me.

His eyes are flat. Empty. Undeniably cruel. But he still cups my cheek like a lover.

Like a husband.

“Everything I said about him,” Ambrose says in a dark, rough voice. “Earlier? While I was inside you?”

My body flares at that, like it wants to invite him inside again.

“I meant it.” His fingers tighten against my cheek, and I gasp in a soft breath. “I’ll do every goddamn thing I promised. Just say the word.”

Those promises flash through my head.

“You’d make him beg for death,” I whisper.

“I’d make all of them beg for death.” His eyes are as black and empty as Hell. “Give me their names, and I’ll slaughter every single one of them.”

Ambrose pulls me up to him, presses a bloody kiss against my forehead.

“And I’d do it all for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

MERCY

Ilie in my own bed that night, in the clean sheets, and I consider what Ambrose told me.

He assumes I’m sleeping, I’m sure—he helped me wash off the blood, then tucked me into bed, his goodnight kiss deep and treacherous, as if he might start devouring me again. But he didn’t. Only whispered, “Try to sleep,” before he slipped out of the room.

I can’t sleep, though. I listen to the creaks of the house, the moans of the wind across the flatlands. I replay what we did, and I run my hands over my body, shuddering at my own touch. I imagine it belongs to Ambrose.

Just say the word.

For the first time in my life, I feel something like power. It feels strange, like a hand-me-down dress, but I could get used to it.

I think about the day I swore myself to Reverend Gunner, that I’d be his wife and helpmeet. And I think about that night, when I was terrified and asked him to stop because it hurt, and he didn’t. I think about how he slapped my face for crying andtold me I needed to behave because my disobedience was displeasing to God.

He said the same thing when I told him I didn’t want to sleep with Pastor Sullivan. And how I did it anyway, trying to numb myself as Pastor Sullivan panted above me. I think about the shame I felt as I stretched out on the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

For weeks afterward, anytime Reverend Gunner touched me, it was like he was dragging a knife over my skin.

Ambrose actuallydiddraw a knife over my skin, but when he touches me, it feels like coming home. I want to beg him to do things that would turn my stomach if Reverend Gunner did them. I want to beg him to do far worse things, too.

The difference, I think, is the power. In the end, Ambrose gifts it to me.

Footsteps echo outside my door, followed by a soft knock. “Mercy?”

“Ambrose?” I sit up, and he steps into the room, warm soft light spilling in from the hallway. “What’s wrong?”

“I was going to ask the same of you.” I can just barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. “You’re not sleeping.” He moves closer to me, and his eyes shine in the darkness, turning to illuminated glass. “You feel—upset. Confused.”

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