Page 45 of The Preacher's Pet

“Christ, Ophelia. I’m so sorry.” His voice is raw and rough.

I’m not done with my story. I raise my hand to touch my scar, much like he did when I mentioned his injuries. “I tried to run away, several times. The commune was made up of a small village of houses, many just one story and wooden. It had a small store, although we grew a lot of our food, just like you’d find in any other small community off the beaten track. Except everyone there was under the control of the Prophet. They all followed him unquestioningly. The church was at the center of it all, and we were expected to attend twice a day, and we did. The first time I tried to run, I didn’t get far. I was only twelve years old, and I had no idea where I was. They gave me a hiding for it, but that wasn’t enough to stop me from trying again. The second time, I made it out onto the road leading out of the community, maybe a mile or so out of town, but someone picked me up and brought me back again. I faced a punishment once more, but I was determined to be free. The third time, I was taken to the Prophet, and he was the one who doled out the punishment. He told me I needed to be reminded of my reason to stay faithful every time I looked in the mirror, and he produced a straight blade and slashed me down the side of the face with it.”

Cain’s hand finds mine and he squeezes it. “That fucking bastard.”

His voice trembles with repressed rage. I can tell he wants to lose it, that he wants to launch from the bed and throw things and punch walls, but he’s holding himself back because of me. Because he knows I need something different at this moment, and I appreciate it greatly.

“I didn’t try to run away again,” I say, “or at least I didn’t for many, many years. Not until I was approaching my eighteenth birthday and the Prophet announced that I was to be his next wife. He already had wives, and I was to be his seventh. It was supposed to be an important number, but I have no idea why. All I knew was that I couldn’t marry him. I was almost eighteen years old, and he must have been approaching fifty. The thought of him being my husband horrified me. When women became wives in that place, it was their duty to give their husbands babies, and I knew enough to understand how babies were made. I couldn’t do it. I decided that I’d rather be dead.”

“But you’re free now, Ophelia. You escaped him, and you’re safe now.”

I finally glance at him and see pride shining in his gaze.

I shake my head. “That’s the thing. I’m not free. It’s like I’ve carried the Prophet with me. When he did his sermons, he told us that he would live forever. That he could not die. He said he was omnipotent and knew and understood everything that was going on in the world. He told us that he could see inside our hearts and minds, and that he knew every impure thought we ever had.”

“But…but that’s impossible. Surely you know that. How could you have ever escaped if he knew what was going on inside your head?”

I let out a sigh and pull my hand free from his so I can cover my face again. “I know that. Of course I do. I’m not stupid.But when you’re told something every day for almost six years, during those years when you go from being a child to becoming an adult, it’s not so easy to convince your brain about such a thing. That man built a whole cult around his ability to be convincing. Why do you think all those people followed him so willingly? Yes, he might have taken me, but most of the families in that commune were there because they wanted to be. They believed he could offer them a better life—not just a better life, but a better afterlife.”

I go on, the dam well and truly overflowing now that I’ve opened the door to my story. I haven’t talked this much about my time there with anyone except my therapist.

“He fed them the story that only those who believed in his ways could be the chosen ones. They were the only people on Earth who would make it to heaven. The other non-believers would burn for all eternity. All those people in the commune weren’t stupid. They just wanted to believe in something bigger and better than their own lives, and he gave them that thing to believe in. And any time they questioned things, their own inner voice stopped them. Or rather, his voice did, I imagine, the way it has with me, by telling them that those who didn’t believe hard enough were the ones who were going to hell. The people who really did question things, and dared to make their opinions known, very quickly vanished.” I shiver at the memory of the days we’d wake to find someone gone and know they’d never be seen again.

“What can I do to help?” Cain asks.

I want to throw my arms around him for his words. That was exactly what I needed to hear. I didn’t need him to throw a fit or call me crazy. I just needed him to listen.

I tap the side of my head with my fingertips. “I can still hear his voice in my head.”

“The Prophet?” Cain checks.

“Yes, the Prophet. It’s like he’s watching over me, judging everything I do. He makes me feel like a sinner, when all I’m trying to do is be a normal, nineteen-year-old girl. I don’t know how I’m going to move on from this, even though I’m trying so hard.”

Hot tears prick my eyes, and a tight knot constricts my throat. I swallow, trying to dislodge it, but it only makes things worse.

“Hey,” Cain says softly, seeing me battle against the threatening tears. He reaches out and pulls me into his arms, and I let him. I crawl into his lap and tuck my face into the spot between his neck and his shoulder. His big, strong arms wrap around. It feels so right being in his embrace.

“Shh, Angel,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now.”

I close my eyes and inhale the scent of him. I don’t think anyone has ever held me this way. I feel like I could stay here forever. I wrap my arms around his ribs, my hands finding the muscles of his back. He’s like a solid mountain of a man, and he makes me feel sheltered and protected. The heat of his skin warms through mine. I find myself pressing my face a little closer, my lips finding his skin. I feel his pulse beating against my lips, and I press a soft kiss to that spot.

His arms tighten around me, and he draws a breath. “Ophelia…”

I pull away, realizing what I just did. “Sorry, sorry.”

I scramble from his lap.

“No, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab me. “I didn’t mean for you to stop.”

A part of me doesn’t want to stop either. I want to straddle him and push him back down on the bed and kiss him again. I want to discover how his erection feels pressed against the wetness between my thighs. It’s as if, after so many years of being chaste, I can’t shut off the desire flooding me wheneverI’m with these men. But I can’t give in to it, as that would be a sin and make the voice more insistent. Being free to live how I want isn’t an option. Not when I still have the Prophet’s voice in the back of my head.

“I didn’t ask you to come to my room for that. I asked you to come here because I need to ask something of you.”

He studies me with serious blue eyes. “Anything.”

“The Preachers are known in the university for being a bit spooky, right? I saw your hangout spot, the water tower, and all the weird stuff you have in jars there.”

“Riiighhht…” he says, trying to follow along.

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