Page 17 of The Preacher's Pet

My breath catches, but for a whole different reason this time. I find myself staring into his brown eyes, lost in the intensity of his gaze. It’s as though he’s silently asking me, ‘Who are you?’ I see pain in those eyes, too, a story of his own. What has happened to him to make him understand, at least in a small part, what I’m going through now?

He holds my gaze, and I can’t look away. The atmosphere between us changes, and my lips part as my tongue darts out and swipes at my lower lip. He’s so intense, and he looks kind of scary, but behind that is a kindness most wouldn’t see. It’s there in the depths of his eyes. The longer we look at one another, the calmer I feel. We have a connection, and I’m not used to feeling this way—as though I want to crawl into his lap and press my mouth to his.

The thought comes from nowhere, and it’s like being hit with an electric paddle, jolting me back to reality.

I’m not allowed to have thoughts like that.

Hewill know.

The man who took me and ruled over me with an iron fist for the majority of my teenage years. He made me believe he could see into my heart and soul and mind. That he could read my thoughts and would know if any of them were impure. My therapist told me countless times that such a thing is impossible,that no one is gifted, or cursed, with such an ability. My therapist got me to stand in front of a mirror and stare into my own eyes and say things like ‘my thoughts are my own’ and ‘no one else knows what I’m thinking.’

It still feels like he can see through my eyes, though, that he sees me now, holding hands with a stranger, our foreheads practically touching.

I’m still terrified of the repercussions, not only of the beating I’d receive, but of how my sin would send me to hell.

I yank away and stagger to my feet. The panic threatens to return.

“Ophelia? What’s wrong?” He stands, too, palms out as he takes a step forward.

I take a couple of steps away. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t.”

“Can’t what? We weren’t doing anything.”

Maybe in his mind we weren’t doing anything, but it’s different for me. Everything is different for me, even kneeling on the ground with a boy who is trying to make me feel better. I’m sure he is used to being around girls. Looking like he does, he’s probably slept his way through most of the university. He probably just sees me as a new girl to conquer, but I’m not like that. I’m not allowed to be like that.

I turn and walk away, my feet crunching over gravel. I start at a fast walk but then break into a run.

His call follows me. “Ophelia, wait!”

This is the second time I’ve run from one of these men. I don’t even know where I’m going, but it won’t be back to class. I can’t spend the rest of my life locked away in my bedroom, but that’s the only place I feel even slightly safe.

I’m always running, but I can’t run from myself.

I know what’s frightened me so much about being around him. He made me feel something other than panic and fear. For a moment, in his proximity, I felt the stirrings of what we weretold is the ultimate sin. Lust. A need to touch another person and have them touch me. I’d wanted to climb onto his lap, and straddle his thighs, and know how he felt between my legs. I’d wanted to press my mouth to his, and my breasts to his chest, and discover if his jet-black hair is as soft as it looks.

It’s not a feeling I’ve experienced before. It’s something we were taught was the deadliest of all the sins, and I was always kind of okay with that, because I’d never met anyone I felt that way about. Why worry about a sin you don’t expect to commit?

In fact, the sensation is so foreign it took me a moment to understand what was happening. I almost didn’t recognize the meaning behind the way my body reacted to him.

So I keep running. Away from temptation and away from my fears.

It’s not until the sound of his voice fades that I realize I don’t even know his name.

10

ROMAN

The treedirectly in front of me is the largest in these woods. Its bark is rough and gnarled, and the roots are so thick, the ones closest to the surface protrude above ground, creating a pattern like knotted snakes spreading out around me.

I’m on my knees, my neck bent. My torso is bare, my shirt discarded on the ground to one side. Sweat dampens my hair at my nape.

I tighten my fist around the rope and lash it backward. The end I’m holding is thick, but I’ve frayed the other end to create multiple tails which I’ve then knotted along the lengths. The knots connect with my spine, and I buck with pain, my teeth clenched to keep my cries trapped inside my throat.

I’m breathing heavily, my bare chest rising and falling. I squeeze my eyes shut and ask the gods for more strength.

I have been weak. A temptation is here, and I’ve never struggled before.

This is new to me.

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