Page 44 of The Preacher's Pet

I’m not expecting an answer right away. It’s barely even six a.m., and I expect he’ll be asleep, but to my surprise, my phone buzzes with a reply.

Oh, my. Does that mean he’s coming to my room to speak to me? I suddenly realize what a mess I am—my nightclothes damp and clinging to my skin, my hair a mussy disaster—and I leap out of bed and run for the bathroom. Maybe I shouldn’t care if Cain sees me like this, but I discover I do. I drag a brush through my hair, wash my face, and brush my teeth. Then I quickly change into a clean dress. I find myself wishing I had some of Camile’s makeup to make myself pretty.

Sin,his voice hisses in my head again.Vanity is a sin.

I whimper and hide behind my hands again.

“Please,” I murmur, “just leave me alone.”

I don’t want to think about that place and my life there. I don’t want to think about the people I used to believe were my family, or the girls I’d once considered friends and sisters. I’d left them all behind—something that twists me up with guilt. While most of my time in the commune had been terrible, some of it wasn’t. It’s impossible to live within a community for that length of time—even when you’re not there willingly—and not create some bonds. Just like how I shut off thoughts of my old life when I’d been in the commune, I’ve done the same thing now, while trying to forget them.

Still, I wish I could have done things differently. I wish I could have taken one particular girl with me when I left.

My friend, Daisy.

She’d been two years younger than me and had been born at the commune. She still lived with her family, and even though her future had held the same promises as mine, that she’d be gifted to a much older man as a wife when she came of age, I’d known she’d never have run with me. And if I’d told herabout my plans to leave, it would only have put her in a difficult position, torn between her loyalty to her community and family andhim—the Prophet—and me. So instead of telling her, I’d written her a note, saying goodbye, and left it in a secret hiding place we had beneath the floorboards of an old barn.

Had she ever found the note? Had it even occurred to her to look once I was gone? If the Prophet had been looking for me, he might have questioned Daisy, maybe even hurt her to find out what she knew. She might have been too frightened to go to the barn to check if I’d left her anything.

Leaving her the note could have put her in danger, but I’d had to say goodbye and let her know I’d be there if she needed help. I couldn’t bear that she might have thought I’d left without giving her a second thought. I would never have done that to her. I loved Daisy like a sister, and I still miss her terribly.

A light rap at my door makes me jump. I’ve been so lost in thought, I’ve almost forgotten about Cain. My stomach swirls with nerves, and I jump to my feet and smooth down my hair as I rearrange my dress. I go to the door and open it.

Cain stands in the doorway, his size filling it. That’s the first thing I notice about him, as always. However, the second thing I notice causes my stomach to plumet in concern. A purple patchwork decorates his handsome face where he has fading bruises around his left eye, and his bottom lip is cut, too.

My jaw drops. “What happened to you?”

He touches his mouth, as though reminding himself of his injury, and shakes his head. “It’s not important.”

I step back to let him in. My own worries and fears are forgotten for the moment in light of his injuries.

“Yes, it is. Who did this to you?”

I remember him asking the same of me about the scar on my face and my refusal to tell him the truth. Why was it I expectedhim to be open with me, and yet I refused to do the same? That was going to need to change if I wanted to break free of my past.

“Just a guy in a bar. It was nothing.”

His voice is firm, telling me this line of conversation is over. Is it normal for young men to get into fights? Perhaps it is. In the commune, that didn’t happen much. The older men would dole out horrendous punishments for transgressions such as that. I eye Cain’s injuries again but clamp my lips firmly shut. I don’t want to start this conversation by making him angry with me.

I close the door behind him as he turns to face me.

“You wanted to ask me something,” he says, “and I’m guessing it wasn’t just about who I got into a fight with.”

I shake my head and go to sit on my bed. Cain follows and perches on the edge, while I pull my legs up and sit crossed legged on the mattress. I bite my lower lip, trying to build up the courage to tell him the truth. Already, I can hear the Prophet’s voice in the back of my head, telling me that we don’t involve outsiders in our business, but I do my best to push it away.

Cain remains silent, watching me carefully, as though he’s afraid I might leap up and run away again. He’s right to be cautious. I’m always running. Forever running, and when I’m not physically running away, I’m doing so mentally, emotionally, and in any other way I can. I’m trying to run from the voice in my head, but I can never escape. I’m terrified I never will.

“You wanted to know where I’d been during the time I was missing?”

He nods, his brow furrowing. “Of course I do.”

“I was with a commune…” I close my eyes briefly and take another breath and force myself to say what it really was. The first time I’ve uttered the words in forever. Words my therapist gave me that still don’t sit right with me. “Not a commune, a cult, I suppose. The man who took me was called Isiah Abram—and no, that probably wasn’t his real name. Not that it evenmattered. None of us called him Isiah or even Mr. Abram. To everyone who was a part of the commune, he was known as the Prophet.”

“And he was the man who took you?”

I nod, staring down at my hands and not meeting his eyes. “Yes. He saw me one day in Texas, though the commune was located somewhere in West Virginia. He was there on business or something. He literally snatched me off the street, while my family was ordering ice cream, and bundled me in the back of a van and left with me. I didn’t see my family again until I was almost eighteen years old.”

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