Page 65 of The Preacher's Pet

Suddenly, I see her as that young girl again—the one I met that day by the river. I picture her as a twelve-year-old, ruthlessly snatched from her life and forced into another. I see her at seventeen, terrified, but brave, as she makes her break for freedom, despite knowing the possible consequences.

Then she met us, and, instead of helping, we’ve broken her.

What do we do?

I don’t think I’ve ever felt such utter hopelessness and fear. Not even when she went missing. Because this time, the consequences are on me and my friends. We did this.

Malachi looks over his shoulder and gives me a tight smile. I know he’s feeling the same fear—two men helpless in the face of a young woman’s tears.

He turns his attention back to her. “Come on, let’s get you out of the cold water and into some dry clothes.”

It’s easier to do something practical.

She allows Malachi to help her stand, and he turns off the water. I grab a towel and wrap it around her, though it instantly turns sodden from her wet dress.

It needs to come off. “Lift your arms, Ophelia.”

She does so, almost automatically. I pull her dress over her head gently and dry her wet skin.

She doesn’t even seem to notice or care that we’re stripping off her wet clothes and are patting her dry. Her heartbreaking sobbing has tapered down to silent tears, and I think they are even more devastating. She’s naked underneath her dress, but her nudity isn’t like it was last night. Now, she’s vulnerable, and terrified, and this is in no way sexual.

I go to her closet and find her another dress—one with capped sleeves and a high neck—and pull it over her head. It falls just below her knees. Then I seat her at her dressing table and use a large paddle brush to detangle her wet hair. I work slowly and gently, always conscious of not wanting to cause her more pain than she’s already in.

In the mirror, I spot Malachi on his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Calling Roman.”

I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. “Why? What do you think he’s going to do?”

“Help,” Malachi barks. “What else?”

Will he help? He didn’t want to help last time, but we convinced him, and now look what’s happened. What if he tells us to walk away from her? He might say she’s not our problem, then what? How are we supposed to do that?

We can’t do that. I won’t, for sure, which will mean a split between us three.

With her hair smooth, I place down the brush. She just sits there, staring at her reflection in the mirror, though I’m unsure if she can even see herself or if she’s lost in her thoughts. At least she’s awake and breathing, so whatever danger she was in seems to have passed.

Anger builds inside me at the man who did this to her. If he was here right now, I’d pound my fist into his face until there was nothing left but a bloodied, pulpy mess. No, that would be too good for him. I’d lock him up in a cold, damp room somewhere, and spend weeks…no, months…hacking little pieces off him, and sending them to Ophelia as a gift. Only when he was made up of nothing more than a head and a torso would I grant him the pleasure of dying. Motherfucker.

I take Malachi to one side. He seems to have given up on calling Roman, though we’re going to have to speak to him sometime and tell him what’s happened.

“How do we find the bastard who did this to her?” I ask Mal.

His dark gaze shifts in her direction. “She said she called him the Prophet, but he goes by the name Isiah Abram. That most likely isn’t his real name, though.”

“He must have a real name. I want to find him and kill the fucker.”

Malachi blows out a breath. “Yeah, me too, but remember what she said about the police searching for the commune and being unable to find anything. If multiple teams of police officers were unable to find him, how the hell will we?”

I bite on my lower lip, hard enough that it hurts. “I have no fucking idea, but there must be a way. With our family connections, we must have access to different resources and connections than the cops, though I have no idea where to start.”

“That’s why we need Roman,” Malachi insists. “He’ll know what to do.” He swipes the screen of his phone again.

35

ROMAN

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