Page 67 of The Preacher's Pet

If we believe we can, or believe that we can’t, we’re right each time.

It’s the reason placebos work, or why people who’ve been in bad accidents will recover better if they have a good mindset.

The voice Ophelia hears is more likely to be down to the suggestion of him always being able to see and hear her, rather than it actually happening.

Even with my faith in the power of incantations, the old ways and gods and the ancestors, I don’t think people can haunt another human being. Most especially not people who are still living. So, with this situation, I’m working on the hypothesis that this is in her head due to the power of suggestion this man holds over her. And if true, we should also be able to convince her that we can make him go away again, except last night we failed.

Or at least I did. I planted enough doubt in her mind that his power of suggestion was simply far greater than mine.

That won’t happen again. I have an idea. Something that might work, but it will be intense and powerful, and she needs to be strong to do it. The coming week can be all about us building her up and giving her the capacity to withstand what we’re about to do. Because to save her, I think we need to tear her down and break her.

Weneed to become the thing she fears.

Wehave to be the monsters in the dark.

Weneed to become all-powerful in her mind.

Only then can we set her free.

36

OPHELIA

I’m not reallysure what happened.

One moment, I’d taken the pills and lain on my bed, and the next thing I remember is being in a cold shower with Cain and Malachi in the bathroom with me.

My heart is heavy.

His voice hasn’t returned again yet to tell me I’m a sinner for trying to escape his clutches—something I believe is simply a side effect of the sleeping pills. Like with alcohol, it seems to reduce the volume and frequency of him coming to me. It won’t last, though; I know it won’t. As soon as this numbness wears off, he’ll be back again.

Malachi and Cain are fussing around me, but I can barely bring myself to look at them. I’m so ashamed. I hate what I did, and that they’re worried about me, but even more than that, I hate that I’m still here. Because nothing has changed. I’m still the mess I was before I took the pills.

My bedroom door flies open, and Roman is standing there, his eyes wild, his blond hair sticking out as though he’s been grabbing handfuls of it and trying to yank it out of his head. I cringe a little. I don’t need a lecture from Roman right now. Idon’t need him telling me how I’m screwing up their lives and how I should leave them alone.

That was what I’d been trying to do. I’d failed.

But Roman rushes over to me and drops to his knees in front of me, his hands placed on my lap as he lowers his head.

I jerk back in shock.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he mumbles. “Please, always come to us if you’re feeling so bad.”

He looks up and locks gazes with me. I see what appears to be real pain in his sea green eyes. I’m shocked at the level of emotion swimming in their depths and wonder about the change in him.

“We failed you. I’m a failure.” He runs one hand through his messy hair, the other still resting against my knee. “That won’t happen again.”

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t your fault. I was an idiot for believing I’d ever be free.”

He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers.

“I don’t believe that.” His expression is intense. “Don’t give up, Ophelia. Don’t you fucking dare give up. You’ve come too far to let that son-of-bitch win.”

A hot tear spills from the corner of my eye and trickles down my face. Roman lifts his hand to brush it away with his thumb, and I find myself pressing my cheek into the heat of his palm. This man is so confusing. One moment, I feel like he hates me, then he acts as though losing me will destroy him.

I sense the other two watching our interaction with silent intention.

It’s as though they’re unsure which way Roman is going to go, too.

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