Page 24 of The Preachers' Promise
The night islong and lonely.
Unfamiliar sounds keep me awake. Doors slamming. People shouting. In one of the rooms nearby, someone has been crying continuously. Every so often, an alarm sounds—a blaring horn that sends me jumping out of my skin—and I assume it’s the one they use when one of the patients makes a break for freedom.
It doesn’t help that the mattress is thin enough to feel every spring, and the outfit they’ve given me is itchy, and the pillow hard. I find myself longing for my own bed, but instead of the one at home, or even in my dorm room, it’s the bed in the water tower I ache for, and, more so, the men it contains.
I don’t know what morning will bring. I assume medication of some kind and then therapy sessions. But medication and therapy aren’t new to me, and none of it worked before. I can’t see how being locked away in this hellhole, away from the people I love, is going to make me any better.
I’m twisted up with bitterness at my parents for sending me here. I’ve always considered myself lucky to have the parents I do. In our world, where the men are expected to be hard, and the women subservient, I always thought they treated me with kindness. But now I’m seeing things through new eyes. Hadmy view of them been skewed because my only real basis for comparison had been Cain’s family? I’d seen how frightened he was of his father, and noted the bruises and marks on his skin, and been grateful for how my own dad had never laid a finger on me. Would things have changed if I hadn’t been taken? If he’d had me in the house as a younger teenager, pushing boundaries and testing his patience, would he have one day decided to use violence to bring me back in line? Being abducted changed everything, and by the time I came back, I was too fragile and broken to provoke their anger. Besides, they were grateful and relieved to have me home. So why have they sent me away now?
It's all because of that letter I wrote for Daisy.
He’s angry at me for telling Daisy where we live. I get that. But I still can’t bring myself to regret doing it.
That letter had been addressed to me. He should never have opened it in the first place. If he’d forwarded it straight to me at the college, none of this would have happened.
The thought makes me sit up.
It stokes a righteous anger that ignites inside me. That was my property, not his. My business.
I should have asked for the letter. I should have demanded it. Maybe there had been something in it that would have helped. Daisy might have given me a clue about how to find her, and, instead of me helping her, I’ve ended up locked up in this place.
That had been the Prophet’s fault. If he hadn’t started up again in my head, I would have at least still been at home and been able to work on my parents to let me go back to college. But then I remember they’re frightened of the Prophet, too, even if my father would never admit it. It’s the reason they whisked me out of college in the first place.
That man poisons every single thing in my life, and I’ll never escape him.
I feel utterly hopeless.
I lie back down on my narrow bed and squeeze my eyes shut, fresh tears trickling into my thin pillow. I try to take myself back to happier times, the past couple of weeks with the Preachers in my life.
A warmth settles behind me, and I’d swear I feel the dip in the mattress as a weight presses into it. I’m not frightened, though, the way I am when I sense the Prophet. No, quite the opposite. The presence fills me with reassurance. I smile as the fragrance Roman wears fills my nostrils. Is he visiting me? Offering me comfort? It’s a crazy idea, but no crazier than the fact I’ve been hearing the Prophet’s voice when he’s not really there.
Maybe it’s just a side effect of the drugs they’ve given me, or perhaps I’ve drifted into a doze and not realized it. Yes, that’s probably all this is—a lovely dream. I lean into it, feeling as though Roman is spooning me, as though he’s pressing his nose and lips against my nape. I can even feel the weight of his arm hooked over my waist as he draws me closer.
I wish Malachi and Cain were here, too, but I’m grateful for the comfort.
For the first time since I was brought here, my heart rate slows, and my adrenaline levels dip. With a sigh that comes from deep in my lungs, I finally relax into a sound sleep.
12
CAIN
We drive through the night,crossing state lines. I lose track of the number of bugs that lose their lives crushed against the windshield of our car. After a couple of hours, I switch with Roman, so he can get some sleep. It’s not easy to rest, knowing Ophelia is in a fucking madhouse, but we need to be as clearheaded as possible in the morning.
I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel. How the hell did her father get her taken away so easily? She’s an adult, and getting someone placed in an institution is not simple. There are processes to go through. It makes me worry just what sort of place they have her in. Certainly not one that adheres to the correct protocols.
It makes finding her all the more urgent.
I still haven’t heard back from the Vipers, but that’s not surprising. They’ve already said we won’t hear from them yet. I’m still antsy, though. All I want is to have Ophelia back. I can hardly believe this is happening when she’s a grown adult. How is it possible she doesn’t have a say in what happens to her?
The moment the thought goes through my head, I find myself thinking of my own situation. My father still expects me to take over the business one day. He has no idea about thepact I’ve made with the other Preachers, about how one day the three of us will build something that will rival all our families’ businesses. We will change things. Instead of ruling with fear and violence, we will rule with respect.
One of our rules is that when we have children, we will raise them with only kindness and understanding. We will never put a hand on them or allow someone else to hurt them.
Maybe it isn’t the mafia way, but what is the use in creating so many broken people? Probably because then you create men who will do violence, but we won’t create that trauma in our kids just to turn out more foot soldiers, or at least, I never will, and I am damn sure the other two feel the same.
Being at Ophelia’s house brought back so many memories of when we were younger. We’d only been kids, but I remember thinking, even back then, that if I was ever going to get married, I’d marry her. She was the perfect girl—beautiful, fierce, opinionated—and for so long, I’d thought I’d lost her. It had been nothing short of a miracle for her to come back into my life, and the possibility I’ve lost her once more tears me up inside. Being with her over this past week has given me glimpses of the old Ophelia. Her feisty spirit was coming back, and her smile. She’d always had a cheeky sense of humor when we were young, and that was returning. It was wonderful to see. She’d come so far, and I’m furious at her father for giving up on her like this. Sending her away again will only mean more trauma, and less trust in people. How can he not see that?
I’d meant it when I told him I loved her.
