Page 33 of Spark of Madness

I feel my hand lift and reach toward his. I’m aware of the movement, but I feel powerless over it. As my palm lands on his, something sparks and crackles between us—a strange emotion that feels inevitable, yet entirely unexplainable.

Arlo’s hand closes around mine and he tugs, just as he did in the meadow. Air escapes my lungs as he pulls me against him, and our bodies collide.

I bring up my hands to push off his chest, but they’re pinned between us as he dips his head to my ear. “I expect nothing less than your best behavior,” he whispers, then draws his head back to look down at me, speaking loud enough for the others to hear. “It’s understood that I’m your warden, and your needs will be met through me. If there’s something you need, you come to me first. No one else needs to be bothered by your requests. Do you understand, sinner?”

“You can continue to call me that but saying it doesn’t make it true.”

I draw a chuckle from the men behind me, but my eyes are fixed on Arlo’s serious features, my gaze drawn to the frustratingly plump lips that twist into a devilishly smug grin.

I hate his lips.

I hate his grin.

I hate the long dimples that cut down his cheeks.

I hate that, despite all the ugliness inside, he’s objectively handsome. But when I raise my eyes to meet his, I feel an unwanted recognition.

I can’t breathe when he looks at me.

“Up the steps, sinner,” Arlo says, tilting his head toward the grand staircase in front of us.

He shifts to move beside me with our hands meeting in the space between us, my palm resting face down on his as he leads me elegantly up the steps. He behaves as if this were a delicate and regal moment, helping a fragile woman make her way up such a grand staircase.

He acts as though he’s honorable for leading me so gently.

It enrages me.

We step onto the landing, and we turn right before he leads me down a long hallway.

“You’ll stay in the room next to mine,” he says. “That way I can keep a close eye on you and ensure your needs are met.”

Part of me wants to remain silent in protest, but there’s a much stronger urge to speak up, to lash out, to show anger. “What needs do you expect me to have that you’re capable of meeting? I don’t recall a single time in my life that all of my needs have been met.”

He stops abruptly, turning to face me, my hand still in his. “Then consider yourself lucky to live what’s left of your life here. In the Homestead, everyone’s needs are met, save for—”

“Sex and violence?” I finish the statement for him. “Don’t all the men of Ember Glen have that need?” I scoff.

He arches an eyebrow. “We do, of course.”

“So, not all your needs are met here.”

He tenses his jaw to fight the curling of his lips at one corner. “Obviously, you already knew that. Are we playing a game of semantics?” He drops his hand and mine falls, as well. He cocks his head to the side as he considers me. “It’s funny that you mention it, seeing that the very reason you’re here right now is due to your choice not to fulfill man’s need for sex and violence under the last full moon. Here you are now, having your own needs fulfilled until the day you take your last breath.” He takes a step toward me, and instinctively, I step back. “And aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It was your duty to service the impulsive needs of men, and you refused.”

“I served those needs,” I argue, stepping forward and closing the distance between us. “I served dutifully for four years!”

“Do you have short-term memory loss, or are you just stupid? Youran, Mercy. You fled and hid from service.”

I flinch at his insulting choice of words but allow it to fuel my frustration. “My memory serves me well, and I’m much smarter than any man gives me credit for. I’m smart enough to know better than to let myself be lit on fire just for the sake of calling myself righteous. A god worth serving wouldn’t—”

He presses closer and our bodies touch as he looks down at me with fury and passion. “Don’t you dare speak another word, Mercy Madness.”

I huff out a heavy breath as my eyebrows draw together in anger, my chest sinking rapidly. I want to speak, to retaliate, to agitate him. I want to rile him up further and invoke a verbal sparring match, but I don’t know exactly why I want that. He’s stubborn and self-righteous; a man who has the authority to uphold the doctrine I question and quarrel over in my mind on a minute-to-minute basis.

Then I realize why I want to speak against him so badly. It’s because he’s let me speak longer than any other man ever has. Truthfully, I’ve spoken more freely with him than I ever have, even with another servant. The realization is striking, and somehow, it fills me with a sense of gratitude—a sentiment he certainly hasn’t earned. Yet it pulls through me, drags my shoulders back, forces me to soften my features, and concede to showing him that the sentiment is there all the same.

Sensing the change in me, he pulls back, rolling his shoulders and letting go of some tension he held there.

He lowers his voice to a heated whisper. “You’ll watch your words here, lest one of my brothers with less patience than I have should overhear you and decide it would be best to drag you out and burn you at the stake…to spare the spectacle of the trials and the time granted to you in between.” He turns and starts walking again. “This way.”

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