Page 42 of Spark of Madness

“It’s already done.” Delle releases me and takes a small step back, turning to face away from me. She tugs her hair to the side, revealing the back of her neck. Seven fresh cuts still spill droplets of blood at the base of her neck.

They’ve already marked her for the trials.

“No...” The syllable falls from my lips in defeat.

It’s already done.

chapter fourteen

Arlo

THE CLANG OFknives and forks touching ceramic dishes echoes through the silent dining room. I wouldn’t say it’s unusually quiet, but the silent energy is certainly different.

There are two women present for our nightly meal—two servants, no less. It’s not that their presence is bothersome, just that it’s different. I think we all feel a sense of duty to curb our usual nightly chatter in favor of presenting ourselves properly with the weaker sex present. It’s no matter that they are sinners, servants, trial participants...we must always hold ourselves to a higher standard than they hold themselves.

The round, wooden table we sit at is dark—nearly black—and Mercy sits rigidly in the seat to my right. A gold and crystal chandelier serves as the only light source in the room, and it casts a spotlighted glow on the center of the table beneath it. The central illumination casts shadows all around us, darkness shrouding the space behind our backs. I can see my brothers in God where they’re seated, but it’s black as night behind them.

Delle sits to my left—a new ward I’ll be required to take care of for the trials. I feel uneasy about her presence. Truthfully, her decision to participate doesn’t sit right with me. By all accounts, she’s a sinner as much as Mercy is for running during service, but it was her first night and she is so young. We had elected to give her another chance, and in doing so, she had a choice.

She chose poorly.

She chose sin over learning and growing from her mistake, and now she’ll be put through the Trials of Dissension.

Mercy clears her throat, and it draws my attention. I look over as she shifts in her seat, straightening her spine, and reaches forward for her glass of wine. I watch as she draws the goblet toward her mouth. The glass touches her soft, pink lips and my gaze is stuck there, trapped at the way they part, allowing the liquid to slip past them as she takes a sip.

I have a sudden vision of her bewitching me with her sinner ways, draining the blood from my body, and sipping it from a glass just like that. I wait for the repulsion of such a vision to take hold of me, to steal my appetite, but instead, I feel the weight of it sink inside me. My thighs tense as I feel a heaviness between my legs, my cock thickening inexplicably.

Sweet sin.

I don’t know how I’ll make it another month managing the impulses I should have purged. I need to be careful in how I handle Mercy Madness.

“We should discuss the first trial,” Killian says, his voice cutting through the silence so unexpectedly that it nearly startles me. I turn my head away from Mercy to look at him across the table. “The Elders sent over their documents of the last three trials, and it seems there’s some room for creativity.”

I feel the shift in energy at my left and right, both Mercy and Delle raising invisible shields.

“Creativity?” Ryker asks. “How so?”

“The purpose that each trial serves is set,” Killian explains, “but the means by which they are carried out leaves some room for us to decide. It ensures that no two sets of trials are the same.”

“The first trial is Service of the Flesh,” Theo says from where he sits on the opposite side of Delle. His jaw is tense as he speaks. “What purpose is that meant to serve?”

“As it’s written in the Impulse Edict,” Killian explains, mentioning the written religious law that governs Ember Glen, “servants must openly and eagerly offer the use of their bodies to the men of Ember Glen during nights of service. Under the full moon, their physical forms must be given entirely to performing acts of service that allow the men of Ember Glen to satiate their perverse sexual desires effectively, such that the domestic women of our community may continue to live their days in peace without fear of unwanted sexual acts being committed against them.” He recites the edict from memory, as all members of the Control would be able to do.

Mercy sets her wineglass down on the table too hard, and some of the crimson liquid—which matches her gown—sloshes out, spilling onto the table. “Damnit,” she mutters.

She lifts her white cloth napkin from her lap and works to wipe up the spilled liquid, though I notice her hands tremble. The rest of the room is silent as we all watch her dab at the red wine. The ways she trembles does something to me—twisting in my gut, making me feel uneasy. I don’t enjoy watching her fumble and twitch through her nerves.

“Stop that,” I tell her, reaching over and grabbing the cloth napkin and pushing her hands away. Dabbing with her napkin, I finish mopping up the spilled wine. I glance up when I feel the eyes of the room upon me. “Don’t mind me.” I nod. “Go on.”

Killian blinks at me with a curious expression, but then continues, “Service of the Flesh is meant to be the ultimate act of sexual service.”

I’m so utterly aware of Mercy’s every breath, every twitch of every muscle, every slight movement in anxiety. It unnerves me for some reason, and I need to get control of it immediately. As soon as I finish cleaning the spilled wine, I remove the length of coiled rope where I looped it over the back of my chair. I push back my seat and swivel my body to face her squarely.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” I hush her quickly as the conversation continues around us.

I grab hold of her wrists with one hand and tug them toward me. Before she can protest, I wrap them, circling coarse twine around both her wrists, looping and tugging it between. Around and through, and over again. Surprisingly, she doesn’t squirm, she doesn’t fight. I think she’s in shock and it’s frozen her in place. Once her hands are bound in front of her, I drop them in her lap.

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