I follow Grace, matching my footsteps to hers as we pass a bar, a pool table, some chairs, and corridors on either side that lead deeper into the lower levels of the basement. One door to my right has what looks like a metal plank that can be thrown to bar it.
We climb a staircase that opens into a luxurious foyer. Everything here gleams—the wood, the marble floors, even the artwork. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I realize just how austere and oddly woodsy the Cloister is in comparison.
“In here.” Grace points to a sitting room with a piano in one corner, a large fireplace, and various couches and chairs. “Sit down, don’t touch anything, and don’t speak to anyone until I come back.” She delivers her edict with narrowed eyes before disappearing farther into the foyer.
I sit on the end of a leather sofa and stare at the fine things the Prophet can afford from all the tithes he collects in the Lord’s name. Just one piece of furniture or art in this room could have funded quite a few semesters for me at Alabama. I run my fingers down the buttery soft leather. The house even smells rich—like some sort of sweet cigar scent mixed with furniture polish and money.
Faint voices barely make it to my ear, but I can’t tell what they’re saying or where they are. I shrink back into the cushions and focus on the steady thump of my heart. It still beats, despite what it’s been through, despite what I’ve seen, despite the pain of losing Georgia and Sarah. How it manages to keep going, I’ll never know. What’s worse, is that it’s a traitor. Even now, I peer out into the foyer and hope for a glimpse of Adam. He murdered my friend before my eyes only a few hours ago, but I still seek him out. It’s wrong, and I hate myself for it, but my heart—that bruised and battered organ—still yearns for him. I shake my head at myself.
A door clicks open nearby, and then footsteps approach. I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the floor—the picture of perfect obedience.
“Delilah.” The Prophet’s voice stabs into the room.
I stand but keep my gaze downcast. “Yes, Prophet.” Clenching my eyes shut, I wait for some sort of accusation from him, maybe even a sentence, since he’s judge, jury, and executioner on the compound.
“Good girl.” He comes in and stands in front of me, his shoes gleaming along with everything else. “I have a visitor to see you.”
That’s it? “Yes, Prophet.” I keep the relief out of my voice, even though it washes over me like a tidal wave.
“Treat him nicely, and give him the blessing of your holy presence.” He lowers his voice. “But nothing more.”
How different he is than his son. Adam hates it when I don’t look him in the eye. The Prophet prefers it.
“I understand, Prophet.”
“Good girl.”
I wonder if he’ll pat my head like a dog. But he doesn’t, simply strides away.
His shoes are replaced by another set, this pair not quite as shiny, and the door to the foyer closes.
“Delilah.” Evan reaches out to take my hand and smiles down at me.
“What are you doing here?”
He sits on the couch and pulls me down next to him. “I simply couldn’t wait.”
“For what?” I meet his gaze. The Prophet isn’t here to see my little rebellion.
He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “To put in a bid.”
Hatred, the sort that eats away at you like a poison, saturates my blood. “Oh?”
“I want you, Delilah. For myself.” He runs his fingers down my cheek. “All of you. Not the Prophet’s leftovers.”
I want to bite his fingers off. Instead, I remain still and let him talk.
“I’ll have to marry you—that’s one of the Prophet’s rules that can’t be broken, but I don’t mind. A woman like you would make the perfect wife. Obedient, mostly.” He grins knowingly. “But I know there’s a little bite back inside you, and that’s one of the reasons I want you. I’ll get to break you myself.” He grabs a strand of my white hair and rubs it between his fingers. “And you’re perfect for breeding.”
“Get off.” I slap his hand away.
“There it is.” He grabs my wrist and squeezes it until my eyes water. “That little something extra. You know, I’ve been coming here for years, checking out the crops of little virgins the Prophet collects. But you’re the first one that’s caught my eye.” He reaches for my throat with his free hand.
I scoot back, but he yanks me forward by my wrist, then slams me back onto the couch. When I cry out, I expect the Prophet or maybe Grace to barge through the door. No one comes.