Gideon fills the frame.
Still cloaked in the black robes of the chapel, cinched tight at the waist with a cord, he looks less like a man than a shadow spat from an old tome. His thinning hair gleams with oil, pulled flat from his forehead. Large, cracked hands clutch a leather Bible like a weapon. He smells of sweat, earth, smoke—and something sour that curdles my stomach.
His eyes rake over me. Not with kindness. Never with kindness. With possession. A slow, deliberate claim, as though he’s already branded me.
“Your father has spoken.” His voice is steady, deep, a serpent coiled in scripture. “The time has come. Soon, the congregation will hear of our betrothal.”
Betrothal. The word chokes the air from the room.
My nails dig crescents into my palms through the fabric of my dress. Every part of me wants to scream, to tear the scarf from my head, to spit the truth in his face—that I will never belong to him. But my lips remain sealed. Silence is my only shield.
He steps closer. Heat rolls off him, suffocating. His hand lifts, hovering inches from my cheek. For a terrible moment I think he’ll touch me. Instead, his fingers twitch, then fall. The smile he wears is sharp. Wrong.
“You will be molded into obedience,” he says. “A wife of purity. God has chosen this path for you.”
No. Not God. My father. Gideon. Men twisting the name of God into chains.
His eyes snag on the edge of my scarf. His mouth twitches. “The hair will be your greatest trial,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Fire meant to be smothered. But I will tame it. Tame you.”
A shiver tears through me, but I bow my head, hiding my face in shadow. My scream stays buried in my throat, turned to ash.
“Good,” he says, mistaking my silence for submission. “You learn quickly. Obedience is the only gift a wife can give her husband.” His knuckles whiten around the Bible. “And when you falter, I will correct you. For your salvation.”
The words alone make the welts from my father’s strikes flare hot, burning with the promise of more—without Gideon lifting a single twisted finger.
When he finally turns away, the air is thick, unbreathable, fogged with his poisonous presence. I shut the door with a shudder, but the weight clings. I collapse onto the bed, trembling, chest heaving like I’ve run miles without moving at all.
My hand finds the Bible. The leather is cold, smooth under my fingertips. I slip them between the pages until I find it—creased, nearly falling apart.
The paper. His paper. Not his name, but a place. A door out of this cage.
I’ve read it so many times the words are etched into me, branded deeper than the lash. Still, I clutch it, needing the proof. That escape exists. That hope is more than a dream.
I can’t risk hiding it in my shoe—not now, not with eyes so close. Instead, I slip it into the lining of my pillow, pressing it flat where I can reach without sound, without suspicion.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to believe in.
Just in case.
Because the noose tightens every day. And one night soon, I hope I have the strength to run.
Chapter five
Trey
Mind Of Mine – Lø Spirit
The smell of bacon drags me out of sleep before I’m even ready to open my eyes. It’s thick and greasy, curling through the apartment like smoke, wrapping itself around my brain and dragging me upright. My skull feels like it’s been split in two by last night’s bass, and my mouth tastes like an ashtray washed down with whiskey.
I shuffle into the kitchen barefoot, hair doing whatever the fuck it wants—flattened on one side from sleep, sticking up in all the wrong directions on the other. My tattoos peek out from under the creased t-shirt I never bothered peeling off before I face-planted into bed.
Light punches through the floor-to-ceiling windows, blinding and merciless. That’s the thing about being high enough with money—curtains are optional, privacy’s irrelevant, and sunlight becomes your alarm clock whether you want it or not.
Mac’s already there, moving between the stove and the counter. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight, messy but stillunfairly perfect. She looks over her shoulder as I drag myself to the table, a smile tugging at her lips.
Without a word, she slides a mug across the counter. Black coffee. Steam curls up, bitter and biting, making me gag and crave it all at once.
Morning, Cupid’s Angel,” she says softly. The nickname makes my chest tighten—it’s hers, and hers alone. She started calling me that because of my birthday—Valentine’s Day—and I hated it at first. Too cheesy. Too…everything. But over time, it stuck. Now, I don’t let anyone else use it. Only Mac.
