My wedding rings.
My jewelry.
All gone.
A flicker of panic cuts through the drugs.
Trey.
The thought of him pierces the fog. His smile, the warmth in his voice.
I blink. If I can hold onto him, if I can stay awake. I can stayhis.
“Come,” one woman says. “The congregation awaits.”
My knees fold when they try to stand me, but they catch me, lifting me under the arms, moving me forward like I’m a marionette. Each step feels distant, foreign. The floor beneath my bare feet is cold, rough concrete giving way to polished stone.
Candlelight flickers over the walls, casting long shadows of crosses and serpents entwined. The scent of incense thickens, almost sweet enough to choke on.
We stop before a set of heavy wooden doors carved with crucifixes. The murmuring beyond them swells—a hundred voices in prayer.
The doors open.
The light blinds me for a heartbeat. When my eyes adjust, the sight steals what little breath I have left. Rows upon rows of people kneel before an altar, their heads bowed, faces hidden. White robes ripple like waves across the floor. None of them look up.
At the center, bathed in the glow of a thousand candles, stands Gideon Cross.
My pulse stutters.
He looks older—dark hair slicked back, white robes trailing the floor. His expression is serene. But I remember what lives behind the façade.
He smiles, voice smooth as silk.
“Children of the Cross, your Mother has been brought to us.”
A soft gasp ripples through the crowd. He opens his arms, palms up as though welcoming grace itself.
“She has wandered far from the fold,” he continues, “but our Lord of blessings is merciful. He calls forth His vessel home. Through her womb, our salvation will come.”
The congregation murmurs
“Amen.”
My stomach twists. The air feels too thick, pressing down on me. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The women hold me upright as Gideon approaches.
He reaches for me, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering like a blessing—or a claim. “Your purity will be restored,” he whispers. “You will be mademineso it was written.”
Written. Like I was scripted to this nightmare. Like I was part of this madman’s prophecy.
I try to speak, to tell him no, but the word catches in my throat. Only a weak sound escapes.
“Soon,” he says, “you will speak your vows before the eyes of the faithful. You will take your place as Mother of the Cross. Then I shall remove your tongue, so you can speak no blistered words—only be the acceptance of my gifts.”
My stomach twists. My heart hammers. I can’t move, can’t breathe—only listen.
The women bow their heads. The crowd bows lower.
My head swims, but I fight through it, clinging to the one image that cuts through the noise—Trey. His hands on my skin. His laughter. His promise to fight for me.
