The wives enter behind us and begin to pray again, their voices soft and rhythmic, filling the cold air. Their words blur into static against the thunder of my heartbeat.
I close my eyes, and I see him again—not bleeding, not bound, but smiling, his eyes bright, his hands pulling me down on top of him as he rests.
You’re my peace, baby. I just want to hold you. Will you let me?
I speak the only truth I have left.
“I am not your Mother. I am not your vessel.” My voice trembles, growing steadier. “I am Seraphina Baker.”
Their prayers falter.
I look up at the ceiling, at the flickering light that feels one breath away from dying.
“That man is my husband. I belong to him. My heart, my body, every part of me belongs to him.” I whisper, knowing that they’re listening.
Their vows are lies.
Their God is not grace, it is carnage.
My love—my husband—is the only salvation I will ever need
A sound echoes—a dull metallic click followed by a low mechanical hum, before a rush of water, ice-cold, drops from the pipe above Trey’s head, soaking him. He jerks at the shock, his muscles tensing, his body straining against the restraints. The chains clatter, sharp against the concrete.
The wives don’t react. They keep murmuring, their voices a soft, rhythmic chant that seems to rise and fall with the flicker of the bulb overhead. Words about cleansing. About obedience. About sin. Their faces are blank, eyes glassy with devotion, and it’s more horrifying than if they screamed.
I can’t breathe. The air smells of iron and damp earth, the cold seeping into my bones until it hurts to draw breath. Every instinct in me screams to move—to stand up, to run tohim—but my legs won’t obey. Fear roots me to the spot, heavy and suffocating.
Trey groans, the sound tearing through the silence. His head lifts slightly before falling forward again, his hair dark and wet. The sight nearly drops me to my knees.
He’s alive. God, he’s alive.
The women continue praying, their whispers weaving through the sound of dripping water. The one nearest to me presses a trembling hand over her heart, whispering,
“May the Lord strip the darkness from him.”
I want to scream at her. I want to tell herhe’sthe light, that she’s been living in the dark this whole time. But the words catch in my throat.
The bulb swings harder above us, throwing wild arcs of light across the room. Each pass catches a different fragment—the red smear of blood beneath Trey’s feet that barely touch the floor, the rusted chains at his wrists, the white fabric of my gown swaying as I tremble.
I take one step. Then another. The wives part only slightly as I move, their chants stumbling when they realize what I’m doing. My feet are bare, sliding over the cold, gritty floor.
“Trey,” I whisper. My voice cracks on his name.
He stirs again, his head lolling to the side, a low sound escaping his throat.
I rise on my toes in front of him, my hands trembling as I lift his face. His skin is cold, lips blue, the pulse beneath his jaw faint but steady. There’s blood smeared across his temple, another cut along his collarbone. I brush my thumb against it, my vision blurring.
His lashes twitch.
“Trey.” My voice shakes, desperate. “Baby, it’s me. It’s Sera. Open your eyes, please.”
For a long, breathless moment, nothing happens. The only sound is the water dripping from the pipe, the whispers, the rattle of his chains when his body jerks faintly. Then, slowly—agonizingly—his eyes open.
Green.
Unfocused at first.
A sob catches in my throat. Relief hits so hard it steals my breath.
