Zeke plucks the spoon from the desk and takes a bite of the eggs. “The rohypnol was to ensure your safety—and mine—on the journey. And to protect my wives when they bathed and dressed you.”
“W-wives?” Oh, God. This is some sort of cult. “What else did you do to me?” I squeeze my legs together and wrap my arms around myself tightly. “Did you…? Did anyone…?”
“No!” he shouts, his lip curling in a look of pure disgust. “That is not allowed here.”
The relief only lasts a moment. “But kidnapping is?”
Knowing the slap is coming doesn’t make it hurt any less. I taste blood, and it turns my stomach.
He composes himself, and the small smile reappears.
“I did not kidnap you. I freed you from a life without purpose.”
Oh, hell no.
“Taking someone against their will is kidnapping, asshole. And you picked the wrong woman. My husband is a Texas Ranger. He’ll find me. And when he does, you and your entire Blessed Flock will go to jail for the rest of your lives!”
Zeke throws his head back and laughs. “We’re more than seven hours from Austin, Nova. No one will ever find you here.”
“Seven…hours?” A tear tumbles down my cheek. The food. It’s…breakfast. Sunday breakfast.
“We’re less than a hundred miles from the border. Now, please eat.”
I’m starving. My stomach is hollow and my mouth feels like cotton. I don’t trust the water, but I force a bite of the eggs because if I don’t get something in me, I’ll be useless.
Zeke sits on the edge of the bed, looking absurdly pleased with himself, like we’re having some kind of demented picnic.
“When my son told me he’d found you, I admit I did not believe him at first. Joshua has a flair for the dramatic. But then he sent me the photo of your tattoo.”
The spoon clatters against the plate. “Joshua? Joshua Nichols is your son?”
He beams. “Yes. My Joshua. He and his betrothed will be wed this evening, and he will take his place as my newest junior cleric.”
The room tilts. This wasn’t random. Joshua knew where I’d be running yesterday. He knew I’d be alone. Vulnerable. Icy fear and dread churn in my stomach. The whole world narrows to the pounding of my heart.
Zeke chose me. All because of the ink on my skin?
As surreal as it is to be having a conversation with a deranged kidnapper, I have to convince him that he made a mistake. “Millions of people have tattoos like mine. I’m not your Nova.”
Zeke’s expression hardens. “Open the drawer.”
His tone carries a sharp edge that warns another slap will follow if I don’t obey. So, I wrestle the drawer open. A heavy, leather-bound book with words burned into the cover sits in the center. “‘The Doctrine of the Blessed Flock as told to Prophet Zeke by the Glorious One’?”
He has got to be kidding.
“Take it out and turn to page thirty-three.” The Doctrine is heavy enough, I might be able to chuck it at him and do some damage. But if that Malone guy is waiting right outside, what good would it do me?
I’m so lost in my own scattered thoughts, I don’t move. Zeke loses patience with me, snatches the book from my hands, and slams it down on the desk.
With a hoarse yelp, I shove the chair back and run for the door. The dress tangles around my legs, and I’m too slow. Too clumsy.
Zeke catches me with an arm around my waist and drags me back to the chair. He tries to shove me down, but I spin and drive the heel of my hand into his nose. The crunch of cartilage is oddly satisfying. As is the blood dripping down his chin.
“Fuck you and your Blessed Flock.”
He wipes the blood from his upper lip with his sleeve, his face a mask of calm, as if getting his nose broken is an everyday occurrence. “Page thirty-three, Nova. Or you will learn that actions have consequences.”
“No.” I won’t give him the satisfaction. Even if we are seven hours from Austin, AJ will find me. He’d burn down the entire world before he’d let anything keep us apart. The kind of love we share—the kind we’ve worked so hard to keep—doesn’t surrender to the whims of a madman.
