My body remembers this path, even if my brain hasn’t caught up yet.
Nausea crawls up my throat. I can’t let them lock me in that room again. But…what choice do I have?
Memories slam into me with every breath, every step across the warped floorboards. Some are only fragments. Others…in full technicolor.
The house smells the same. Like sweat and oleander. The rough plank flooring snags on my socks. Up the stairs, down the hall, past Prophet’s bedroom, to a door where padlocks dangle open on two thick hasps, like they’ve been waiting for me.
One of the clerics shoves me inside. My legs give out, and I twist at the last second, collapsing onto the narrow bed instead of the floor. The lumpy mattress provides almost no cushion, and I stare up at the plain wooden ceiling with tears in my eyes.
I choke on a broken sob. Almost a word.
No.
They drag Parker in next. She thrashes, landing a solid kick to somewhere vital, but the two men muscle her into the corner anyway. Her chest heaves, and her gray eyes flash with pure fury.
Heavy footsteps thud down the hall. Familiar. Terrifying.
I scramble back on the bed until my spine hits the wall, curling inward, trying to make myself as small as possible. It won’t help. There’s nowhere for me to go. But still, I try. My knees come up tight to my chest, arms locked around them like that will somehow stop Prophet from hurting me.
“Blessed evening, Nova.” His voice is almost tender. Reverent. “Welcome home.”
“That isn’t her name, asshole,” Parker snarls. She springs up, her hands balled into fists, but Brother Malone is faster. He catches her with an arm around her waist and throws her back against the wall. Her left leg slides out from under her, and she crashes to the floor.
“It is her only name,” Prophet says, the edge to his voice sending a chill down my spine. “And she knows it. Don’t you, Nova?”
Tears clog my throat. I nod, though every part of me wants to scream.
“Grace, no. You’re not his. You were never his!” Parker scoots closer to the bed and clamps her fingers around my ankle like an anchor. Her voice is raw, frantic. “Promise me, Grace. Promise me you won’t give him the satisfaction.”
For a heartbeat, I think I can. I think I can be strong for her. But then Prophet’s hand shoots out, closing around her throat. He hauls her upright like she weighs nothing. Parker kicks, claws, fights with every ounce of fury she has left, and finally, spits in his face.
“Defiance is expected. For a time. But a week in the box will cure you of that spirit.” Prophet’s tone is too calm. Calm is always followed by pain. “What did Brother Marvin say her name was?”
“Parker Elmore,” Brother Malone answers.
“No more. Now, you are Sister Willow. Soon, you will be my fifth wife.”
My lungs seize. Sister Willow. God, no. Please, no. Not Parker.
Parker thrashes, wheezing as Prophet tightens his grip. And then it hits me—the memory slamming into me so hard, my entire body shudders.
The sound. The endless, droning vibration, so low it rattled every bone in my body, yet so loud my skull felt like it was cracking apart. No melody. No words. Just an unrelenting frequency tearing through my chest until my heartbeat wasn’t mine anymore. The air itself vibrated until I couldn’t tell where my body ended and the noise began.
And the lights. Always on. Blinding. White-hot. Hours blurred into days. The suffocating heat of the day and the biting, bone-deep cold at night. No silence. No darkness. No escape.
A week will destroy her.
It destroyed me.
Something inside me fractures. She’s only here because of me. Because she wouldn’t leave my side. Because she thought she could protect me.
Prophet shoves Parker at Brother Malone. “Take her. When I release her, she’ll beg me for the sacred honor of being my wife.”
“No!” The cry rips from me, broken and jagged, but the closest thing to an actual word I’ve managed. I reach for Parker, but my arms are weak, my body too heavy, my chest crushed under the weight of what Prophet is about to do to her.
“Grace!” she screams, kicking and bucking as Brother Malone drags her toward the door. Her voice cracks, fury giving way to raw terror. “Don’t you let him win! Promise me! Grace!”
Her voice fades as Brother Malone hauls her down the corridor, but I can still hear the echoes of her rage, the pounding of her boots against the wood for several long moments, until finally, a door slams below us.
