His eyes flare.
“I never touched them.”
“You didn’t touch them,” I repeat slowly. “So someone did. And you watched?”
His face twists.
“You don’t understand the covenant,” he whispers.
There’s a change in him now. He’s not defensive anymore—he’s fervent.
“Explain it to me,” I say gently.
Moore searches my face for something. Maybe judgment, disgust, condemnation. I’ve been a reporter long enough to know how to show only curiosity.
“Sin enters through the flesh,” he says hoarsely. “It must be cut out. Burned out. Broken out.”
My throat tightens.
“And children carry inherited sin?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And pain drives it out?”
“Yes.”
“And blood seals the covenant?” I press.
His pupils dilate.
“Yes.”
There it is. Despite the restraints, the bruising, the humiliation, his filthy sleepshirt tents obscenely over his erection.
I hear Marek exhale behind me, feel Elias’s eyes on the back of my head.
“You signed off on the covenant,” I say quietly, fighting to finish this before I throw up.
“I safeguarded it,” Ezekiel whispers.
“And what happened when a vessel resisted?” I ask. “What happened when a child screamed?”
His face hardens.
“They were reminded that obedience brings salvation.”
“How?”
His breathing grows heavier.
“They were restrained.”
“How?”
“Tied.”
My stomach churns harder.
