Ferron chuckled. He tried to feign benevolence, but she had seen that grin before. Underneath it was nothing but cruelty.
“You bring corruption into the House of God,” he mumbled. His eyes slid to Claire’s face, lingering in a way that made Mirela’s skin crawl. “The least I can do is keep you away from everyone on the outside. Maybe that wayyour corruption will end.” He tilted his head then. “You already did your harm. I will not allow you to keep on hurting others.”
“You have no right—“
“Yes, I do! I have all rights. I am Judge Claude Ferron, and I will decide what happens to your life, to Mirela’s and to whoever I see fit! Starting with those pests.”
Mirela narrowed her eyes. “Pests?”
“The nomads…” He paused, his upper lip twisting in disgust. “I began with your mother.”
Mirela’s breath left her in a soundless gasp just as Claire took a step closer to her.
Her scars burned as if reliving memories of heat, screams, and sobs. Of a warm body holding her tightly, of hands pulling her away from the comforting embrace of her mother. She remembered the smell of burning flesh, not only of her mother’s, but of her own. She remembered an angry gaze now locked with hers, commanding her to be quiet, to hush. She remembered the aching in her throat as she screamed out in both physical and emotional agony.
It all burned, her scars, her chest, the tears now running down her cheeks.
“How could you?” Mirela whispered. “Why her?”
“I purified her and then I tried to keep you safe, pure. But now I see you reaching for another woman,” he went on, his voice tightening with contempt. “Another corruption. Truly… your kind cannot be redeemed.”
“Stop talking and let us out,” Claire said.
Mirela focused on Claire’s hands curling into fists by her side, trembling. Her own hands shook with the need to touch them, to stop her from interacting with him. There was no use; he wouldn’t listen. He never did.
He moved closer to Claire, his frame towering over her, and yet Claire looked up at him defiantly. When he took another step and his chest pushed against her, Claire bared her teeth.
Snarling, Claire leaned back and spat in Ferron’s face. “Let us out!” she shouted, shoving him.
The gesture was small, but it was enough to strike his temper like a match.
Ferron struck her sharply with the back of his hand, the sound echoing within the stone walls as Claire stumbled back.
She fell next to Mirela, a hand on her cheek as red bloomed against her dark skin, a thin line of blood slipping from her lips.
“Whore,” he spat. “Temptress.”
Mirela did not remember deciding to move.
One moment she was frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, telling herself to not defy him, to not anger him, be still, and the next, her hands were on his throat.
Her fingers sank into flesh and fabric, driving him back with a force she had never known she possessed. His back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the sketches pinnedbehind him, charcoal smearing, paper tearing. Her mismatched eyes stared down at him, her teeth bared, hot anger coursing through her.
Ferron gasped. The sound was ugly as fear poured out of him, sudden and raw, and the realization stunned her.
He was afraid of her…
Judge Claude Ferron was afraid of her.
“Mirela,” he rasped, his hands clawing uselessly at her wrists. “Child—please—“
The word snapped something inside her. She pulled him from the wall and slammed him back once more.
Child.
He never used that word on her. He never used endearing terms. He called her his miracle, but that was it. A miracle for what? For his use? For his gain? To stroke his own ego?
If she was his child, why didn’t he parade her around like she had seen many fathers do during the festivals? Why didn’t he speak words that showed tenderness or that at least he liked her; not desired her in a sick, twisted way? As if she was what was left of the woman he wanted and couldn’t claim.
