“He told me I was poison.” The words pour out of me, desperately. “That I was contaminating you. Every pleasure I have taken?—”
“Stop.” His thumbs wipe away the tears on my cheeks. “Stop. Those words are lies from an evil, vile man. They are lies, Prudence. Every single one.”
“He said I am a curse?—”
“He is a con man, a convicted felon. And he’s been selling girls and women into sexual servitude while he hides behind the guise of sanctity. He is a predator.”
The words land harder than a blow to my stomach.
I am shaking. My whole body vibrates as if the ground beneath me is splitting open.
“You aren’t poison,” Ronan says. “You’re not a curse. You’re not contamination or sin or damnation or any of the stupid, asinine bullshit he branded into you.” His forehead presses against mine. His breath is warm on my trembling lips. “You are the bravest, kindest, most extraordinary woman I have ever known, and I would rather spend eternity in hell with you than in heaven without you.”
A sound tears from my throat—not a cry, not a word, something wrenched from the deepest part of me. My hands fly to his wrists and grip with a strength I did not know I possessed.
I hold on to Ronan O’Rourke the way a drowning person holds on to solid ground.
“Choose,” he whispers. “Not because I’m telling you to. Not because anyone is telling you to. Choose for yourself, Prudence. For the first time in your life.”
And I do. I choose.
I lift my head from his chest and stand. My legs shake, but they hold me. The women and children of the Flock huddle nearby, their terrified eyes on Ronan and me. It is to them I speak my next words.
“He told me I was unclean.” My voice does not shake. It carries with a clarity that surprises me. “He told me I was sinful and corrupt and that my body was a vessel of evil. He told every woman in this compound the same thing. Sisters, he has used our faith and devotion as a leash.”
I do not know if any of the women or children are truly hearing me. If they will accept what I am telling them as truth, but I feel I must say it.
“I was eight years old when I was locked in the Reflection Room for the first time. Eight.” My voice cracks but I continue. “He is not a man of God. He is a man who uses God’s name to hurt people. I reject his authority. I reject his teachings. I reject every lie he planted in me, and I am never coming back.”
My words settle over the compound. The women of the Flock stare at me—mouths open, eyes wide. I hope the seeds of what I just said take root. They deserve to be free too.
I turn back to Ronan.
This man—powerful, polished, dangerous—makes no attempt to disguise what I mean to him.
“Take me home,” I say.
He settles his jacket over my shoulders. It’s warm and carries his scent. His arm wraps around me and pulls me against him.
Behind us, Cillian is speaking to a broad, bearded man with lots of tattoos in a leather vest, but when Ronan guidesme across the yard toward the waiting car, his brothers fall into formation around us—Cillian to the right, Declan to my left, Lorcan just behind my right shoulder. A wall of O’Rourkes between me and everything I am leaving behind.
I am not being rescued.
I am rescuing myself. I am choosing to leave—walking out on my own legs, under my own power, with a man I have chosen with my own voice.
And I am never looking back.
Epilogue: Prudence
“Hold on, hold on—Saoirse, you’re frozen again.” I tap the screen, then realize tapping does nothing to fix a frozen image, but seconds later, Saoirse’s face unfreezes mid-laugh, her mouth stretched wide.
“—and Declan just stood there holding the cat like a hostage negotiator. Hope scratched him across both forearms and he didn’t even flinch.”
Nora’s square on the group FaceTime erupts with laughter. I figured out group calls on my own last week and discovered the three of us could see one another at the same time. I called Ronan immediately afterward to tell him, and he said, “You’re a tech genius, baby,” which I know is an exaggeration, but I appreciate his praise.
I wedge my phone against the sugar canister and pour coffee into two mugs. I learned to operate the coffee machine too. The first attempt produced something Ronan described as “interesting.” But the second attempt was almost drinkable. Now I make it every morning, and Ronan drinks it without complaint, even though he teases me that mine has enough cream and sugar to horrify a barista.
“How’s the new therapist?” Nora asks.
