And she’s fucking beautiful.
Staggeringly, gut-punchingly beautiful.
As one of the men shoves her the last few yards toward the post, my feet begin to carry me forward.
Someone begins to pray aloud—a droning, rhythmic incantation.
A third man steps forward, holding a coiled whip. He reaches out and tears her dress down the front—from shoulder to waist, baring her nude body to the crowd.
She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t make a sound. Her spine is rigid as her face is turned toward the post and her arms are lifted and bound to the wood with leather straps.
Oh, hell no.
The naked curve of her back is already scarred. Faded white lines crossing other faded white lines. Old punishments layered over older punishments, a visible record of years of this abuse.
I move faster—crossing the yard in long strides that eat up the distance.
“Mr. O’Rourke—” Buford pants as he trots along just behind me, his hand reaching out. I ignore him.
The crowd parts around me—wide-eyed, startled, and uncertain. Good. I want them uncertain. I want them to remember that the man walking through their midst can end their lease, their income, and their way of life with a single phone call.
I reach the post where the man with the whip has raised his arm. He freezes when I step into his line of sight.
I don’t look at him. I bend, pick up the torn halves of the primative dress from the dirt, and toss it over my arm as I quickly unbuckle the cuffs binding her wrists. I have to steady her before I drape the coarse garment over her shoulders and instruct her to put it on. She’s trembling.
My charming smile, easy handshake, and the practiced warmth I deploy as a weapon in boardrooms and political fundraisers are gone. What’s left is the feral beast I keep buried under the tailored suits.
I straighten and turn to face Buford, who has followed me into the clearing with a calm that doesn’t fool me. He’s livid.
I don’t give a fuck.
My voice comes out controlled but lethal. “She’s coming with me.”
Buford’s pale eyes narrow. His composure holds, but I watch the calculation happen behind it—the assessment of risk, the weighing of my power against his authority, the understanding that what happens next could threaten everything he’s built.
“Mr. O’Rourke.” Buford’s smiling but his eyes are shooting daggers at me. “I must insist we move our meeting back indoors. Our disciplinary procedures are private matters.”
“Discipline.” I let the word sit in the air.
“Community life requires correction from time to time. As it does with any family.”
“What’s she being punished for?”
A pause. I can see that he’s sizing up the situation. Deciding what he can say to get me to back down and walk away.
“Willful defiance,” he finally says. “Sister Prudence has been far too headstrong as of late. Correction is an act of love, Mr. O’Rourke, as I’m sure you understand. We raise our children to walk the righteous path, and when they stray?—”
“She’s a child?”
“She is nineteen.”
“That’s not a child.”
He folds his hands in front of himself, and his voice drops into the pastoral register that makes him sound as though he’s giving a sermon.
“Our ways may seem harsh to an outsider. I understand that. But the Flock has thrived for twenty-two years under the same rules—the same discipline. A flock without shepherding scatters, and scattered sheep are devoured by wolves. Would you prefer I love her less, and allow her to be devoured?”
This fucking guy. I want to punch him. I don’t, but I want to.
