Page 97

This isn’t like that time, though.

He’s got me now.

We arrived at the remodeled church only ten minutes after he stuffed me in the car. That was hours ago now, the sun beginning its descent to bring on the night. The church is made of gorgeous stone and solid wood, and the property is heavily wooded with dense trees and thick shrubs. A long, narrow dirt road is the only way in.

Its entire design is to stay hidden. To keep people away. To keep people in…

One of Marcus’s security personnel escorted me through the entryway, through the kitchen, and up three flights of stairs to the old bell tower. The rigging for the bell was left on the ceiling during the remodel. There’s a turret with an open window, and as much as I am grateful to have a window at all, it’s far too cold this time of year.

A bed, a desk, a full pitcher of water, and a glass. There are a hairbrush and a toothbrush in the little drawer.

The necessities.

A guard is posted outside my door. If I need to use the restroom, I knock, and he escorts me. I’ve spent the entire day looking out the window or writing songs in my head. I wonder if they would accept a request for some reading material.

There’s a knock at the door, and I sit up, swinging my feet over the side of the bed.

“Come along, Miss Daily; dinner is about to be served.” I stand up.

“It’s Mrs. Powers,” I say as I walk past him. I touch my hand to my chest and feel my ring beneath the fabric. I slipped it over the chain of my leaf necklace, afraid that Marcus would take it if he saw it.

The smell of fresh bread and a warm stew permeate the hall as we approach the dining room. I take a deep breath in, practically tasting the savory root vegetables and lamb. Or rabbit.

Cattle take up too many resources to raise. So, our colonies rely on sheep, rabbits, and wild game for our protein.

Whatever it is, it’s been hours since breakfast. I’m pregnant and starving.

I halt at the threshold to the dining room.

No, no…

“Daphne?” My voice cracks. This can’t be…

While not twins, Daphne and Dahlia are alike in almost every way: their height, their frame, and their piercing, icy crystal-blue eyes. The only difference is that while Dahlia’s hair is so blonde it appears white, Daphne’s is pure onyx black.

I look over her as I approach the empty seat opposite her, sucking in a breath when she glances in my direction. Her eyelids, the skin around her eyes, and streaks down her cheek are scarred red. Her once crystal-blue eyes are coated in a porcelain haze, so thick they are almost milky white.

Chemical burns?

“Hi Violet…”

“Have a seat and eat,” Marcus commands. I grip the back of my chair for a beat, then slide in.

Now’s not the time to cause trouble.

“What are you doing here?” I ask softly.

“I live here.” Her words are soft, broken, bleeding melancholy acceptance. With slow motions, she lifts her hands, grabs her spoon, and takes a bite of the stew.

“Eat,” Marcus repeats his command. And while I’d like to push further, I am starving. Grabbing my bread, I dunk a piece into my stew and eat.

We eat in silence for ten minutes, with nothing but the clicking of our spoons and the tearing of bread filling the air between us. I take bite after bite, devouring as much as I can without becoming a complete animal, pausing for a beat now and then to look across the table.

Daphne eats with her eyes closed, taking slow, deep breaths. I’m not sure if it’s the current situation, her overall circumstances, or whether she’s not well. She scrunches her nose now and then, taking an extra deep breath. She’s tugged at her ear twice.

She needs to get looked at.

“Marcus,” I keep my tone respectful, “Why is Daphne here?”