Deep Redemption
Page 26
There was a long pause, then she replied, “I am still here . . . I am sure he will never let me go anywhere else.”
My chest tightened at how sad she sounded, how completely defeated. I did not know the woman, but I did not care. She had been the first person I had ever spoken to without an agenda, without the heavy cloud of my devout faith guiding my tongue and actions. She did not know me as the destined prophet. She did not know me as the turncoat rat Hangmen brother. She knew me as the unseen prisoner—a cast-out sinner just like her.
“Harmony, listen to me,” I rasped, and laid my hand against the hard wall. I felt closer to her by doing this. I imagined what she looked like on the other side. She would be beautiful. Every Cursed I had seen was unrivaled in beauty . . . unrivaled in beauty but racked with pain and self-hatred. I knew that now. They were called Cursed because Prophet David deemed their beauty too irresistible to the men in The Order. Too stunning to be godly.
I winced as I imagined what Harmony must have gone through in her life . . . what my brother would do to her once he had her by his side. I did not know why, but that thought turned my blood into scalding lava.
My hand balled into a fist on the wall. “Harmony, where did you just go? Earlier today?”
I held my breath as I waited for her to reply. “To the prophet,” she eventually said. I exhaled sharply.
Gritting my teeth, I asked, “What did he do?” Because I knew my brother. I had seen for myself how the power of being prophet had affected him. Had gone to his head.
I did not want the question to upset her. I did not want to hear her cry. But to my surprise, her voice was strong as she said, “He wanted to make sure I was a Cursed after all. He has never laid eyes on me before today.”
“And?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Yes,” she said softly. “He declared it to be true. I am a Cursed Sister of Eve, the chosen one that he will wed.” I caught a hint of anger in her voice. A flash of resistance. It made me feel a flush of pride. I had never seen her, had only just met her, but I could hear her strength in a few simple words. It warmed something inside me that had previously been ice cold.
Harmony was different. She had fight. The few women I had spoken to in the commune appeared submissive. I could hear in her tone that Harmony was no such thing. She had a fire inside her heart.
She was strong.
A strange sensation settled over me. I was not sure what it was yet, but whatever it was soothed some of the heat in my blood.
“He examined me,” she continued. But the firmness in her voice had dwindled. I heard the hurt pushing through to the surface. She stopped speaking and took a few stuttered breaths.
I opened my mouth, wanting to ask her what Judah had done. But I was not sure I could hear it. That did not matter, because a few seconds later, Harmony said, “He touched me between my legs. He”—she sucked in a sharp breath and my heart broke—“he hurt me. He . . . he touched me where I did not want to be touched.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.
The anger that had ebbed came back full force as Harmony told me what Judah had done. And I could picture him doing it. As we had watched those sick videos of the children dancing seductively for their prophet, Judah had found them a pleasure to see. He had sexually awakened eight-year-old children. He frequently fornicated with Sarai, a girl of just fourteen. He would think nothing of touching a Cursed. He thought them the lowest of the low, his touch the purification they needed to regain salvation.
I was clenching my jaw so hard it ached. Without conscious thought, I drew back my hand and smashed it against the wall. “FUCK!” I shouted, the frustration I had been feeling for weeks—no, since I had arrived at this place months ago—reaching its peak.
My hand throbbed at its contact with the stone, but I did it again, roaring out my fury with every strike. Sweat poured from my brow as my already weak arm shook with the exertion. My throat was raw from my outburst, but I welcomed the pain. At least I was feeling something. I had sat back in numbness for so long, that even hurting, my body felt revitalized, my blood was reborn. It was anger, pure and true, but the emotion was welcome.
So damn welcome.
I panted, slumping against the wall. I smelled the tinny scent of blood; I had ripped the skin off my knuckles.
As if to add fuel to my fire, the commune speakers slowly crackled to life. I waited to hear the voice that sounded identical to mine. When it came, a shudder ran down my back. Judah. Judah, my only family, was fucking everything up. He was unrecognizable to me right now. My chest burned. I rubbed along my sternum to try and ease it. It didn’t work.
My chest tightened at how sad she sounded, how completely defeated. I did not know the woman, but I did not care. She had been the first person I had ever spoken to without an agenda, without the heavy cloud of my devout faith guiding my tongue and actions. She did not know me as the destined prophet. She did not know me as the turncoat rat Hangmen brother. She knew me as the unseen prisoner—a cast-out sinner just like her.
“Harmony, listen to me,” I rasped, and laid my hand against the hard wall. I felt closer to her by doing this. I imagined what she looked like on the other side. She would be beautiful. Every Cursed I had seen was unrivaled in beauty . . . unrivaled in beauty but racked with pain and self-hatred. I knew that now. They were called Cursed because Prophet David deemed their beauty too irresistible to the men in The Order. Too stunning to be godly.
I winced as I imagined what Harmony must have gone through in her life . . . what my brother would do to her once he had her by his side. I did not know why, but that thought turned my blood into scalding lava.
My hand balled into a fist on the wall. “Harmony, where did you just go? Earlier today?”
I held my breath as I waited for her to reply. “To the prophet,” she eventually said. I exhaled sharply.
Gritting my teeth, I asked, “What did he do?” Because I knew my brother. I had seen for myself how the power of being prophet had affected him. Had gone to his head.
I did not want the question to upset her. I did not want to hear her cry. But to my surprise, her voice was strong as she said, “He wanted to make sure I was a Cursed after all. He has never laid eyes on me before today.”
“And?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Yes,” she said softly. “He declared it to be true. I am a Cursed Sister of Eve, the chosen one that he will wed.” I caught a hint of anger in her voice. A flash of resistance. It made me feel a flush of pride. I had never seen her, had only just met her, but I could hear her strength in a few simple words. It warmed something inside me that had previously been ice cold.
Harmony was different. She had fight. The few women I had spoken to in the commune appeared submissive. I could hear in her tone that Harmony was no such thing. She had a fire inside her heart.
She was strong.
A strange sensation settled over me. I was not sure what it was yet, but whatever it was soothed some of the heat in my blood.
“He examined me,” she continued. But the firmness in her voice had dwindled. I heard the hurt pushing through to the surface. She stopped speaking and took a few stuttered breaths.
I opened my mouth, wanting to ask her what Judah had done. But I was not sure I could hear it. That did not matter, because a few seconds later, Harmony said, “He touched me between my legs. He”—she sucked in a sharp breath and my heart broke—“he hurt me. He . . . he touched me where I did not want to be touched.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.
The anger that had ebbed came back full force as Harmony told me what Judah had done. And I could picture him doing it. As we had watched those sick videos of the children dancing seductively for their prophet, Judah had found them a pleasure to see. He had sexually awakened eight-year-old children. He frequently fornicated with Sarai, a girl of just fourteen. He would think nothing of touching a Cursed. He thought them the lowest of the low, his touch the purification they needed to regain salvation.
I was clenching my jaw so hard it ached. Without conscious thought, I drew back my hand and smashed it against the wall. “FUCK!” I shouted, the frustration I had been feeling for weeks—no, since I had arrived at this place months ago—reaching its peak.
My hand throbbed at its contact with the stone, but I did it again, roaring out my fury with every strike. Sweat poured from my brow as my already weak arm shook with the exertion. My throat was raw from my outburst, but I welcomed the pain. At least I was feeling something. I had sat back in numbness for so long, that even hurting, my body felt revitalized, my blood was reborn. It was anger, pure and true, but the emotion was welcome.
So damn welcome.
I panted, slumping against the wall. I smelled the tinny scent of blood; I had ripped the skin off my knuckles.
As if to add fuel to my fire, the commune speakers slowly crackled to life. I waited to hear the voice that sounded identical to mine. When it came, a shudder ran down my back. Judah. Judah, my only family, was fucking everything up. He was unrecognizable to me right now. My chest burned. I rubbed along my sternum to try and ease it. It didn’t work.
