Deep Redemption (Hades Hangmen Book 4) (7 page)

Inside, the house was vast and beautiful, a palace of opulence. I smelled heavy incense drifting in the air.

Solomon led me to a high wooden door. He rapped on the wood three times. A deep voice shouted for us to enter. I forced myself to stand straight. I forced myself to hold my composure.
You can get through this, Harmony. You must.

The door opened and Samson guided me through. There were two guards straight ahead. They held guns, though they were dressed in white tunics rather than their usual black uniforms. They too looked red from exertion . . . no doubt exhausted from the Lord’s Sharing.

We came to a halt. I could not see in front of me; Brother Solomon was blocking my view. The room was silent; the sound of my slow, controlled breathing seemed to fill every inch of space.

Solomon stepped aside. I kept my head down, as Sister Ruth had told me to. Meeting the prophet was the highest honor for our people and the scriptures informed us that certain etiquette was expected.

In my peripheral vision, I saw a man sitting on a large chair in a raised part of the room, two large steps separating him from where the rest of us stood. Above us, as the prophet of The Order should be.

The silence stretched on and on. The prophet rose from his seat. My hands were clasped behind my back, and I was glad of it; my hands were shaking too much to disguise.

They betrayed my fear.

The scent of jasmine filled my nose as the prophet approached. He was wearing white, the color of purity. The prophet’s feet came to a stop before me. I was breathless as I felt his eyes scan my body. I could only see his feet, but I could sense that he was tall and broad.

“Lift your head,” the prophet commanded. I did as ordered, my eyes slowly tracing over his garment, which was open from his navel to his neck, revealing olive skin over taut muscle. His skin was glistening, and I detected the smell of a recent joining on him.

That gave me pause. The new prophet was meant to be pure. Kept innocent for his wife.

But Prophet Cain . . .

“Lift your eyes!” he said, more harshly this time. I did as commanded, to be instantly greeted with his face. Short brown beard, long brown hair and brown eyes.

Much to my annoyance I noted that he was handsome.
Very
handsome. One of the most handsome men I had ever seen. His eyes held me in a predatory stare. Unable to keep our gazes locked so intensely, I lowered my eyes. I saw a smug smile pull on his full lips as I did.

The prophet stepped closer, his bare chest almost touching me. I wrestled with my lungs to find breath. My hands, still clasped behind my back, shook with nerves.

“Harmony,” he said. I lifted my eyes back to his. This time when I met his gaze, I could see an excited glint in their depths. And something else. Something that unnerved me. I had always believed a pair of eyes could tell much about the spirit of a person. Their soul and the nature of their heart. As I studied Prophet Cain’s big brown eyes, all I felt was coldness. A cold and wicked spirit lurked beneath.

Prophet Cain’s lips parted and he dragged in a slow jagged breath. He lifted his hand and ran a fingertip over my forehead. I shivered as he did, but not through pleasure. “Harmony,” he said softly, passionately . . . covetously. “I can only see your eyes, but I can see you are indeed the devil’s whore.”

I swallowed as his fingers drifted to the clasp of my veil. With a flick of his wrist, my veil fell away. But the prophet did not stop there. He pushed back the headdress covering my head. My blond hair hung in waves down my back; my face was unveiled and open for his viewing.

Prophet Cain took a step back and stared. He stared and stared, his chest rising and falling more quickly with every passing second.

“You truly are a Cursed,” he announced, his cheeks flushed. He reached out and combed his fingers through my hair. “I like blondes best,” he said, stepping closer to me. His finger circled under my eyes, “And dark, dark eyes.”

The prophet directed his finger down my cheek, running the tip over my lips. With every new exploration of my features, the prophet’s skin became more and more flushed . . . his eyes seemed to grow darker.

I bit back a moan of protest as his fingers tracked down my neck and onward to my breasts. The prophet’s breathing became heavy as he circled my nipples. I closed my eyes, trying to block out his touch. “Open your eyes, devil’s whore,” he snapped.

I complied, and Prophet Cain rewarded my submissiveness with a proud smile that sent flashes of revulsion to my stomach. Suddenly, Prophet Cain bent down at my feet. For a moment I wondered what he was doing. I did not have to wonder long. He gathered the hem of my dress and slipped his hand underneath. His fingers landed on my bare ankle and slowly traveled up my legs. I whimpered at the feel of his touch on my naked skin, searching for the breath that seemed to have been stolen from my body.

But the prophet did not care. His fingers crawled up my thighs. I could not take any more. Without conscious thought, I reached out and took hold of his wrist, halting his assault. I heard the gasps of people around us.

My eyes widened as I realized what I had done.

The sound of running feet came toward me, no doubt the guards coming to punish me. Prophet Cain held out his free hand, and they stopped.

I stayed still, my hand paralyzed on his. With his free hand, he grasped hold of my wrist. When I met his eyes they were filled with challenge and anger. I opened my mouth to apologize, but my heart would not let me utter the words.

Prophet Cain squeezed my wrist until the pain became an inferno on my skin, my bone under pressure from his vise-like grip. His head tipped to the side as he slowly rose from the floor.

His chest scraped against my breasts, his fingers tightening around my wrist until I released my clutch on his hand on my thigh. He pulled me flush against him, his cheek brushing past mine, his mouth landing next to my ear.

I froze.

The prophet’s hand on my thigh began moving upward to my most private place. I closed my eyes. He was too strong to fight off. I did not even try. He was the
prophet
. No one went against the leader of our faith.

I had to let him do as he wished.

Prophet Cain’s warm breath circled my ear as he exhaled. “A whore that likes to fight before she is celestially cleansed?” I felt him smile against the shell of my ear. “My favorite kind of sinner. One that needs to be broken, then made pure by my hands.” His warm breath brought out cold goosebumps on my neck. “It is the evil resisting my exorcising touch. That evil will never overcome me, whore. You should learn that lesson now.”

On his final word, Prophet Cain cupped me harshly between my legs. I cried out. My wrist, still in his grip, was trapped between our chests, preventing me from moving. The fingers between my thighs began slipping through my folds, slowly. My skin crawled with disgust. Tears of frustration built in my eyes, but I did not let the drops fall. I would not give him that satisfaction. I could not give any of these men that satisfaction.

The prophet ran his explorative fingers over my core, back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to end. “Bare,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire. I felt his hardness pressing against my hip, bile rising in my throat. “You have been prepared well. Ready for your prophet.”

I did not respond. He was not looking for me to say anything anyway. The men in my faith did not care for the feelings of the women.

I breathed deeply, long soothing inhales and exhales. Prophet Cain released me and pushed me backward. I cried out as searing pain radiated in my wrist, the blocked blood rushing to occupy my empty veins. I cradled it to my chest.

When I looked up, Prophet Cain was staring at me. There was challenge and excitement his eyes. At that moment I did not care how handsome the new prophet was, for his dark soul rendered him utterly unattractive to my eyes.

The prophet walked back to his seat, acting as though nothing had transpired between us. My dress remained up at one side, caught in my fallen headdress. I pushed the hem to my feet and clutched my veil and headdress to my chest.

I looked up as a young girl walked from the right-hand side of the room to stand next to the prophet. She was a pretty blonde with blue eyes. My stomach dropped. She looked no older than fourteen. She was just a child.

My stomach dropped further when she placed her hand on Prophet Cain’s shoulder and he covered her hand with his own. He looked up at her, and I could see the affection he held for her in his gaze. She was admiring him with the same, if not a greater, passion.

She was his consort.

I met the young girl’s eyes and was startled at the jealousy and envy shining from their bright depths. She was glaring at me with naked hatred. The prophet did not seem to notice, or care. He brought his lips to the back of her hand, then faced me once more.

“The Rapture is imminent, Cursed. I am sure you are aware of that fact. You will also know our scriptures prophesize that to save our people the prophet must wed a Cursed Sister of Eve.” He leaned forward. “For the longest time we feared all hope had been lost. No Cursed resided in New Zion . . . but now there is
you
.” Our eyes locked. “Just when I fear our Lord has abandoned us, he restores my faith tenfold.” I never broke his stare. I straightened my back and held my head high. Many seconds passed, then Prophet Cain’s upper lip hooked into a smirk.

I kept my face from showing any expression. I appeared stoic on the outside, but inside, I was trembling like a leaf in a storm.

Prophet Cain sat back, taking the girl’s hand in his own. It was obvious he loved the young girl, whatever his brand of love may be. It was even more clear that she was infatuated with him.

“We will wed soon, Cursed,” Prophet Cain declared. “Our people do not even know you exist. Their hope of being saved before the Second Coming is waning.” He pointed at me. “You will renew their spirit. When the time comes for them to take up arms against the devil’s men, you will help them gain the courage to fight.”

I looked at the girl again. The prophet must have seen my curiosity, for he said, “This is Sarai, Cursed. She is my head consort.” He kissed her hand. “She is my only consort at the moment. She is my heart.”

Gripping the material of my headdress tighter, I whispered, “Harmony.” I shook my head, unable to stop the anger bubbling under my skin. Unable to hold back my words.

“What?” the prophet asked, turning his attention away from his consort. I raised my head. My lips trembled when I saw his furious glare.

Swallowing, I cast a nervous look around the room. The guards were all staring at me in shock. I saw Solomon and Samson clenching their jaws in frustration. They were disappointed by my inability to be submissive.

“I said,
what?
” he repeated, his voice harder.

I rolled my head to face him and, chasing my nerves away, replied, “Harmony.”

The prophet cocked his head to the side. Sarai glared at me. “You dare to tell him your name?” she asked, her sweet voice laced with the most potent venom. I suddenly saw why the prophet liked this girl. She was a child with the savage spirit of a twisted woman twice her age. Pretty but cruel. Prophet Cain looked up at her with pride. He looked at me, and his face became a mask of disdain.

Prophet Cain rose to his feet and slowly walked down the steps to stand before me again. I kept my head down, staring at the stone floor. His fingers landed under my chin and tilted my head up. My gaze found his brown eyes. There was absolutely no trace of kindness, nothing to make me believe our new prophet was a good man. “Tell me, Cursed. Why do you think I would want to know your name?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I did not respond. Prophet Cain lowered his face until it was opposite mine. He smiled, but it was a cold, demeaning sneer. “You are a product of the devil. You have been perfectly created for a single sinful purpose—to tempt pure and God-fearing men. Your name is nothing, just as
you
are nothing. You will be nothing until you are wed and I cleanse you of your innate immoral allurement. A prophet’s greatest battle is defeating the devil himself. The devil that created you as his vehicle to make good men fall.”

Prophet Cain stroked my cheek. “Even as I stand here now, I can feel your pull. I want you, devil’s whore. You are quite literally the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.” My eyes widened as his eyes darkened with need. But quick as a snake, his hand drew back and sliced across my cheek. Taken off guard, I stumbled on the uneven stone floor. I fell, shielding my face from further strikes. He crouched down beside me. I flinched as he lifted his hand again . . . but all he did was push back his long brown hair.

“Your name is nothing to me, Cursed. And from now until the coming Armageddon, you will do well not to use that viper’s tongue around me. I will not tolerate insolence, especially from those born and designed to take me into sin.”

Prophet Cain signaled to Solomon and Samson. They crossed the room, and Samson dragged me to my feet. “Take her back to the cell,” the prophet ordered. “The wedding will be soon. Tell her guardians to make sure she is ready.”

“Yes, my lord,” Solomon replied. Without giving me time to cover my head or veil my face, they took me from the room and out of the mansion. We hurried down the gravel path and over the grass that took us back to the cellblock.