Deep Redemption

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.