“Now, little lamb.” He strokes me in hard, consistent movements.
It doesn’t take long until my body freezes, then bursts outward in an electric blast of release. I cry and writhe, the pleasure more than I’ve ever felt, almost too much for me to bear. When the waves finally crest and fall back into the deep well of the ocean, I go limp, my body too shaky to do anything other than lie down.
He rubs my ass with both hands, soothing the ache. I can’t think, only feel. And I feel everything—his hands, my throbbing clit, the rough sheets beneath me, the need for him that eclipses everything else.
When he drops a kiss on my back, I tremble and turn to him. I need his arms around me, his secrets whispered in my ear. But he backs off the bed, wincing when his feet touch the floor.
“What is it?” Using the last of my strength, I roll to his side of the bed. “What’s wrong with your feet?”
“Nothing.” He pulls on his button-up and straightens the collar. “Stepped on some glass is all.”
“Glass?” My brain can’t connect any dots. Not right now. “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs. “A little, but it’ll heal.”
I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I wish I could fix it—but those are things that can only be whispered in his ear. Not out loud so the Prophet or Grace or whoever can use it against him, can use me against him. I graze the small line on my neck where the Protector cut me while Adam… No, I won’t think of what Adam was doing that night at the bonfire. I can’t.
“Goodnight, little lamb.” He doesn’t kiss me, though I can feel how much he wants to from the heated look in his eye. Turning away, he walks to the door with uncertain, pained steps. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers as he closes the door.
Chapter 20
Adam
Delilah haunts my nightmares, her gray eyes pleading with me as my father carves runes into her flesh with a rusty blade. Protectors hold me back, forcing me to my knees as Noah takes the curved knife, readying it to cut Delilah’s life away in steady strokes.
I wake in a sweat. The TV screen gives the only light in the room, and I turn to watch her sleeping. She’s kicked her sheet off, her dress tangled at her hips as she lies on her stomach. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s beautiful. A pleasant dream, one free from the terrors of the Cloister—that’s what I wish for her as I watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
It soothes me to know she’s beyond the clutches of my father. Safe in slumber, at least for now. I shift onto my back, and pain ricochets up my legs. But I can bear it. That’s the trick—bearing it. Whatever my father throws at me, I can bear it. And I’ll keep on bearing it until it’s time for me to take him down. All I need is a window, and I’m determined to take it the second I see it.
I doze in and out for a few more hours, just catching sight of Delilah is enough to soothe me to sleep in steady swaths. When the sun finally rears its head, I watch as she rises and readies for the morning. She casts a glance at the camera before leaving her room for training. Does she know I’m watching?
Hauling myself out of bed takes some work, but I shamble to the bathroom, using a cleared path through the glass, and turn on the tub faucet. It takes a while to undo Noah’s wraps on my feet, but once they’re clear, I sink into the warm water. The sting reminds me I’m alive, and I get to work washing myself.
Noah’s stumping up my stairs by the time I’m out and toweling off.
The bruises on his face have darkened even more, the first step to healing.
He eyes my feet. “I brought more alcohol and bandages from my place.”
“They’ll be fine.” I finger comb my hair.
“Shut up.” He walks in. “Sit on the counter and try to keep your junk out of my face.”
I turn and slide onto the vanity. “Not my fault it’s so big.”
He laughs a little, and I realize how long it’s been since we’ve done this—actually behaved like brothers instead of two cogs in a crushing machine.
“Shit!” I hiss when he douses the soles of my feet with alcohol. “Your bedside manner could use a little work.”
“Stop crying.” He inspects the cuts. “They aren’t super bad, but if they get infected, you’ll regret it.” After wrapping my feet in gauze, he stands and winces.
“You going to make it?”
“Yeah. Just sore.” He finger combs his own damp hair in my mirror—a younger, lighter version of myself. God, what potential he had. He could be a family man, a lawyer; hell, even a garbage man is better than what we do here. I turn away and hobble to my closet instead of dwelling on all we’ve lost.