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His tongue slides out, wetting his lower lip as he thinks.

“That Angel, especially. She's ripened so quickly, did you notice?”

“Angel? I'm not sure I did notice,” I admit.

I sense the eagerness in his features, so I try to think back. Angel came here when she was in her early teens, but her mother, Melissa, drew most of my attention, and not always in a good way. She has always been teetering on the brink of being lost. On one hand she’s a natural leader, but on the other hand she’s capable of base acts of spite. Keeping her straight is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

In some ways I'm sure being here is a far better life than she would've fo

und outside the compound. But at the same time sometimes I wonder if I've invited a rattlesnake to sleep in our bed. She's prone to anger. Stupid, vengeful fits. And worse, if the rumors are true.

“Of course you noticed her,” he insists. “Flowy, light brown hair. Grown about four inches in the last year. Can barely keep up with the clothes her mother makes for her. Walks around in bare feet all the time.”

He's right. I do know exactly what he means. There's a light to her. She shines. She's so moist, so dewy and fresh, something about her looks like she'd be good to taste. Like candy. Like fruit. And she shines. There’s an honesty there - something that reaches me. I’ve felt her glance sail past me like an arrow during many sermons.

Which is exactly why I have not been looking at her. Some temptations are better to simply ignore.

“I had an idea,” he begins carefully. His eyes flicker toward the book of accounts open in front of me. I feel defensive already, but closing the book would make me look weak.

“She'll be part of the next deflowering,” I assure him. “You’ll have your chance. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

His eyebrows go up. “Are you telling me that I could… execute the ceremony?”

“Absolutely not!” I reply without even thinking. His eagerness is an affront. He puts his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't understand,” he mutters defensively.

“I take the flower, Owen,” I remind him sternly. “It’s my role. It’s my duty.”

He looks away, embarrassed. “Yes, course. Of course you do. I was just thinking… Just never mind. I was just trying to help.”

“I don't need that kind of help,” I growl.

He sighs, his breath coming out through flared nostrils. I'm not sure why I spoke to him so sharply over a girl I barely know. She must be quite a prize. I should definitely take another look at her during my next sermon. Maybe I underestimated her value.

“But she is looking for a Master, right?”

I half stand out of my chair. “All right, Owen, we need to be done with this conversation,” I warn him. “You know the rules. I take the flower. You give the lesson —”

“What if there's more?”

I narrow my eyes at him. He looks up at me, his gaze keen and aggressive.

“What do you mean by more?” I ask him warily.

“Maybe she could be of more help to us? More material help?”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t her mother still owe us quite a bit?”

I sit back in my chair. His eyes skate over the red entries in the book, though I doubt he can really read them from where he is sitting. Still, it is something to consider.

“Are you suggesting Angel could pay her mother's debt?”

He shrugs.

“Owen, is this why you came to talk to me?” I ask. “Did you already have something in motion?”

He shrugs again. The way he’s wringing his hands, I can sense this is something he already thought out. He just didn’t prepare a speech. It’s not his strong suit.