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“This failure is not your fault,” the Prophet growls. “Be at ease.”

Releasing one of my arms, the Prophet tugs me along with him as he glides toward his throne.

I don’t resist. I don’t try to fight him. Knowing it would be completely fruitless. If he can blast Raphael out of this existence, what hope do I have of escaping?

Instead, my eyes dart frantically around the area, confirming it’s the room where he had me stripped naked and kneeling before him.

But the room has changed. The throne, bookshelves, and drapes are still here, yet nothing is dusty or falling apart. Everything is in pristine condition. Even the floor gleams as if it was scrubbed and polished recently.

The Prophet takes his seat on his throne, and instead of forcing me to kneel before him, he pulls me down until I’m sitting in his lap.

My entire being wants to jump out of my skin. To be anywhere than where I am. There’s just something about his body pressing against mine, about the aura and power radiating off him, that makes me want to run, screaming in terror.

His hand lifts, his bone-white fingers lightly caressing my cheek, and it takes all of my willpower to keep from flinching away.

“My dear, beloved, child, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he croons with a musical lilt to his voice.

Out of everything that has happened so far, the way he croons, his voice saturated with affection, is the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced.

Even more terrifying than being trapped in a room full of vampires who could rip my throat out in less than a millisecond.

His fingers close around my chin, holding my face in place and forcing me to stare into the black abyss inside his hood. “Where have you been?”

I know I should answer him if I don’t want to experience pain or punishment, but I don’t know what to tell him. Does he want to know I’ve been with Raphael and his friends? Or what happened before that?

“I want to know all of it,” he says.

I involuntarily shudder, hating that he read my mind again. I have nothing. I own nothing. Not even my own thoughts.

Nothing is sacred.

“Would this make it easier?” he asks, before his visage transforms in front of my eyes.

The dark abyss inside his hood melts away, reminding me of Raphael coming out of his shadow form, and a face appears.

A face so beautiful it hurts my eyes.

Where Raphael looks like the Devil, the Prophet looks like an angel sent down from the heavens.

His hair flows around his face and over his shoulders. Long, blond, and gleaming as if every strand was painstakingly crafted from gold. The shape and bone structure of his face is somehow both strong and delicate at the same time. His cheekbones and chin are bold and sharp, but his eyes and lips are big and soft.

Shimmering sky-blue eyes peer at me, full of unwanted affection and tenderness.

Staring at his new appearance, I get the impression I’m gazing upon something holy and sacred that few get to witness.

I should feel honored, and I’m pretty sure that’s what he expects me to feel.

But I don’t.

In another life, I might find him the most alluring man I’ve ever seen. So alluring, I may have done anything just to be close to him.

To worship him like all the others in the Order have…

Yet I still believe with all my heart for some unfathomable reason that Raphael, with his dark, devilish look, is more handsome.

The Prophet’s fingers suddenly dig harder into my chin, causing me to cry out in pain.

Something moves in the corner of my eye and Jeffrey says, “Your Holiness…” as if he’s worried about me.