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Especially since it feels like he spends most of his time bullying me.

Head swiveling on his neck, Jeffrey takes in my small cell through narrowed eyes, as if he’s searching for a threat. When he spots nothing out of place, he turns his attention to me.

Glaring at me through the blond hair falling into his eyes, he snaps, “What happened?”

Pulling the blanket up to my chin, I clutch it in a white-knuckled grip.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.

Eyes narrowing until they’re mere slits, Jeffrey stares into my eyes with suspicion.

I resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny, my heart racing with fear.

He never believes a word I say. Not since the day Sister Agatha turned him against me. He’s been taught that my sole purpose in life is to tempt him and lead him astray, and he fully believes it with every fiber of his being.

His gaze dips, focusing on the way I’m gripping the blanket, and I can practically see the wheels in his head spinning.

“It was just a bad dream,” I insist. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Oh?” he asks, narrowed gaze flicking back up.

I nod my head and sink back against my headboard.

The way he’s looking at me, with that wrinkle appearing between his brows, it’s clear he’s not buying a word I’m saying.

It’s not a complete lie, though. I truly did have a bad dream. He just doesn’t need to know about my period.

If I can somehow keep him from discovering it, keep Sister Agatha from knowing, perhaps I can figure out a way to hide it.

“What were you dreaming about?” he asks almost casually, as if he’s truly interested.

But I smell the trap instantly.

He’s never casual, and he’s never truly interested in anything I have to say.

We don’t converse in the way normal people do.

I’m forced to endure his company daily, but our interactions mainly consist of him keeping watch over me and ordering me about.

I’m not a real person to him. I’m his charge. His responsibility. A burden he must bear. Not a confidant. Not a friend.

Not even an acquaintance worth his breath.

“Were you dreaming about the fires of Hell, perhaps, and all the torment you’ll endure?” he asks as he takes a menacing step toward my bed.

Before I can even respond to that, he answers the question himself. “No… dreams like that wouldn’t frighten you, would they? They would be comforting. You want to bask in the flames. You want to lead every man there to join in your unholy dance.”

There’s anger in his words, as if I’ve somehow personally offended him in some way. Most of it probably comes from being shackled to me day after day.

But I’ve noticed it’s been becoming worse and more frequent over the past few weeks, like my awful urges. He’s quick to snap at me for the littlest of things lately. Quick to lose his temper and lash out at me.

“I have no desire to lead men anywhere,” I exhale in denial, knowing it’s pointless.

Regardless of what I say, Jeffrey and the entire Order itself believes the worst of me. I’ve done nothing, said nothing, to support their beliefs. I’m so careful of how I act, of what I say and do.

I live every day on pins and needles, knowing even the smallest of things will give them more reason to hate me.

But unless God Himself descends from Heaven and declares me to be clean and untainted, they won’t be swayed.