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Haven

In the morning, I wake up before Isaiah and slip out of bed. My body is sore from last night, but that won’t change Isaiah’s expectations of me. I’m back. That means I’m responsible for all the things I was before I ran away.

I quietly get dressed for the day in the bathroom. I’m the same size as I was when I left, so all my dresses still fit. I choose a light purple one, hoping it’ll give me some hope, but when I look in the mirror, my face falls.

My hair. The short tufts are so obvious. It’s what Isaiah wants, but I refuse to let him win—at least, with something like this.

It takes me a few tries, but I’m able to weave most of the shorter strands into a crown braid. I pin the rest down and use a bit of hairspray that definitely expired years ago to keep them flat. It’s not perfect, but it’s much better than what Isaiah intended.

Once I’m done in the bathroom, I tiptoe downstairs. The kitchen is still organized exactly like it was before I left, so everything is easy to find.

Anger roils inside me as I get the coffee started. In a matter of hours, I’ve had everything I’ve worked for stolen from me. I was pulled back to the one place that I promised myself I’d never return to.

Cornerstone has always had its claws in me, and I’m finally realizing I’ll never be free.

When Isaiah comes downstairs, the coffee is finished, and I’m almost done with his breakfast. His gaze lingers on my hair, and his frown is disapproving, but he doesn’t say anything.

I feel too sick to eat, and he doesn’t comment when I only serve him food. Sitting at the table with him has my skin crawling, but it’s better than the alternative.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks nonchalantly.

Like he didn’t kidnap me yesterday.

Like he didn’t rip my clothes off and rape me before bed.

Like he didn’t keep me trapped against him all night.

“I slept fine.”

When Isaiah sets his mug on the table too harshly, I jump. It’s a mistake, showing fear, but it was an involuntary reaction.

“So did I,” he says, annoyed. “Thank you for asking.”

I drop my gaze to my lap. “Sorry.”

He pushes his mug across the table until it’s right in front of me. There’s no need to ask me to refill it. Why ask someone to do their job?

“Are you on birth control?” Isaiah asks as I pour his coffee.

“No,” I lie.

Thank god I went with an IUD instead of the pill.

“Good,” Isaiah says. “Tomorrow, you have an appointment at the clinic. I want the women’s doctors to look you over.”

I freeze. “What? Why?”

“You couldn’t get pregnant before. We tried for three years. I’m not about to wait three more. I want you pregnant by the end of summer.”

Isaiah’s mug slips from my hands and falls to the floor. Hot coffee splashes onto my bare feet and legs, but the pain barely registers.

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

“Heaven,” Isaiah says impatiently.

He’s right in front of me now, but I can’t look at him. I can’t move at all.

My lack of acknowledgment earns me a slap across the face. It forces me back to the reality of where I am and who I’m with. Of who I’m going to become if I can’t escape again.

“Clean this up, and then get ready for church,” Isaiah snaps. “I don’t want you making us late.”

. . .

The walk to church is just as I remember it, except now, Isaiah has a firm grip on my arm as we make our way down the path. We pass by the school, and then the medical center, and then the large community garden.

When the gate that leads outside comes into view, I’m surprised to still find two men guarding it. Disappointment spirals through me as I realize what that means.

“Are they not attending the service?”

Isaiah shakes his head. “Whoever works the gate shift Sunday morning has a private meeting with Pastor Beckham and the elders later in the day for prayer, teaching, and worship. We can’t risk leaving it unattended.”

Glancing back, I get one more good look at the gate. I can’t get past two armed men. Even if I did, what about the men in the towers around the perimeter? Would they shoot me down if I escaped, or let me go?

Isaiah snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the road. Fury is etched into his expression, and this close, I can see the pale freckles across his cheeks that’ll darken over the summer.

“Stop it,” he grits out. “Stop thinking of ways to escape. It’s not going to happen, you hear me? If I have a say in it, you’re never stepping foot outside these grounds ever again.”

“E… ever again?” I ask faintly.

“Yes. Now, mov—”

“Not even for grocery shopping? Or—”

“Never. Ruth has done my shopping since you left. She’ll continue with that. If you earn my trust, then maybe I’ll consider letting you go with her.”

Grabbing my wrist, Isaiah drags me away from the gate. I stumble after him, my thoughts derailed by the mention of my old friend. I’ve wondered about her almost daily, hoping she’s all right. That Samuel treats her better than Isaiah ever treated me.

Not that the bar is very high.

As we approach the church, a buzzing sound comes from above. We both look up, and Isaiah stops in his tracks at the drone that’s hovering over us.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit much for security purposes?” I ask dryly.

“It’s not ours,” Isaiah says tightly.

My eyes snap up to the drone again. If it’s not Cornerstone’s, then…

Oh my god.

Could it be them? Maybe they’re trying to get a good look at the inside of the compound so they can find me.

“Abraham,” Isaiah barks as he drags me away, “shoot it down.”

One of the men near the gate raises his gun. Three shots ring out, and when I jump, Isaiah pulls me into him protectively. The drone clatters to the ground a second later.

My heart sinks. Even if it was the boys looking for me, what good will it do? They can’t get in here without the same thing happening to them. I don’t want them to die trying to get me out.

“Inside,” Isaiah bites out. “Now.”

I force myself to turn away from the drone and take the stone steps in front of me. Cornerstone Church is the largest building here aside from the community center. Technically they’re one building, but they were built separately and then connected with a single hallway before I was born.

When I was younger, I heard the story of a few super rich members joining when Beckham founded Cornerstone. I was in awe of the fact that they gave all their money to God. Now I see Beckham’s scheme for what it is.

Indoctrination.

Manipulation.

Thievery.

The church looms over us as we ascend the steps, the sun rising behind it and casting us in shadow. It’s modeled after older Gothic European cathedrals, right down to the towers, arches, and stained glass windows.

When I was younger, it used to be where I felt closest to God.

Now it feels like a prison.

“You’re going to behave,” Isaiah growls in my ear. “You’ve already embarrassed me once. If you do it again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“I’ll be good,” I say, keeping my voice soft. It grates against my nerves, but I know what he expects—what everyone needs from me to believe that I’m repentant.

I can pretend to be regretful. I can don a demeanor of meekness and submission. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

We enter through the main set of double doors. They’re at least fifteen feet tall and painted red to symbolize Christ’s blood washing us clean from the week’s sins.

Memories flood me, ones of running around and playing hide and seek with Ruth and other children. They’re quickly followed by ones of getting scolded for that, of being reminded that young ladies shouldn’t be so rambunctious.

Fighting the scowl that threatens to take over my face, I let Isaiah lead me into the large, high-ceiling entryway. There’s a coat closet to the right, a crying room up against the sanctuary, and stairs that lead to a balcony upstairs.

The first person my eyes land on is Ruth. She’s holding a toddler and smiling as an older woman places a hand on her stomach. When I look closer, I see Ruth’s baby bump. She’s probably around six months along, and as always, she’s glowing.

When Ruth looks up, her gaze locks on mine. A range of emotions play across her face. Recognition first, then relief, and then pity. She moves toward me, but Samuel puts a firm hand on her shoulder. Ruth looks up at him in protest, be he shakes his head.

Isaiah guides me through the lobby and into the sanctuary. When I look back, Ruth is watching me with helpless longing in her eyes. I give her a tiny, discreet wave, and she smiles back.

“Heaven.” Isaiah tugs me forward. “Come on.”

My mom is standing in the aisle between pews talking to a few other women. When she spots me, she politely excuses herself and makes her way over to us. She’s wearing a long dress with blue flowers on it. I recognize it from my childhood. It’s more worn now, but it still brings out the blue in her eyes.

“Heaven.” She wraps me up in her arms. “Oh, my girl, I’ve missed you.”

I squeeze her tight. “I missed you, too, Mom. How are you?”

“All right.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “The Lord is good.”

It takes all my willpower to not physically recoil at that phrase. Up close, I can see the gray strands in my mother’s long brown hair. She seems tired. Really tired. I don’t think that’s the way she’d look if her Lord was actually good.

“I’m glad you’re home.” Mom takes my hand. “I’ve already requested you be placed back in the kitchens with me. There’s so much missed time we have to make up for.”

“That sounds nice,” I lie.

Working in the kitchen is one of the most miserable jobs at Cornerstone. There’s always something going on—community-wide canning events, meals after church or for special occasions, et cetera. The kitchen is hot, you never get a break, and the women are always singing or reciting Bible verses to each other.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Isaiah says. “Right now, we—”

“Heaven!” a girl cries. It takes a moment for me to realize it’s one of my little sisters. She’s so much taller now than she was when I left.

“Esther!” I step toward her, my heart soaring, but Mom stops me.

“Heaven, no.”

I stare at her in confusion. “I just want to hug her.”

With glassy eyes, my mother shakes her head. “Your father… he decided it’s best for you to stay away from your siblings. It’s only a temporary measure, I promise. We just need to make sure that you won’t be a bad influence.”

“A bad—” I lose my breath, and my knees threaten to go weak. “Mom, they’re my siblings.”

“And you abandoned them for a life of sin,” Isaiah says coldly. His arm hooks around mine. “Now, come on. We need to sit down.”

He drags me past Esther, who looks equal parts hurt and confused. For some reason, Isaiah has us sit in the very front row. The stage is right in front of us, a raised platform with a large wooden pulpit in the center. Behind it is a wall of stained glass windows flanking a cross.

Everything is as I remember it, just smaller.

And darker.

“Ven.”

My heart skips a beat at that name. Only one person uses it for me, and it’s because he couldn’t pronounce my full name when he was little.

I whirl around and immediately fling myself into my brother’s arms. “Jeremiah!”

He’s taller than I am now, and much stronger than I remember. Still, my chest aches when I pull away and look up at him. He’s nineteen—old enough that Mom and Dad can’t tell him what to do—but he still looks so young.

“You remember Naomi?” he asks, nodding to the blonde girl next to him.

“Of course I do.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ve thought about you a lot, sweet girl.”

“So have I.” She gives me a watery smile and holds up her left hand. “We’re sisters now.”

My stomach cramps. Jeremiah was one of the sweetest boys at Cornerstone, and I hope that hasn’t changed. But regardless of how well he treats Naomi, both of them are only nineteen.

The harsh reminder of the realities of living in this place hit me like a punch to the gut. I smile anyway—I have to.

“I’m so glad!” I exclaim as I take her hand to get a closer look at the ring. “When did this happen?”

“Two summers ago,” Naomi says. She’s beaming, and when she glances at Jeremiah and sees him grinning at her, she blushes.

“Congratulations,” I say softly. “I’m really happy for you both.”

Isaiah clears his throat behind me, and I don’t miss the way Jeremiah’s smile fades. Other than Mom, he was the only one who ever challenged our father’s decision to have me marry Isaiah.

“Sit,” Isaiah orders.

“We’ll catch you after the service,” Jeremiah says as he squeezes my shoulder. “Missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” I whisper.

A few more people stop by to say hello—Isaiah’s family, mostly. He fields all their questions while I sit there obediently. When the opening song starts, everyone scatters to find their seats, and Isaiah places a hand on my thigh.

It makes me want to claw at his skin until the church’s floor is stained with his blood.

The service starts, and I’m unsurprised that it’s exactly what I remember. We begin with a song, then a prayer, then a Bible reading, and then it all repeats two more times.

The hymns strike me as horribly off-base. We sing about a loving God, yet all I can think of is the God I was raised to believe in. The one who murdered children, who let his people stay enslaved for hundreds of years, who sees a lifetime of sin and decides it should be met with an eternity of punishment.

When we get to the point where Pastor Beckham is supposed to preach, he stops before getting onto the stage. Facing the congregation, he says, “Before we move on to my message, I have wonderful news. Thanks to her father, Hezekiah, and her husband, Isaiah, our prodigal daughter Heaven Titus has been brought home safely after almost four years.”

I go still, and it’s not until Isaiah is painfully gripping my wrist that I realize Beckham has called us to stand with him.

“Get up,” Isaiah hisses quietly.

It doesn’t feel like my legs will support my body as I slowly stand, but I don’t fall. Isaiah places a hand on my back and leads me so we’re in front of the stage. He stands on one side of Beckham, and I stand on the other, just like we were when we got married.

“Heaven has spent her time out in the world rebelling against God in a variety of ways: disobedience to our heavenly father, unfaithfulness to her husband, immodesty, prostitution—” Pastor Beckham pauses as the room fills with gasps. He clears his throat to quell the following murmurs. “Defiling her body with tattoos, rejecting our Lord Jesus Christ as her savior, and pursuing drunkenness.”

My lips part as I stare up at Isaiah in shock. He’s the one who told everything to Beckham. Who else could’ve? And he knew. Isaiah knew Beckham would state it all publicly. In front of my friends. In front of my siblings.

“The scriptures are clear on what’s to be done with a woman who commits adultery,” Beckham continues. “But with Jesus’s sacrifice for us comes a new hope—one of forgiveness and eternal life, should her husband find her deserving of it. If he doesn’t, he reserves the right to enact God’s justice on her.”

God’s justice.

This is one of the mysteries that had me questioning Beckham as a teen. He’d preach about God’s love, about how even the worst sins were forgivable, as long as we repented. But then when it came to women who were out of line, the rules were flipped on their head.

All of a sudden, it was up to the men who had authority over her to decide if she was worthy of God’s forgiveness—of a second chance—or if she was a lost cause.

Back then, I fully believed in that twisted version of justice. I trusted my parents, trusted Beckham. But when I watched a woman get killed because she fell for a man who wasn’t her husband—her abusive husband—I understood. Cornerstone’s rules aren’t biblical. They’re placed over women by the men who want to keep us compliant and controlled.

“Now, our dearest Heaven, do you repent?” Beckham asks me. He used to offer me a warm, charming smile whenever we crossed paths, but now his expression is grim, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I do.”

There’s no hesitation in my voice. There can’t be.

Beckham nods. “Isaiah, take her hands.”

He does.

“Do you forgive her?” Beckham asks, nodding to everyone in the pews. “Tell your family.”

“I, Isaiah Titus, choose to forgive my wife, Heaven Titus, for her unfaithfulness and rebellion against God,” Isaiah says, facing the congregation. “When I married her, I promised to love her the same way Christ loves the Church. I’ll continue to do so. I’ll lead her back to him so she can experience the fullness of his love yet again.”

“May God’s grace follow you both, and may his will be done,” Beckham says, and then everyone in the congregation repeats it.

Isaiah tips my chin up, and when I meet his gaze, I’m startled by the tenderness in his eyes. An act, put on for the hundreds of people watching us, but it’s terrifyingly convincing.

“I forgive you,” he murmurs before pressing his lips to mine in a chaste kiss.

It feels like he’s twisting the key to the cage he’s shoved me in, and he has no intention of ever letting me out.

“This is just the beginning of Isaiah and Heaven’s reunion,” Beckham says as we make our way back to our pew. “I would like to invite everyone back here at seven tomorrow night to witness the renewal of their marriage vows.”

What? Oh god.

I glance at Isaiah to see if he’s as shocked as I am, but he’s staring forward, stone-faced.

“To the young women in this room, take this as an important lesson. God has placed men over you to guide you and protect you. These men—our elders, your fathers, your husbands—have accepted God’s wisdom into their hearts.”

Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

“Trust them,” Beckham says. “Serve them. Obey them. They’ll lead you closer to God, but you have to let them.”

I close my eyes. As he goes on, I drown him out with thoughts of the boys.

They’ll come for me. I know they’ll come for me.

I just hope they aren’t too late.