Page 57

T he floor was hard underneath my skin, cold seeping into my bones. Something wet and sticky matted my hair to the splintered wooden planks. I blinked, taking in my surroundings through a haze of pain.

My lips throbbed with every heartbeat, the partially sewn stitches pulling at my torn flesh. Blue thread caked with dried gore connected my upper and lower lips in three crude, uneven points. The first two stitches were tight, almost professional, but the third had torn slightly, leaving a jagged hole that leaked fresh warmth. My tongue probed cautiously at the inside of my mouth, each subtle movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through my face.

I tried to sit up, only to fall back with a muffled cry as the room spun counterclockwise. The cabin was falling apart at the seams. Water stains darkened the corners of the ceiling, spreading like disease across the cracked wood. Mold crept up the walls where rain had seeped through gaps in the warped siding. What little furniture remained—a rickety table, two mismatched chairs—might have been salvaged from a dump. A single bulb dangled from a frayed cord, casting sickly yellow light that barely reached the corners. The whole place reeked of rot, damp, and something else—despair, maybe.

A floorboard creaked. I jerked toward the sound, every muscle tensing despite the pain it caused.

"H-Hello?" A soft voice called from the shadows.

My breath hitched at the unfamiliar voice, the movement tearing at my partial stitches. Fresh liquid trickled down my chin as I winced. I squinted into the dimness, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A figure emerged from the corner, stepping into the weak light, and I blinked in surprise.

She was ethereal—otherworldly beautiful in a way that seemed impossible in this rotting hell. Platinum blonde hair, so pale it was almost white, fell in tangled waves past her shoulders like spun moonlight. Her face belonged in a stained glass window—delicate features carved from porcelain, all sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks that spoke of too many missed meals. But it was her eyes that stopped my breath. Sapphire blue, so vivid they seemed to glow against her translucent skin, wide with the kind of terror that never fully left. She couldn't have been more than five-foot-two. Her frame was so thin I could trace every bone beneath paper-white skin—collarbones jutting like bird wings. The dress she wore hung like a burial shroud, swallowing her tiny form entirely.

She hovered near the wall, one trembling hand pressed against the rotting wood like it was the only thing keeping her upright. When she moved toward me, it was with tiny, hesitant steps—each one a negotiation with terror, ready to bolt at the first loud sound.

"W-Where am I?" My throat felt like sandpaper, the words mumbled through my partially sewn lips.

Her eyes fixated on my mouth, horror flickering across her features before she composed herself. She took another hesitant step forward, then froze when I flinched.

"I-I am Callista. A-And you a-are?" Her voice was barely a whisper, so soft I had to strain to hear it. She stuttered over her own name like she wasn't sure she deserved to claim it. Her fingers—long, skeletal, with blue veins mapping her translucent skin—twisted frantically in the hem of her dress. "I am to provide services for the men residing here."

“O-Oakley.” I didn't like the way she said provide services. I slurred through the stitches, careful not to move my lips too much, "Where is here?"

"Divine Diligence." The words fell from her lips like a death sentence.

I tried to sit up again, more slowly this time. Pain shot through my skull, but I managed to prop myself against the wall. The effort left me dizzy and nauseous, my vision swimming with black spots. The room tilted dangerously before settling into focus.

Callista darted to a small table, returning with a chipped bowl. She knelt beside me, her movements quick and nervous, like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest threat. She held up a damp rag. "M-May I?"

I nodded weakly, and she began dabbing at my temple with surprising gentleness. The water was cold, but her touch was careful, avoiding the worst of my injuries.

"Who are you?" I asked, studying her face, each word sending fresh pain through my stitches. Up close, I could see the fine network of scars at her hairline, disappearing beneath blonde strands. "Why are you helping me?"

Her sapphire eyes darted to the door before meeting mine again, terror flickering across her features like candlelight. "I-I told you. I am Callista."

"That's not what I meant."

Her hands trembled like autumn leaves. "I was b-born here. This is... all I know." The admission seemed to physically pain her, shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow. "I t-tend to the injured when needed."

A shadow crossed her angelic face. She glanced toward the door, then the window, flinching at every creak of the old cabin. "G-gone." She whispered the word like a forbidden prayer, barely breathing it into existence. "They... they l-left. But I stayed. My s-sister—" She cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath, eyes widening as if she'd said something dangerous. "She p-promised to come back for me someday."

I reached out, wincing at the effort, and touched her wrist. Her skin was cold despite the stuffy air in the cabin. "How long ago was that?"

"Three years, two months, and s-sixteen days." Her answer broke my heart, the way she stuttered through the count like each number was a wound that wouldn't heal.

"You've been counting."

She nodded, resuming her gentle ministrations. "Time is... important to track. It is easy to lose yourself here."

"Why not leave with them?" I asked, trying to understand why anyone would remain in this hellhole willingly. Her hands trembled violently, the porcelain skin of her wrists so thin I could see her pulse racing beneath.

The door crashed open before she could finish, wood cracking against the already battered wall. Callista scrambled back, pressing herself into the corner like she was trying to disappear into the rotting wood itself. Her entire body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, those sapphire eyes blown wide with pure fear.

Daphne strode in, flanked by four men. She surveyed the room with calculating eyes, her gaze lingering on my partially stitched mouth with sick satisfaction.

"6325 probably knows about the tracker in the ring, Father Sal." Daphne's words sent ice through my veins. "Him and his family are already on their way if I had to take a guess." She spat the word "family" like it was poison on her tongue.

Father Sal—gray-bearded with eyes like flint—fixed his stare on me. "Enough, Daphne. Bring her to me." His voice carried the authority of someone unused to being questioned.

Two pairs of hands seized my arms, hauled me upright with bruising force. My legs buckled beneath me, but they didn't let me fall—just dragged me forward, my toes scraping against the rough wooden floor. My vision swam with the sudden movement, bile rising in my throat.

They shoved me in front of Father Sal, forcing me to my knees.

"This does not belong to you." His voice was eerily gentle, almost grandfatherly. His thumb brushed over my wedding band, rolling it against my knuckle.

"I-It's my wedding ring."

His face hardened. "And you think that makes it yours?" He clicked his tongue. "Your arrogance is remarkable for someone in your position."

"P-please," Callista's voice trembled from the corner, so quiet it was almost lost in the ambient horror. "She d-does not understand our ways."

"Her ignorance does not excuse her theft."

A younger man shifted beside him. "Father, shall we?—"

"Remove the ring, John." Father Sal commanded, gesturing to the two men holding me.

"Hold her," John ordered. Rough hands grabbed my left arm, pulling me to stand before pinning it to the table as I tried to struggle.

One of them twisted my arm, wrenching my shoulder until I cried out. Another grabbed my head, forcing it down so I could see what they were about to do. Panic clawed at my insides, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

The youngest of them wrapped his fingers around my ring, twisting it brutally. The ring wouldn't budge. He yanked harder, tearing skin, but the band remained firmly in place.

"It won't come off," he grunted, frustration evident in his voice.

Father Sal studied my hand. I could almost see him weighing options, calculating the most efficient solution. His eyes hardened as he reached his decision. "Cut her finger off."

The world tilted. My vision tunneled. Those four words echoed in my skull like a death knell, reverberating against my bones until they became my heartbeat, my breath, my entire existence reduced to the horror of what he'd just condemned me to.

"No!" The word exploded from me, stitches tearing as I screamed. Hot liquid poured down my chin, but I barely felt it. "No no no!" I thrashed wildly, adrenaline lending me strength I didn't know I possessed. Every muscle in my body convulsed, fighting against the hands that held me. I managed to wrench one arm free, clawing at the face of the man nearest me. My nails caught flesh, drawing wetness that meant nothing compared to what they were about to take from me.

The blow came from nowhere—a closed fist connecting with my temple. Stars burst behind my eyes as pain exploded through my skull. My body went limp for crucial seconds, long enough for them to regain control. When my vision cleared, terror had stripped away every defense I'd ever built.

"What are you doing?" I sobbed, my voice pitched high with terror, breaking on every syllable. Across the room, Callista had pressed her hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks. Her ethereal face was a canvas of absolute horror, those sapphire eyes reflecting my fate back at me like broken mirrors.

Father Sal's expression didn't change. "The ring is stuck, yes?" He gestured to my ring. "So we must take what is ours by other means."

"You can't—" My voice broke. The words died in my throat as one of them placed a wooden block beneath my splayed hand. The surface was stained dark with old gore, countless other victims who had bled out their agony on this altar of righteousness.

"Hold her wrist down," he commanded, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone ordering dinner.

This couldn't be happening.

A fist knotted in my hair, yanking my head back so hard that stars burst behind my eyelids. My arm was forced down onto the table, five sets of hands pinning me in place like I was being crucified. One on my elbow. One on my forearm. One on my wrist. One spreading my fingers apart. One pressing my palm flat against the rough wood stained with the essence of those who came before me. The cold surface pressed against my cheek where they'd slammed my head down.

I wasn't the first. I wouldn't be the last.

My breath hitched in my chest, coming in sharp, panicked gasps that made my ribs ache. Hot tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, running sideways across my temple and into my hair. Salt stung the raw wounds on my face, but I couldn't feel anything beyond the terror consuming me from the inside out.

"P-Please don't do this," I gasped. "Don't?—"

Father Sal laid the hacksaw aside, reaching instead for a cleaver. The blade caught the light as he tested its edge with his thumb, nodding in satisfaction at the bead that welled up. He wiped it clean on his shirt, leaving a dark smear across the white fabric.

Someone pinched my ring finger, stretching it away from the others. I tried to make a fist, tried to pull away, but they held me too tightly. I caught Callista's gaze across the room.

The world slowed to the heartbeat before death. I could see everything with crystalline clarity—the rust spots on the blade, the way Father Sal's knuckles had gone white around the handle, the single drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. Light danced along the cutting edge like a serpent's smile.

Time stopped. The cleaver hung suspended like judgment day before they brought it down full force.

The world exploded into an agony so complete, so total, that my consciousness shattered like glass. Pain beyond description, beyond human comprehension, consumed every nerve ending in my body. It wasn't just in my finger—it radiated up my arm, across my chest, down my spine, setting fire to every cell. My entire being became nothing but screaming nerve endings and the wet sound of metal chopping through bone.

I felt everything. The blade biting through skin, slicing tendons like rubber bands snapping. The way it caught on bone for just an instant before Father Sal leaned his weight into it, forcing it through. The wet crunch as it severed the joint. The hot splash across my arm, my face, the table.

The scream shredded my vocal cords. It went on and on until my lungs were empty, until my throat was shredded, until there was nothing left inside me.

My wedding ring glinted on the severed finger on the floor, mocking me.

"The ring is ours again," the pastor said, scooping up my severed finger like a trophy. Dark liquid dripped from the ragged end, pattering on the floor in a rhythm that matched my dying heartbeat.

I watched through tears and shock as he held up my detached finger. My mind woozy, trying to protect me from the pain that was making my vision blur.

Daphne's face loomed over mine, her eyes bright with vindictive satisfaction. She gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. Her thumb pressed into where the stitches had torn free, grinding salt into every laceration.

I collapsed, clutching my mutilated hand to my chest. Liquid pulsed from the ragged stump in sickening waves, soaking through my clothes and pooling beneath me. The room spun wildly, faces blurring as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. I was bleeding out, dying by degrees, and they were going to let me.

"Go to the outer banks and place this in the empty cabin," I heard him say, handing over my severed finger—our ring still on it—as casually as if passing communion wine.

The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was Callista's face, her eyes overflowing with tears.

I woke to white-hot agony and the sound of my own screaming echoing off rotting walls. The pain hit before consciousness fully returned, dragging me back to a world I didn't want to inhabit anymore.

Callista recoiled from me, apologies tumbling from her lips like broken prayers. "I-I'm s-sorry." Her delicate hands trembled as she clutched a roll of bandages, those otherworldly features etched with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her sockets—she'd been tending to me through whatever hell the last day had been, probably terrified the entire time.

"W-What are you doing?" My voice was destroyed, throat raw from screaming, but the words came out clearly. I touched my lips in surprise—the torn stitches were gone. The wounds were tender and swollen, but I could speak without the blue thread pulling at my flesh.

"I w-wish for your wounds to not get infected."

"My mouth..." I began, running my tongue over the raw flesh where the stitches had been.

"I r-removed the threads while you were unconscious," Callista whispered, her ethereal face creased with worry. "They were t-torn and dirty. I was afraid they would make you sick."

I was numb everywhere except where my finger used to be. That burned like I was being butchered, like the cleaver was falling in an endless loop of agony. I tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed me back down.

"You lost s-so much b-blood," Callista murmured, carefully wrapping clean bandages around the stump. Her touch was impossibly gentle, but even the softest pressure sent lightning up my arm. "They... they l-left you here. They said God would d-decide if you lived or died."

"How long was I out?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"A f-few hours." Her voice broke on the words, those ethereal features crumpling with guilt.

I couldn't answer. Couldn't move. My eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden wall, my entire being reduced to that single point of focus while my world crumbled around the edges. Every heartbeat sent fresh agony through the raw stump, reminding me with each pulse that I was broken now. Incomplete.

"I m-must clean you or your wounds will become infected." She dabbed at the raw flesh with hands that shook like autumn leaves. I couldn't wrap my head around what just happened.

They cut my finger off.

"T-There is more to the o-other women leaving." Callista's whisper filled the hollow space like a confession, her platinum hair catching what little light filtered through the dirty windows.

She glanced at the door. When satisfied we were alone, she leaned closer, her ethereal features drawn with old pain. "M-Marilyn was brought here to teach us s-submission. To make us... obedient." Her voice dropped to barely a breath, as if the walls might be listening. "But instead of teaching us to s-submit, she taught us how to fight. How to h-hurt them back. She showed us their weaknesses, where to strike to make them b-bleed." For the first time, something like admiration flickered in those sapphire eyes before fading back to sorrow. "The women listened. They l-learned. And when the time came, they attacked and killed many of them. Most of the women escaped that night, but I..." Her voice broke, and she looked down at her frail, skeletal hands. "I was too w-weak. Too sickly. I could not fight like the others could. I was too frightened to run. And I alone was l-left here."

Marilyn. The name stirred something in my foggy mind, but I couldn't remember where I heard it from.

"You're going to get out of here," I said with sudden, fierce conviction. The words scraped my destroyed throat raw, but I forced them out anyway. "Even if I don't make it, you will."

"Oakley—"

"Listen to me." I grabbed her trembling hand with my good one, squeezing until she met my eyes. "My husband, my dad, their brothers—they're coming. I know they are. When they get here, when this place burns, I want you to run. I want you to live."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "You c-cannot ask me to leave you?—"

"I'm not asking." My voice broke, but I pushed through. "I've already had my happily ever after. I want you to have yours."

"B-but?—"

"Promise me," I whispered, gripping her skeletal hand tighter. "Promise me you'll run when they come."

Callista stared at me through her tears, those sapphire eyes seeing something in my face that made her breath catch. Her platinum hair fell like a curtain around us, creating a moment of sanctuary in this hellish place. Slowly, like it cost her everything, she nodded. "I p-promise."

The door creaked open. Both of us flinched, our bodies instinctively curling smaller. Callista's eyes widened in terror as she scrambled back, pressing herself against the wall like she could disappear into the rotting wood. She folded in on herself, becoming smaller, more fragile, like a flower trying to close before a storm.

A man stood in the doorway—thick, brutal, with small eyes that crawled over Callista. His expression was worse than his scowl, predatory and patient.

"Callista." I watched her body tremble before going unnaturally frozen, like prey freezing in a predator's sights. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run, but years of conditioning kept her rooted in place. "Our session was cut short the other day. I'm here to collect."

Callista's face went even paler, if that was possible. "L-Levi w-we cannot." Her voice quavered like a broken string, each word stuttered through terror. "We have a n-non-believing witness."

His gaze flicked to me dismissively, then back to Callista with renewed hunger. "She's half-dead anyway. Won't matter what she sees." He took a step closer, and Callista flinched backward until her spine hit the wall. "Besides, God rewards the faithful. He won't begrudge me what's mine."

"P-please," Callista whispered, her skeletal hands pressed flat against the rotting wood behind her. "Not... not in front of her."

"You don't get to make requests," he said, voice dropping to something dark and possessive. "You belong to us. To me, when I want you." Another step closer. "And I want you now."

His thick fingers reached for the ties of her dress. She was shaking so hard I could hear her teeth chattering. A loose board jutted from the wall beside me, probably loosened by years of neglect.

Something inside me snapped.

I lunged, wrenching the board free with my good hand and bringing it down on the back of his skull with every ounce of strength I had left. The impact sent shockwaves up my arm—wood connecting with bone in a wet, satisfying crack.

Callista's scream shattered the air as he collapsed to his knees.

He groaned, fingers probing the back of his head. They came away slick. I stood over him, swaying on my feet, watching his pale skin grow paler. His eyes found mine, hatred and disbelief burning in them as he tried to push himself up.

I swung again. The board whistled through the air, connecting with his temple with a sound like a watermelon hitting pavement. He tried to crawl away, fingers scrabbling across the floor. I followed, my bare feet slipping on the wet floorboards.

The next blow caught him in the face, crushing his nose with a wet crunch. My grip tightened on the splintered wood.

I straddled his back, raising the board high overhead with both hands, ignoring the screaming pain in my amputated finger. His fingers clawed at the floor, trying to drag himself toward the door. The metallic scent grew thick enough to choke on as his struggles grew weaker, more desperate, until they stopped altogether.

I didn't stop until there was nothing left but pulp and bone fragments scattered across the floor like grotesque confetti. My arms ached, muscles burning from the effort.

The board slipped from my nerveless fingers, landing with a wet thud beside what used to be a human being. I staggered back, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. Bile burned my throat as reality crashed back like a wave.

I'd never been violent before. Never imagined I could do something like this.

"Y-You..." Callista was shaking so hard her teeth chattered, eyes fixed on the destruction I'd wrought. "You killed him."

"I-I..." The words caught in my throat as bile rose instead. I doubled over, vomiting until there was nothing left but dry heaves that tore at my already destroyed throat. My entire body trembled, shock setting in as the adrenaline drained away.

I grabbed Callista's arm with my good hand, smearing gore across her pale skin. "You have to run," I gasped, the words urgent despite my ruined voice. "Now. Before they come back."

Her sapphire eyes widened in terror and confusion. "Run? Where would I?—"

"Find the Unforgiven Souls MC," I interrupted, my grip tightening on her arm. "In Diamond Ridge. Ask for V—my husband. Or my dad, Law. Tell them what happened here. Tell them where I am." I was speaking too fast, words tumbling over each other in my desperation to save her. "They'll help you. Even if it's too late for me."

"I cannot leave you," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "They will kill you."

"And they'll kill you too if you stay." I pulled her toward the back window, my mutilated hand leaving prints on her dress. "Please, Callista. This is your chance. Your only chance."

Heavy footsteps echoed from outside—multiple sets, moving fast.

"Go!" I hissed, shoving her toward the window. "Now!"

Callista scrambled toward the window, her thin frame moving with desperate urgency. But the old wood was swollen with moisture, the frame warped and stuck. She pulled at it with trembling hands, panic making her clumsy.

"It will not open," she whispered, terror pitching her voice high.

The footsteps were getting closer. Voices shouting orders, coordinating a search. They'd be here any moment.

I lunged toward the window, using my good hand and the stump of my injured one to help her pull. Pain shot through my mutilated hand as I gripped the frame, but I ignored it. The window groaned, budging just an inch.

Callista's fingernails tore as she clawed at the window frame. Tears streamed down her face as the ancient wood fought against us. The gap widened slowly—two inches, three—but not enough for her to squeeze through.

Footsteps stopped right outside the front door. The handle turned.

"Hide," I breathed, but there was nowhere to go. The cabin was too small, too bare.

The door swung open and John stepped inside with another man. Their eyes swept the room, landing on the unmoving form sprawled across the floor.

"What the—" one started, then stopped cold as he took in the carnage.

"He's dead," the other whispered, staring at the pulverized remains. "She killed him."

Father Sal’s gaze snapped to us, taking in the piece of wood clutched in my shaking hand. "You did this," he snarled, his face twisting with rage.

"Stop!" John roared, lunging forward.

I threw myself between him and Callista, swinging the board with everything I had left. It caught him across the jaw, sending him stumbling backward into his companion. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs.

"The window!" I screamed.

Callista pulled. The frame groaned, protested, then suddenly gave way with a sharp crack. The window flew open, letting in a rush of cool air and the promise of freedom.

"Go go go!" I pushed her toward the opening as the men behind us scrambled to their feet.

She started to climb through, her pale dress catching on the splintered frame. For a horrifying moment she was stuck, half in and half out, completely vulnerable.

One of the men grabbed my ankle, yanking me backward. "You're gonna pay for killing him!"

I kicked out with my free leg, my heel connecting with his nose. He released me with a howl of pain.

"Callista!" I reached for her, trying to push her the rest of the way through.

She was almost out when fingers tangled in her platinum hair, jerking her back. "Get back here," the man snarled.

"No!" I grabbed the man's wrist with my good hand, digging my nails in until I felt skin tear. He cursed, but didn't let go of Callista's hair. She was trapped, sobbing, bleeding from where her scalp was being torn.

Without thinking, I bit down on his forearm with every ounce of strength I had, tasting copper and sweat and dirt. He screamed, releasing Callista to grab at me.

Callista didn't hesitate. She threw herself through the window with desperate grace, her ethereal form disappearing into the wilderness with a crash of breaking branches.

The man whose arm I'd bitten backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling. Stars burst behind my eyes, but through the haze I could hear her running—footsteps on leaves, branches snapping, growing fainter by the second.

"After her!" John roared, but he was bleeding heavily from his broken nose, moving slowly.

The second man started toward the window, but I grabbed his leg, using my body weight to drag him down. He kicked at me, his boot connecting with my ribs in an explosion of pain, but I held on.

"She's getting away!" he snarled, trying to shake me off. "And this bitch just murdered him!"

By the time they'd untangled themselves from me and reached the window, Callista was long gone. I could hear them cursing, could see them scanning the treeline, but there was no sign of her pale dress among the green shadows.

She'd made it. She was free.

More footsteps thundered down the hallway. The leader's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "What's happening here?"

The door stood open wide now. Father Sal appeared in the frame, flanked by half a dozen men, their expressions morphing from confusion to horror as they took in their fallen comrade's mangled remains, the piece of wood, and the open window.

"He's dead," one of the men reported, his voice hollow with shock. "She beat his head in with that board."

Father Sal's eyes moved from the corpse to me, his expression darkening with each detail he absorbed. "And the other girl?"

"Escaped through the window. The witch helped her."

"I-I'm not—" I tried to back away, but my legs betrayed me. I collapsed to my knees, slipping in the cooling blood.

The corner of his leather-bound Bible connected with my cheek, splitting skin like paper. The sting was nothing compared to my missing finger and mangled lips, but it shocked me into silence.

"Tie her," the command fell like a stone thrown into still water. "Take the witch to the dock."

Three men rushed me, rough hands binding my wrists behind my back. The rope bit into my skin, grinding against the raw stump where my finger had been. Pain exploded up my arm, vision going white for an instant.

They dragged me outside, my heels leaving grooves in the dirt as I fought with what little strength remained. But my thoughts weren't on my own fate anymore. They were on Callista, running through trees toward freedom. Running toward V and Dad.

They were taking me to drown. But Callista was free, carrying my message to the only family that mattered. V would come for me, even if it was too late.

"You made a big mistake, witch," one of the men said as he dragged me up, pushing me out the door.

They led me out of the cabin down a hill. I saw rope and cinder blocks and it hit me.

They drowned witches.