Page 63 of The Idol

And as he took his place behind me, no doubt seeing my trembling frame below him, he didn’t whisper reassurances, or touch my shoulder in comfort, or tell me that he loved me. Brother James’s and Paul’s hands held my forearms in a bruising grip, and I silently hoped they’d loosen them.

My arms ached already from the awkward stretch. My knees pressed into the floor.

Father stepped back.

Silence fell so completely that I could hear the shaky breaths of the people sitting in the pews. Someone whispered, “Bless the Vessel,” and someone else sniffled loudly. A child whimpered until their mother hushed them.

And then—

A whistle through the air.

I didn’t have time to brace.

The lash landed.

White-hot pain burst across my back—sharp, startling, immediate. I sucked in a breath so fast it choked in my throat. My entire body jerked, instinctively trying to curl in on itself, but the men held me still.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the congregation.

“One,” Father counted, voice steady, almost bored.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The second came quicker, no warning.

I bit down on my tongue to keep a cry from slipping out. My breath shuddered violently in my chest, trapped behind my ribs, and I couldn’t force it out for several long seconds. Brother James’s grip on my forearm tightened until my fingers tingled.

“Two.”

My vision swam.

My stomach lurched.

I could feel people staring at the back of my head.

The third lash cracked through the air.

This time, a sound escaped me—a soft, wounded gasp I couldn’t swallow fast enough. Heat bloomed across my skin, radiating outward like a spreading fire.

My teeth clenched. My nails dug into my palms.

I felt something slick begin to drip down my back.

“Three.”

Silas sobbed loudly from the first row, ragged and frantic. “Please stop—please, Father, please—this is my fault, not his—please…”

Father ignored him.

The fourth landed across the same general area as the second, and the pain overlapped so suddenly I almost blacked out. My head spun forward, but Brother Paul jerked my arm upward to keep me from pitching onto the floor.

A low murmur of distress moved through the congregation. I couldn’t tell if Jace made a sound, couldn’t turn to find him, couldn’t do anything except kneel and endure and try not to fall apart in front of everyone.

“Four.”

I wanted to be calm and unshakeable—the Vessel they needed.

But with each lash, my chest tightened with something hot and sick and mortifyingly human—fear, yes, but also despair. A deep, sinking sadness that felt like it was drowning me.