Page 83 of The Idol

“Anything you want,” I whispered into his hair.

He sighed—content and safe—and let his eyes drift closed.

“Goodnight, baby.”

He mumbled sleepily, “G’night, Daddy.”

15

Elior

Ever since the whipping, a strangeness had settled over the compound.

Father was changing.

His sermons had grown angrier, and his smile had become tighter.

The congregation saw the change just as I did. I could see it in the way they all followed him with frightened eyes, like they were all holding their breath for something to happen—for Father to do something.

For the past few days, Father’s gaze had lingered on me too long. He’d called more meetings with the Inner Circle, made them pray longer, kneel until their bodies trembled with exhaustion. He’d spoken about purity—mypurity—with a brittle intensity that made my stomach twist.

He’d even changed the daily rituals.

Yesterday, he’d woken the entire congregation before dawn for an unscheduled gathering in the courtyard. The ground had been cold with dew, and the sky still bruised with night. People had stumbled out bleary-eyed, clutching robes around themselves for warmth.

Father had stood at the center, hands raised, voice booming through the hush like thunder cracking.

“We have grown complacent,” he’d said. “We have let rot seep in. Our faith must sharpen. Our devotion must strengthen.”

He never said what the rot was, but the crowd had bowed low, trembling, afraid to breathe wrong. I’d stood beside him, barefoot on the stone, trying to keep my expression serene, but it was hard.

He just kept glancing at me with something unfamiliar in his eyes. I got the feeling he was waiting for something too.

I think he was waiting for me to fail.

I’d grown up learning to read his moods. I knew when he was impatient, when he was pleased, when he was disappointed. But this… this was something else.

Today had only been worse.

He’d shortened the congregation’s breakfast to a five-minute prayer circle. He’d forbidden any conversation outside of assigned tasks.

They had all murmured in confusion, but Father only raised his hand, and silence fell again. His eyes had found mine across the room, pinning me in place.

I didn’t understand why.

Or, I thought—pressing my hands together so tightly my knuckles whitened—maybe I did understand, but didn’t want to.

Ever since he’d struck me, something in him had changed. Something in me, too.

I hadn’t crumbled the way he expected. I hadn’t begged for his forgiveness. I hadn’t clung to him, desperate for my Father’s love.

No, instead, I’d stayed in my room, shaking and bleeding, and cried quietly into my sheets.

And then Jace had come to me.

And ever since the night we’d talked about our families, I felt that little sunbeam in my chest—my mother’s sunbeam, the one I kept tucked beneath my ribs—glow a little warmer.

I tried not to think about it too much—tried not to think about him too much. I tried to push down all the thoughts of Jace showering with me, touching me, taking care of me.