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CHAPTER TEN

MERCY

F or a long moment, all I can do is stare at him, handsome in the harsh morning sunlight. Too handsome. Dangerously handsome. When he answered his door this morning, he looked like the preacher who had been sitting in Reverend Gunner’s office yesterday. But right now, he looks like the man who set me on fire last night. Like someone I absolutely shouldn’t be alone with, even if we are out in public.

Then, quick as lightning, that shadow disappears.

“So, this bunker,” he says. “It’s nearby?”

“About five more minutes.”

The big black German shepherd mix lunges forward, her ears flattened against the back of her thread, a hint of teeth peeking from her jaws.

“Roxi,” Ambrose says sharply, and when she ignores him, he whistles three short notes. Immediately, she turns back toward us, tongue wagging.

It seems Ambrose isn’t the only one who can change personalities on a dime.

“She saw a squirrel,” he says apologetically. “Shall we? ”

As if he hadn’t just said what he said. As if my body doesn’t feel like a live wire.

“R-right,” I say quickly. “This way.”

I lead him down the walking path, away from the administration center. We’re on the western side of campus now, and being here sends a sharp burst of grief twisting through my belly. It’s where the men do their training when the weather isn’t so hot, and where I used to hand out bottles of cold water. It’s where I became friends with Raul.

Of course, no one is out this morning. Reverend Gunner says that what killed Raul can’t be defeated by guns and weapons but by prayer and faith. Guns can’t kill the devil.

So for now, it’s just an empty shooting range, a dried-up obstacle course. I see Ambrose looking at it, but he doesn’t say anything.

We cut across the grass, walking in silence. The dogs snuffle around, curious and alert. I smooth my palms against my dress; nine in the morning and I’m already sweating.

“Almost there,” I say with an apologetic little laugh. Ambrose glances at me sideways.

“This place is bigger than I thought it’d be.”

“Nearly a thousand acres.” I bite back the urge to give him the rest of the tour, which I’ve done dozens of times for Reverend Gunner’s guests. How he purchased the first five acres in the 1980s shortly after he married Madelyn, thinking he would build a house for his family. How, a year later, God came to him while he was on the property, near an old dried-up well, and told him to build a church instead, and that was the beginning of the Church of the Well. Now that well is the altar of the chapel where Reverend Gunner preaches and where, thirty-five years later, he took me as his wife.

But I don’t say any of it, because I don’t want to talk about Reverend Gunner with Ambrose. And because, before I know it, the bunker entrance appears up ahead, a grey block jutting out of the middle of the western field.

“There it is,” I say.

Ambrose frowns. “Damn. When you said bunker, you meant it. It’s underground?”

“Well, yes.” Why do I feel like he’s judging me? Judging the Church of the Well? “It’s an emergency bunker. In case of government interference.”

“Hmmn.” The dogs stop to investigate something in the grass, and Ambrose stops with them, studying the bunker entrance. “And the files are in there?”

“We use parts of it for storage.”

“Until the government comes rolling in, anyway.”

I glare at him, irritation fluttering in my chest. “Reverend Gunner is a prophet . Of course the government wants to see him destroyed.”

Ambrose tilts his head, his eyes glittering. “Do you really believe that?”

His question brings me up short because although I know I’m supposed to say yes, my immediate response is no —not only to the threat of the government, which I’ve always been doubtful of, but to the idea of Reverend Gunner as a prophet. It’s something I’ve been told since I came here at eight years old, but no one has ever asked me if I believe it until now. It was always just taken for granted that I did.

Ambrose arches an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

“You can’t deny the devil is out there,” I say, knowing I’m evading the question. “In the secular world. And he wants us dead. He killed—” The sentence lodges in my throat.

“Yes,” Ambrose says softly, his eyes dark as pitch. “Yes, he killed poor Raul.”

Then he strides forward, pulling the dogs with him. As he walks, his voice rings out, and there’s the hellfire and brimstone preacher I saw in him yesterday morning: “‘Be sober! Be watchful! Your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’”

I recognize the words from the Book of Peter, and goosebumps prickle along my arms. Something about the way he says the verse—it’s like he’s faced the Deceiver himself head-on.

I scurry after Ambrose as he makes his way up to the bunker entrance. It really isn’t much to look at. A door leading to nowhere.

“Have you ever been inside?” he asks over his shoulder.

I stop at his side. He’s studying the lock—a digital keypad. Only Reverend Gunner has the code. Memorized, supposedly.

“Yes, a couple of times.” I run my finger over the keypad. “But like I told you, I don’t know the code.”

“I suppose it’s safe to assume Reverend Gunner does.” Ambrose crouches down so he’s eye-level with the lock, and the dogs sniff around him. He bats them away distractedly, his attention focused on the door.

“Yes.” Then, for some reason I can’t fathom, I add, “He’s the only one who does.”

Ambrose makes a soft mmm sound in the back of his throat.

The wind picks up, hot and dry and blustery enough to tug strands of hair out of my braids, and I hold my breath, waiting for Ambrose to demand I use my sinful feminine body to wring the code out of Reverend Gunner.

But he doesn’t. He only stands back up and turns toward me, dogs still snuffling around in the grass.

“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate your help.”

“I didn’t do much.” I cross my arms over my chest even though it’s blazingly hot and my skin is coated in sweat. There’s something about the way Ambrose looks at me, like I’m split open just for him.

I don’t dislike it. But it feels wrong. Just like last night felt wrong .

Just like it feels wrong to be standing here, alone together, away from the eyes of the congregation.

Away from Reverend Gunner.

“You did quite a bit.” Ambrose steps closer to me, and his gaze is so intense I can’t help but turn my eyes toward him, my heart pounding.

With a start, I realize where I’ve seen his expression before. It was on Raul—not when he was looking at me, though. When was practicing his rifle aim. When he had his eyes set on a target.

“Can I thank you?” Ambrose says. And just like that, the expression is gone, replaced with a soft, seductive smile. My heart beats so fast that I feel like I might faint in the heat.

“Thank me how?”

His smile just deepens, and he presses his hand around the back of my head and pulls me into him. I realize what’s going to happen a split second before it does, and my body reacts on its own. I tilt my head, part my lips, and welcome Ambrose’s mouth on mine.

The only man who has ever kissed me is Reverend Gunner. On the occasions when I served Pastor Sullivan, he didn’t bother. But even with the reverend, I never truly participate. I’ve never kissed anyone back.

This morning, I do.

Ambrose’s kiss is slow and measured. He slides his tongue through my parted lips and laps gently at my mouth like he’s tasting me—like he’s savoring my taste. The sensation is as warming as his fingers were last night, and I open my mouth a little wider, letting more of him in. He brings up his other hand and presses it gently against my cheek, his palm warm and slightly rough.

I moan softly, pressing myself into him. A gentle, pulsing heat floods between my legs. The world falls away. The church campus, the bunker entrance, the hot bracing wind, the hellish sin of what we’re doing—it’s all gone. There’s nothing but me and Ambrose and our bodies melting together.

Then he pulls away, as slow and measured as he started. He smooths his hand over my braided hair, catching some of the glinting strands that had come loose in the wind.

“That’s how I wanted to thank you,” he says.

I swoon a little, stumbling away from him. Max follows me, tail wagging, and I reach down to scratch behind his ears. His stiff fur grounds me.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” I murmur, even though my body is aching for us to do it again.

Ambrose steps closer to me, the hot wind ruffling his brown hair. “And why not?” Another step. “Because you’re Sterling’s helpmeet ?”

He spits out the last word so that it’s dripping in sarcasm. I take a deep shuddery breath and allow myself to acknowledge a single truth: that I don’t care about Reverend Gunner. I care about his rage, of course, if he ever found what we’ve done. But Ambrose and I are alone out here, and that’s not why I said why I did.

It was guilt. Because Raul is dead, and the devil is trying to destroy the church, and I have no right to experience such pleasure.

“You don’t owe Sterling Gunner anything,” Ambrose says, taking another step toward me. “You don’t, Mercy. He didn’t fucking marry you.”

“It’s because of Raul!” I spit out, my words ringing on the wind.

Ambrose stops at that. For a moment, I think he looks genuinely surprised. “Oh.”

“Raul was my friend,” I say stiffly. “His funeral will be this week sometime. And I can’t—I shouldn’t?—”

Ambrose clears the rest of the space between us with two steps and pulls me into his arms. It’s not suggestive. It’s the embrace of a preacher.

“Raul is with his Creator,” Ambrose says into my hair. “He’s surrounded by glory. You’re the one that needs comfort. Not him.”

“That wasn’t comfort,” I tell him, my chin resting on his surprisingly muscular shoulder.

“Of course it was.” Ambrose releases me enough that he can gaze down at me, his hands still on my upper arms. “I’m here to comfort you, Mercy. Whether with prayers or with?—”

“Maybe we should stick with prayers.” I step away from him, smoothing my hands down on my skirts.

Ambrose’s eyes glitter. “Then let’s pray.”

It feels like a trap, with the way he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. But Lord forgive me—despite my protests, I want to be devoured.

“I can show you to the meeting hall.”

“It’s still early.” Ambrose never takes his eyes off me. “And maybe I want to pray over you without anyone watching.”

This is wrong. I know it’s wrong. Getting on my knees before God is not supposed to feel like getting on my knees for a man.

And yet that’s exactly what’s happening, fire coursing through my body. I remember last night’s orgasm. Last night’s pleasure.

“Kneel.”

He says it softly, but it still feels like a command. A command I yearn to follow.

Still, I sweep my gaze around, looking out at the empty field. The church’s buildings seem far away, and the training grounds are empty.

“Kneel, Mercy.”

I snap my gaze back to him, my breath tight and my body crying out for his touch. He stares at me, his eyes black. His dogs flank him, making him look?—

Well, not exactly like a preacher.

“I’m not asking,” he says.

This isn’t holy, what we’re doing. And yet I sink down to my knees anyway, my body trembling. Ambrose steps up to me. There’s a lump in his pants, and it’s so close I could tilt forward and kiss it.

“Bow your head,” he says in that same commanding tone.

This time, I obey immediately.

He puts his hands on my crown, just like yesterday morning. I suck in shallow breaths like my body’s not getting enough air.

I force myself to look down at his black cowboy boots. For half a second, I imagine kissing those, too. I imagine falling prostrate before him, kissing his feet like Mary Magdalene before Jesus. Because that’s who I am, isn’t it? Mary Magdalene.

And last night Ambrose was the closest to Jesus Christ I’ve ever been.

“Lord God in Heaven,” he intones, and I force myself to tame my thoughts. This is just a prayer. Just a blessing. Nothing more. “Show this woman that her grief need not consume her. I remind her of your words—‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’ And as your servant, I comfort her now.”

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against my skull.

“Help her to put her hope in you, Lord God, that she will find the comfort she seeks.” He pauses, and the wind blows around us, and warmth floods through my body. “And help her to see that comfort which has already been shown to her. In your name, we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” I whisper, my tongue dry.

Ambrose lifts his hands from my head, and I let my gaze slide up him—over those boots I still yearn to kiss, then the physical evidence of his lust I feel mirrored in my own body, and then finally his black gaze, staring down at me.

“You look beautiful on your knees,” he says.

My lust swells. I squeeze my thighs together so flesh presses against the place where Ambrose unbound me. But it’s nothing compared to the dexterity of his fingers.

Ambrose offers me his hand and helps me stand up. I’m grateful for it, too, because I feel lightheaded. Dizzy. His rough palm is a reassurance.

“Feel better?” he asks.

I don’t. I’m burning alive. And when I look up at him, he squeezes my hand tighter, a gesture of possessiveness that makes my heart flutter.

He leans close. I think he might kiss me again, but instead he just presses his mouth to my ear. “Thank you for helping me.”

He braids his fingers through mine.

“And for letting me help you.”