Page 17

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MERCY

“ I ’m here to accompany you to Reverend Gunner’s house.”

Deacon Price stands on my porch, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze dark and glowering. He wears a pistol on his hip and one of Mrs. Price’s charms around his neck.

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting him, and I’m not scheduled to arrive at the marriage suite for another fifteen minutes. For the last hour, I’ve curled up on my couch, the Bible open on my lap—not to the Book of Solomon, but to the Sermon on the Mount. I wasn’t reading, though. I was just staring at the words until they became illegible, my thoughts trailing between the horrors I saw today and the pleasures that unraveled me.

Deacon Price’s knock on the door nearly scared me out of my skin.

“He didn’t tell you I was coming?” Deacon Price’s frown deepens. “It’s late, Mercy. He doesn’t want you wandering around by yourself.”

Then he shouldn’t ask me to perform my duties. The thought slams into my head, but I hold my tongue. “Of course. ”

“And I’m leading the patrol tonight. I swore to him I’d get you there safe.”

He stares at me, his gaze hard.

“He also said to tell you to pack a change of clothes. You’ll be sleeping in the suite tonight.”

My chest tightens—he never asks that. Madelyn doesn’t allow it.

“It’s dangerous, Mrs. Gunner,” Deacon Price says. “You can’t be wandering off by yourself. Go on and pack. I’ll wait here.”

I nod and slip back into my cabin, my thoughts numb. I don’t want to spend the night in the marriage suite. I don’t want to go to the suite at all. I want to stay here, with the doors locked tight, and curl into my bed and daydream about riding into the sunset with Ambrose, my hair loose from its braids, Max’s head in my lap. All of us going somewhere far, far away.

But that’s not a life I’m allowed to have.

I pack quickly, folding up my nightgown and fresh clothes and sliding them into a little knapsack. Deacon Price is still waiting for me when I step out of the cabin, and he stares at me as I lock my door. I can feel his eyes burning through my skin.

“It’s good you’re here for him,” Deacon Price says as we step onto the walkway. “Sterling. He needs someone vivacious to keep up his spirits.”

My cheeks burn. I stare at the dark street.

“For the devil to get so close to his home—” Deacon Price tsks. “Our enemies are closing in. And you help keep him clearheaded.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, because there’s nothing else I can say.

When we round the corner to Reverend Gunner’s house, my chest squeezes so tight I think I’m going to stop breathing. But of course the body is gone. All the blood has been washed away. A large slice of the fence has been taken down, leaving an entranceway into the backyard .

“Did you call the police?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Deacon Price says. “This is spiritual warfare. The police can’t help us.”

I knew he was going to say that; he said the same thing after Raul’s death, although I hadn’t asked that time. Madelyn had, her voice hard and glinty and frightened. And she disapproved of the answer, I could tell. Not that she said anything.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, briefly putting his hand on my shoulder. I tense up, and he snatches it away—he’s not supposed to touch me if we’re alone like this. No man is.

I think of Ambrose and shiver.

We go into the backyard through the gate, and Deacon Price doesn’t follow me into the yard, only gives me a little salute, his eyes still boring through me as I walk up to the door of the suite. All the lights are on, but the curtains are closed tonight.

Lord Jesus, I hope Ambrose doesn’t try to sneak around the bunker entrance tonight.

The door’s unlocked, and when I go in, Reverend Gunner is waiting for me like always. He’s upset. About the murders? About me going to Ambrose this morning instead of him? Probably both. I can feel the anger in his silence as he watches me go through the usual motions: locking the door, peeling out of my clothes.

“On your back.” The first words he says to me.

I do as he asks. It’s not like doing what Ambrose asks, which is like sliding into a warm bath. This makes me feel cold and empty.

Maybe that’s why I let myself think about Ambrose as Reverend Gunner pants on top of me. I think about his long fingers sliding up inside my body, his wet tongue probing against my clit, his fist clenched tight around his cock as his cum spurts out, marking me as his .

If he makes you go to him, go to him. But you’ll still be baptized in my name.

Thinking about the way he said those words, his voice soft and dark and his eyes boring into me, changes something. It makes Reverend Gunner’s arrhythmic thrusts feel—good, sort of. Not as good as Ambrose’s hands or tongue, not good enough to undo me, but good enough that my breath quickens and Reverend Gunner mutters that I must have needed this as much as him, didn’t I?

When he finishes, I look at the curtain pulled tight across the window and imagine, with a tight hot pulse, that Ambrose is watching me like before, stroking himself to completion.

Reverend Gunner rolls off me with a sigh, and I don’t move, just stare up at the ceiling as he heaves himself off the bed and fumbles around for his clothes. “Stay here until sun up,” he tells me. “This is where you’re safest. Not with?—”

He cuts himself off. Not with Ambrose Echeverría , I finish in my head.

I drop my head to look at him, skin crawling. “I will.”

Reverend Gunner pulls his shirt over his head and slips his shoes on. “I mean it,” he says. “Deacon Price has set up multiple guards. But this killer—” Reverend Gunner’s eyes flash. “He wants to see me destroyed. He wants to see the whole church destroyed.”

“I understand.”

Reverend Gunner studies me like he’s trying to decide what to say next.

“We could use some prayers,” he says. “The whole congregation.”

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

I count to ten, then slide out of bed, pad over to the door, and turn the deadbolt. The suite is completely silent, the window unit AC having kicked off at some point while Reverend Gunner was on top of me. I slide back into bed, still naked, and stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts swirling around. I feel hot and distracted. Unfinished. I wish Ambrose were here.

There’s a devil hunting our church, and all I can think about is Ambrose. And I keep thinking about him—because I’d much rather think about him than the killer, actually. I know I’m safe in the marriage suite, the door dead-bolted from the inside and the windows locked. Not even Reverend Gunner can get in here, and he has a key.

So I close my eyes and once again let my thoughts go where they want—to Ambrose. I imagine us in the chapel, sunlight pouring in through the tall thin windows to shine on the altar. He’s standing. I’m kneeling in front of him, my bridal veil streaming out behind me. Praying to him. Worshipping him.

Worshipping his cock.

That’s it , he purrs, and I can hear his voice in my head, dark like cigarettes and twinged with a faint whiskey drawl. You suck my dick so well, Mercy .

Here in my bed, my body heats again. I run my hands over my breasts and squeeze them in tight handfuls, my nipples hard against my palm. I squirm against the mattress, pressing my legs together, trying to relieve the pressure from my fantasies.

Don’t get me wrong, Mercy. I’m going to fuck you.

I imagine it, Ambrose fucking me. I imagine he’s here in the marriage suite, that it’s our marriage suite and he’s thrusting his thick, veiny cock inside my body, and I spread my legs across the bed, moaning softly. I drop my hand down over my stomach, slow and trembling, and try to touch myself the way Ambrose does.

It doesn’t feel quite right. But it doesn’t feel bad, either.

You’re mine, Mercy. Not Reverend Gunner’s. Do you understand that?

“Yes,” I whisper, just as I did this morning. “Yes, Ambrose. I belong to you. ”

I run my fingers in clumsy circles, dragging them through my moisture until it almost feels like Ambrose is touching me. There’s a hard, throbbing nub—my clitoris. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched it.

“I belong to you,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. Pornographic images flash through my head. My mouth around Ambrose’s large penis. Me on my hands and knees as Ambrose thrusts inside me, his hands squeezing my fleshy hips. Me kneeling in front of him as he prays over me—except he’s naked, his body lean and muscular as he strokes himself with one hand and presses the other against my head.

Behold, thou art fair, my love. Thine eyes are as doves.

I groan in the bed, lifting my hips as if Ambrose were here and I could pull him inside me. Instead, I make do with my fingers, rubbing and rubbing in this one particular spot that makes my legs shake and my heart pound.

Worship me, darling , the Ambrose in my head mutters, and I do worship him, there in the middle of the chapel of my mind, sunlight shining over both our bodies. In the real world, in the bed, my pleasure builds into an uncomfortable tension. I would give anything to be kneeling in front of Ambrose for real. I would give anything to pull his cock into my mouth and taste his seed again. I would give anything to be his helpmeet, to come willingly to his bed every time he asked it of me.

Worship me , he growls in my head, and I whimper, “I do! I worship you! Ambrose, I?—”

And then the pleasure splits me open. It tears through my body and makes me jolt against the bed. I slap my free hand against my mouth to keep from crying out, and I pant against my palm, touching myself until it hurts too much to continue. Ambrose would have kept going, and I would have worshipped him for that, too.

I pull my hand away and sink into the mattress, shivering with the aftershocks of my orgasm and the chilly air of the AC, which kicked on while I was touching myself. My thoughts feel tattered, like old clouds. I wish Ambrose were here, wish he would gather me up in his arms and tell me I needn’t fear the demon stalking our church. And not because God would protect me.

But because Ambrose would.