Page 14 of Decimation

I look up at him, look into our prophet’s eyes and though a voice in my head screams at me to say no, to say something, anything, to fight, to… but it’s useless, it has always been useless. And besides, maybe he is right, maybe this was my path all along. Maybe my fate was meant to…

“No.” My mother hisses, breaking off those thoughts, slamming her hand down hard enough that the plates all seem to jump off the table.

“Stand up,” My father says, ignoring her entirely.

I do, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do. Obey. Comply. Be the good daughter, the perfect daughter, the daughter who doesn’t make waves or cause problems.

Hector still won’t look at me. Astrid is practically bouncing with glee. My mother is sobbing openly now, but quietly, politely, the way women in our world are supposed to cry. Decorously, without making a fuss.

“I can do this.” I say, though I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure, myself or my mother.

Ezekiel smiles, cupping my chin in his fingers. His aura swirls, a mesmerizing blend of gold and crimson. “You’re going to do beautifully, Leandra. I have such big plans for you.”

Plans. Like the plans he had for Cass. Like the plans they have for the five other girls taken to become Covenant Brides for our great prophet.

I’m so mesmerised by his aura that I don’t realise I’m being guided toward the door, away from the table, away from my family.

My legs move automatically, carrying me forward even as my mind screams at me to resist, to fight, to do something.

And all I can think is, Cass is dead. Cass is dead, and I’m next.

The blindfold comes off, and I blink against the sudden assault of light. My eyes water, adjusting slowly to reveal a room that could be anywhere; cream nondescript walls, hardwood floors, a bed with crisp white linens that look almost obscenely pristine. There’s a window, but heavy curtains are drawn across it, blocking out any hint of where we might be.

I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling. Hours, certainly. Maybe more. The journey was a labyrinth of turns and stops, the engine’s hum punctuated by what felt like deliberate circles, routes doubled back on themselves.

Isaac wanted me disoriented, wanted me lost, unable to find my way out, my way back.

And he succeeded.

My stomach clenches with a cramp. I puked up my dinner hours ago and the nausea of fear mingles with the hollow ache in my belly, creating a sensation that’s almost dizzying.

I should be thinking about food. About water. About basic survival.

Instead, all I can focus on is the fact that I’m alone with a man. Completely, utterly alone.

It’s against every rule I’ve ever been taught. To be unchaperoned with a man, even for a moment, is to invite scandal. To be here, in what appears to be a bedroom, with Isaac...

The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, bitter and sharp. It dies in my throat, strangled by the absurdity of my own thoughts. My reputation? My marriage prospects? As if those things matter anymore. As if whatever the Esau have planned for me includes a white dress, a respectable husband and a life that follows the neat, prescribed path of a proper Brethren Lady.

No, that life ended the moment my father handed me over.

I’m going to be a different kind of bride now. One of six holy women chosen for the prophet himself.

“Something funny?” Isaac’s voice cuts through my spiralling, chaotic thoughts.

He’s watching me with those dark eyes, the ones that seem to catalogue every micro-expression, every tell. There’s an intensity to his gaze that makes my skin crawl.

“Ner, nooo,” I manage, my voice smaller than I’d like. “Nothing.”

Ezekiel strides in, barely glancing at either of us. I track his movements like prey watching a predator. He’s tall, I’d noticed that before but here, in this enclosed space, his height feels more pronounced. More threatening. He carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who has never been denied anything, never been told ‘no’ in any way that mattered.

As I look at him, I see those colours swirling around him, shifting erratically, almost hypnotic. It’s mesmerizing, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The colours don’t lie. They never have. And yet there’s something about the way they move around him, chaotic but beautiful, that makes me believe he truly is a prophet. That he’s chosen by God.

What is it they have planned? What are they going to do to me?

“Strip.”

The word hangs in the air between us. For a moment, I’m certain I’ve misheard him. That my exhausted, terrified brain has conjured the command from nothing but Ezekiel is looking at me expectantly, waiting.