by Celia Aaron
“Do you remember the tale of Rebekah, Sister?”
“Yes, Prophet.”
“I’m sure a child of God like you knows all the stories in the Bible.” He smiles, his white teeth bleached like a skeleton’s.
“Yes, Prophet.”
“‘The woman was very beautiful, a virgin; no man had ever slept with her. She went down to the spring, filled her jar and came up again.’ And then what happened to Rebekah?”
“She was taken by Abraham’s servant.”
“That’s correct.” He leans closer, his gaze boring into mine.
A shiver courses through me. He glances down at my chest, a smirk twisting the side of his lips as he sees my hard nipples through the gauzy fabric.
He releases my chin and steps back, continuing his circuit as he speaks of Rebekah’s destiny. I steal a look at the man standing opposite me. Blond hair, blue eyes, a placid expression—the Prophet’s youngest son. Something akin to relief washes over me. Being Cloister Maiden to Noah Monroe wouldn’t be so bad. He was rumored to be kind, gentle even. I let my gaze slide to the man standing at his left. Dark hair, even darker eyes, and a smirk like his father’s on his lips as he stares at me—Adam Monroe. I drop my gaze and silently pity the Maiden to my right.
“We will keep you safe. Away from the monsters of this world who would seek to use you, to destroy the innocent perfection that each one of you possess. Remember the story of Dinah: ‘When Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite, the ruler of that area, saw her, he took her and raped her.’ And so it is with any man who is not within this circle. They would take you, hurt you, and cast you aside once they’ve spoiled your body and heart. Only in the Cloister can you lead peaceful lives without fear.”
I wonder if Georgia heard the same speech. She must have. How long did they let her live after this ritual? The thought churns inside me, surprisingly strong, and hate begins to override my meek persona. Breaking character for a split second, I glance back up at Adam Monroe. Had he been the one to slit her throat? Had his large hands done untold violence to Georgia while she was still alive?
He scowls at the shivering Maiden standing in front of him, then snaps his gaze to meet mine. His eyes round the slightest bit, and I drop my focus back to the dirt, then close my eyes. I shouldn’t have done that. I silently berate myself as Leon—no, he’s the Prophet—as the Prophet continues his lesson on the safety of the Cloister. I let my disguise fall back into place. I am a devout follower of the Prophet and eager Cloister Maiden. The hum of my thoughts grows louder, and I realize the Prophet has stopped talking.
I open my eyes and peek at the Maiden to my left. She’s lifted her pitcher, her eyes still downcast. I do the same.
“The water signifies an offering from Maiden to her Protector. A righteous man—one who will teach her and lead her in the light of the Lord our God. The Protector is sanctified by God, and his decisions will always be made in the best interest of the Maiden under his protection. Just as God instructed in Genesis, the man is leader, the woman his helpmate. And so it will be here. The Protector—with God in his heart—shall lead his Maiden and show her the ways of true believers.”
“Amen.” The men’s voices seem to have grown louder, hungrier.
“Now, Maidens, offer yourselves as vessels made to carry the knowledge and light of our Lord, to your Protector.”
With shaking arms, I hold out my pitcher. A brief brush of fingers against mine, and the weight lifts. After a few moments, the drained pitchers fly over our heads and crash into the fire at our backs. A primal roar rips from the men—wolves with appetites whetted for blood.
“Protectors, lead your gentle lambs back to the Cloister where we will welcome them into the fold.”
A hand appears, the wide palm up. I take a deep breath and remind myself that Noah is a good draw. Slipping my hand into his, I lift my eyes to find the entirely wrong man attached. Noah leads a different woman away from the bonfire.
Adam’s smirk darkens as he grips my hand too tight. “Shall we, little lamb?”
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to Mr. Aaron, mainly for listening to me jabber on and on about keeping up with snakes I’ve let out of the can. . . Also for reading the beginning of this story multiple times as I kept tinkering.
Thanks to Viv for reading the first few chapters and assuring me it wasn’t a pile of poo. (For some reason, most authors always find their work to be a pile of poo until someone magical comes along and tells them otherwise. Mr. Aaron and Viv are my magic.)
Thanks to Jeff, my editor, for always pondering my odd word choices and suggesting less-odd ones. Stacey, you’re the best at catching typos. Thank God.
Pear, thanks for letting me send you pics of one pear molesting another pear and never ever reporting me for it. Also, I couldn’t have lovely covers without you.
Thanks PopKitty for always being there to help me out with teasers. Despite me being last minute. And vague. And scattered. And, ya know, me.
To my Rabid Readers—y’all rock. Thanks for being there for me when I need you. Acquisitions, y’all are the most supportive and positive group on Facebook. I can’t thank you enough for all the love you give me.
JT, your Filthy video gives me life. Never stop, baby. Haters gonna say it’s fake. So real.
*cough* Okay, I’m done embarrassing myself for now.
To my readers. Thank you. I can’t do this without you. You are the reason for what I’ve got going here. Never change, loves.
What’s next? Well, I hope y’all are ready to go darker. Darker. Darkerrrrrrrr. Visit www.jointhecloister.com to know when my next fucked up series goes live.
Xx,
Celia
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About the Author
Celia Aaron is a recovering attorney and USA Today bestselling author who loves romance and erotic fiction. Dark to light, angsty to funny, real to fantasy—if it’s hot and strikes her fancy, she writes it. Thanks for reading.
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