Chosen Prey

by Cheyenne McCray

  Lyra gasped and came to an abrupt stop.

  “Nick.” Dare continued walking and reached out to grasp the man’s hand and shook it.

  She barely heard them exchange words of greeting as she looked at the man, taking in his vivid blue eyes and drop-dead gorgeous features—yet he had a harsh, unyielding look to him, too. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed a physique even more powerful than Dare’s, and that was saying something. Nick’s blue jeans fit him snugly, and he had incredibly muscular thighs. He wore cowboy boots that were scuffed and obviously well broken in.

  When she managed to close her mouth, her gaze finally met his piercing blue eyes. “Weird, paranoid neat freak?” he said in a deep voice.

  “Ummmm…” Lyra swallowed, and her face was so hot it must have been brilliant red.

  Dare slapped Nick on the back. “She’s got you pegged.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. The way he was looking at her made Lyra want to fall straight through the floor. Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a grin and she almost dropped her backpack.

  He raked his gaze over Lyra from head to toe. “One room or two?”

  Heat flushed through her again and she was thankful when Dare said, “Two.”

  Nick turned and escorted them down the hall. She couldn’t help but notice what a fine ass the man had—almost as nice as Dare’s. Nick showed Dare where to stow his stuff in one room. Lyra bit her lower lip as she followed Nick alone to the next door.

  He paused in the doorway before she could get by and he glanced in the direction of Dare’s room before looking back at her. “Doubt you’ll be needing the room,” he said. “But you can put your gear in here.”

  Lyra didn’t know which emotion she felt more at that moment. Embarrassment at what he’d caught her saying or anger at his assumptions.

  What she ended up feeling was relief when he moved out of the doorway and let her pass.

  “Lunch in thirty minutes,” he said, and turned away. “Don’t be late.”

  The moment he was out of the doorway, Lyra shut the door—perhaps a little too hard—tossed her stuff on a chair and plunged face-first onto the quilted bedspread. She groaned. That would teach her to make assumptions.

  11

  Carrying the scent of pine and cedar, wind whooshed through the trees surrounding the compound, sounding like the roar of the ocean. Neal’s robe flapped around his ankles and his long hair whipped against his face as he strode through the ordered maze of tents with one single-minded purpose.

  He was so pissed at his men’s failures to capture Lyra that he knew exactly who to extract payment from.

  When he reached Sara Collins’s tent, Neal found the woman where he’d expected. Lyra’s mother was sitting beside several other women, knitting clothing for her daughter’s baby.

  Before Sara had the opportunity to look up, Neal grabbed a handful of her graying hair and yanked her to her feet. Whatever she’d been working on tumbled to the ground. He forced her to follow him through the compound while he maintained a grip on her hair. Her feet tangled in her robe and she stumbled, but Neal’s hold on her didn’t fail.

  When he reached a larger tent, he dragged Sara through the flap. He released her hair and backhanded her so hard she fell face-first onto the canvas floor.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Smart bitch. Knew she couldn’t move until she had permission and she’d be punished if she so much as whimpered.

  Neal said, “On your knees. Facing me.”

  Sara slowly pushed herself to her knees and scooted around until she faced him but didn’t look up.

  “I’m beyond pissed at your daughter,” Neal said.

  He planted his sandaled foot straight into Sara’s midsection and she flew back, her head striking the hard floor again.

  Sara’s eyes closed. Blood dripped beneath her nose and onto her lips. The skin around one of her eyes was swollen and would probably turn black. At one time Sara had been confused and actually asked to leave when Lyra disappeared. But Neal had taught her a lesson that day, too. Once with the Temple of Light, there was no leaving.

  “When Lyra is home, you’re going to help me keep her here. If she leaves again, you will be punished.” Neal smiled. “Severely. She’s going to fulfill her destiny as mother of the new Messiah.”

  Neal added softly, “And when he’s old enough, the Messiah will be by my side and he will lead our people so that all will know the power of the Light.”

  The flap of the tent rustled. Neal startled and turned. His son stood behind him, an expression of shock on his pale features as his gaze locked with his father’s.

  Fuck.

  How much had his son heard?

  Jason’s voice trembled as he asked, “What did you say, Father?”

  “Nothing.” Neal cleared his throat as he went to Jason. He clapped his son on the back and gave him a winning smile. “Are the men assembled?”

  The shock on Jason’s face finally faded to an expression of calm and his color returned. “Yes, Father.”

  “Very good.” Neal gave his son a nod of approval. “Is everything ready for Ryan’s punishment?”

  “Yes, Father,” Jason replied. His face had become a mask, no expression on his features, and he sounded almost like a robot when he said, “Yes, Father.”

  Neal turned to Sara and scowled. “Get back to work.”

  Sara’s words came out as a croak. “Yes, Prophet.” Neal ducked out of the tent, followed by Jason, then Neal and his son walked side by side toward the back of the compound.

  “One thing I have yet to teach you,” Neal said as he walked with his son, “is how to control The People.” He looked at his son, who glanced at him. They were of equal height, so he looked right into his son’s gaze before turning back to their path. “I feed their addictions, their obsessions.”

  “What?” Jason said. “How?”

  “Take Mark for example.” Neal ruffled the hair of a little girl who was about five before he continued walking. “I pulled him off the street. He was a drug addict.”

  Jason narrowed his eyes when Neal glanced at him. “But Mark doesn’t do drugs.”

  “Exactly. I have given him a new addiction, a new obsession.” Neal paused for impact. “Me.”

  This time Jason came to a full stop and Neal faced his son. “What do you mean, Father?”

  Neal clapped one of his hands on Jason’s shoulder. “He relies on me, worships me even. He desires no more than to please me and to be my second.”

  Jason looked as if he was going over Neal’s words in his mind. “I see. Control the people’s addictions and control them.”

  Neal gifted his son with a broad smile and squeezed his shoulder before dropping his hand away. “I’ll teach you how to control every man in the Temple of Light.”

  They began walking again and Jason gestured toward the arena. “What’s Ryan’s addiction?”

  “His is simple,” Neal said. “He’s an alcoholic.”

  Surprise edged Jason’s reply. “But no alcohol is allowed anywhere in the compound.”

  “I ensured that Ryan got his whiskey.” Neal scowled. “Until he fucked up.”

  Jason cleared his throat. “What about me? What’s my addiction? I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. How do you control me?”

  A slow burn mixed with an unidentifiable ache rose within Neal. He clasped Jason’s wrist and studied him with a calculating expression. “You’re my son. You’re like me. We have no addictions.”

  Without waiting for a response, Neal released Jason’s wrist and continued walking toward the arena, letting the lie settle between them. His son was addicted to praise and the willingness to do whatever it took to get that praise from his father.

  When they arrived at the large, open arena, all but the entryway was filled with the men and boys, children of the Light.

  An X-shaped cross headed the far end of the arena.

  Disbelievers might call it a Saint Andrew’s cross, but it wa
s in fact one of the symbols of the Light.

  Strapped face-first to the cross, naked from the waist up, was Ryan Holstead, the idiot responsible for involving the PI, and the reason Lyra had managed to escape. Twice.

  Jason stopped inside the ring of male spectators.

  Neal paused and looked at his son. The boy was so handsome, like himself. “It’s time you show your leadership qualities,” Neal said. “The men need to see that you are my eyes and ears when I’m occupied with other matters, and that you’ll deal out punishment when it’s necessary.”

  Jason paled again. “What do you want me to do, Father?”

  “Come.” Neal walked from the crowd to the open arena. Jason hesitated, then followed.

  When they stood within feet of the sonofabitch, Neal saw Ryan trembling so hard his body twitched. Neal said just low enough and close enough that only Ryan could hear, “You may have cost us the future of our people.”

  “I live only to serve the Light.” Ryan sounded as if he was crying.

  Good.

  “You have displeased the Light,” Neal said loud enough that his voice boomed and reached the males of all ages surrounding them.

  He turned and saw his men with stoic expressions on their faces. The only males who weren’t attending were the armed guards surrounding the perimeter fence and stationed at the gate. From where they stood in front of the fence, men wearing fatigues and bearing AK-47s and M249s faced the crowd. More armed guards were stationed on the other side of the fence. The people were protected from the inside out.

  The Light’s believers remained silent, so silent that only the occasional low of a cow and clucking of chickens could be heard.

  “Our brother has committed a most heinous crime against the Light and all we have faith in and believe in.” Neal let his powerful voice resonate through the crowd. “He must be taught a lesson.”

  Neal gestured to Joe, who immediately stepped forward, grasping a long black bullwhip in one fist. He bowed when he offered the whip to Neal, grip first.

  He gave Joe a curt nod, indicating that he should return to his place in the crowd. The man bowed again and did as he was silently ordered to do.

  Keeping his expression grim, Neal turned to his son and offered him the whip. Jason hesitated, his face even paler. When he finally reached for the whip, Neal saw that Jason’s hand shook. Neal frowned. His son was twenty-five and this task should be performed without a second thought. Perhaps he hadn’t been firm enough in his son’s education.

  When Jason fisted the whip, Neal turned his attention to the crowd. “Jason is officially my first in command. If I am unavailable to deal with situations such as this, from this point on, Jason will.”

  He nodded to Jason, whose expression was stoic, but his lips tightened in a thin line and his face was as pale as wax. He bowed to Neal, then faced Ryan’s back.

  In the open arena, the heat of the July sunshine beat upon Ryan’s pale flesh and sweat trickled down his spine and into the gap between his skin and his jeans.

  Neal stepped away to give Jason room to perform his task. He had been trained in the use of a bullwhip since he was a child.

  Jason clenched his empty fist at his side. His other fist gripped the bullwhip. His jaw tightened. For too long of a moment he didn’t move, and Neal narrowed his gaze. To show any weakness wasn’t acceptable. He would have to discuss that fact with his son. Later.

  Jason extended his arm. He hesitated again.

  With a sudden look of determination, he snapped the whip at Ryan’s back, breaking the man’s skin. Blood welled from the bright red welt. A stifled moan came from Ryan. He knew his punishment would be far more severe if he cried out.

  Jason struck Ryan again.

  Too slow.

  Then again.

  And then Jason began whipping Ryan hard and fast, as if Neal’s fury were his own.

  Neal watched his son’s face, which had gone from pale to scarlet. Anger burned in his eyes, and he bared his teeth.

  Ryan’s skin became a bloody mass, but Jason didn’t stop.

  “Enough,” Neal said.

  It was two more strikes of the bullwhip before Jason stopped. Ryan’s sobs were low enough that Neal barely heard them.

  But Neal was more concerned with how hard his son’s body shook. The sweat running down his crimson face. The rage in his eyes. The heaviness of his breathing.

  Neal turned away from his son and addressed the crowd. “Manuel and Ernie, cut the man down. Take him to his wife to be treated.”

  Without bothering to look at the men who passed by him, Neal continued speaking to the crowd. “We are blessed to be the children of the Light and to learn from our mistakes.”

  “Praise the Light,” one man called out, and the others followed until the mob shouted in unison, “Praise the Light. Praise the Light.”

  12

  Lyra freshened up by washing her face and combing her hair. For the first time in a long time she was conscious about the way she looked and the way she was dressed, and she wished she had something nice to wear that was clean. As usual she wore faded blue jeans and a loose T-shirt tucked into her jeans. It was the same sort of outfit she wore when she worked.

  Lyra grimaced when she thought about the fact that she was going to have to face Nick. Nothing like calling her host a weird, paranoid neat freak. For him to hear her say it was enough to make her want to crawl under the bed.

  And then to find out the guy was drop-dead gorgeous. Whoa. He sure didn’t look anything like she’d expected. But then, appearances weren’t everything. The so-called Prophet, Neal, was good-looking, something he no doubt used to his advantage.

  The thought of Neal made her stomach churn like it always did, and she had to force thoughts of him from her mind. She’d take being embarrassed in front of Nick any day to being anywhere near Neal.

  Lyra checked her cell phone for the time and saw that it was completely dead. She pulled out her charger, found a wall outlet, and plugged it in before setting it on a table in the corner of the room. She wanted to try calling Mrs. Yosko again, but the phone was so dead it would have to be charged at least a little before Lyra could get it to power up.

  She glanced at the phone by the bed. Would Nick mind if she used it? She’d ask.

  If she didn’t hurry, no doubt she’d be late to dinner—Nick was probably a time freak, too. She rubbed her sweating palms on her jeans before she opened the bedroom door and headed upstairs.

  When she reached the spacious great room she found it was empty, but heard male voices coming from where she’d seen the kitchen when they’d arrived. She hooked her thumbs in her jean pockets to have something to do with her hands and casually walked into the archway of the kitchen. It was huge.

  As she’d seen earlier, a pot rack hung from the ceiling over the island, and the perfectly shiny copper-bottomed pans reflected the track lighting. The cabinets were mahogany or cherry wood, and the walls were a pleasant shade of taupe. The black granite countertops seemed to stretch endlessly, and all of the appliances were aluminum and of the finest quality. The guy had taste, and obviously money, too.

  Dare acknowledged her with a nod and a smile but continued talking with Nick. She took a moment to observe both men as Nick arranged taco shells on a platter. They were two of the best-looking males she’d had the opportunity to study at one time. Rugged good looks, solid, muscular builds, and dark hair. Nick’s brilliant blue eyes were narrowed as Dare spoke.

  She forced herself to shift her thoughts away from gorgeous men to the food. The aromas of beef, cheese, and onions made her stomach growl loud enough that she caught the attention of both men.

  “Hungry?” Nick switched off a burner and raised an eyebrow.

  “Smells good.” She managed to meet his eyes. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Taken care of.” He reached into one of the high cabinets to the right of the stovetop and drew out three plates made of the kind of pottery Suzette created. As a ma
tter of fact, when Lyra glanced around the kitchen she saw a lot of the same work, from the salt and pepper shakers to canisters. “Go ahead and make your own tacos,” he said.

  Lyra still felt embarrassed as she moved closer and took one of the plates from him. She dropped two crispy taco shells onto her plate from a tray by the stovetop. “Did you buy your dinnerware from that little pottery shop on Main Street across from the southwestern restaurant?” Lyra took the heavy-gauge serving fork from him and began plopping seasoned shredded beef into her shells.

  “Suzette’s,” Nick replied as he handed Dare a plate. “I custom ordered all my dinnerware from her.”

  After piling five taco shells on his plate, Dare took the meat fork from Lyra as she moved on to the cheese, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and salsa. “She sells some of my work in her shop,” she said.

  “I know.” Nick took his turn at making his own tacos, piling five shells on his plate like Dare had. “I bought a few of your things when I picked up my order. The pieces I bought were the ones that led Dare to Suzette’s and then to you.”

  Her cheeks heated. She wasn’t sure if she should be thanking him, considering that it was his purchases that brought The People to her door.

  “Um, thanks for buying some of my things,” she went ahead and said. She moved to the table in the kitchen nook, which was set for three, with place mats and cloth napkins in pottery napkin rings that matched the dinnerware. The napkins matched the place mats. Was this guy for real?

  When they were seated around the table, each with a glass of iced tea, Lyra couldn’t help asking what had been on her mind since they arrived at Nick’s home. “If no one knows where you live, how did you build this place? Get well water and electricity?”

  “Hired a contractor and his team.” Nick gave her a direct stare, his eyes narrowed. “Then I had to kill them.”

  Lyra had just taken a bite of taco and choked. She dropped the taco on her plate as she started coughing. Dare rubbed her back while she gulped some iced tea.

  When she looked up, the skin around Nick’s eyes was crinkled in amusement and Dare was shaking his head, his mouth curved into a grin.