The Temple

by Emily Shore

  The Temple

  The Uncaged Series, Book Three

  Emily Shore

  Contents

  Also by Emily Shore

  Content Disclosure

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part II

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  The Temple Twins

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion/Essay Questions for The Temple

  Afterword

  Recources

  CTP Email List

  Also by Emily Shore

  The Uncaged Series

  The Aviary

  The Garden

  The Temple

  The Temple Twins

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  * * *

  The Temple

  Copyright ©2019 Emily Shore

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Summary: Trapped by Force, Serenity is required to become Yang—the bearer of her father’s dark Temple legacy. Her new persona requires using a whip on her shell of a twin sister, but Serenity has even bigger problems. Most chillingly, a series of corpses with swan symbols carved in their chests. More than ever, Serenity needs Sky…and he will be there to protect her. No matter what it takes.

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  ISBN: 978-1-63422-366-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-63422-365-2 (e-book)

  Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  * * *

  Cover Art:

  © naypong/fotolia

  © yuriyzhuravov/fotolia

  © millaf/fotolia

  For more information about our content disclosure,

  please click on the picture above or visit us at

  www.CleanTeenPublishing.com.

  Content Note: the goal of The Aviary Trilogy is to raise awareness about the devastating effects of sex-trafficking. The Aviary's major theme is a struggle with identity.

  These books brush on themes of abuse and manipulation, dissociation, pornography, Stockholm Syndrome, drug use in the industry, and various other subjects. Stories were inspired by real-world truths from survivors and rescue workers. A portion of The Aviary's proceeds will always go to benefit Women at Risk, International.

  For Walter of Walter’s Flying Bus who inspired Sunshine

  Part I

  1

  H e R M o T h e r’ s D a u g H t e r

  Two Months Ago

  Bliss

  My last client for the night injects himself into me, teeth grazing my neck. He sweats his heart onto my skin, but it doesn’t penetrate. Many whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Words like ‘I love you,’ ‘stay with me,’ and ‘I’ll want you forever,’ are always sweet nothings. No better than snowflakes on the tongue. Tasteless and cold.

  I think of my mother.

  When I was a child, I dreamed my mother would come back for me. My father ground those dreams to dust long ago. Because I am not the special twin. I am the weak one who needed blood transfusions and oxygen to survive.

  My father has never wanted me to see a photograph of my mother, but I’ve always known how close he keeps them. He has countless sprite lights in his master bedroom, including mine. One simple tap to bring them to life, but she’s the only one he doesn’t keep in his database. Hers are the only printed photos tucked away in an old book under his bed.

  Tonight, he’s sleeping deep, so I tiptoe into his room. All the training he established in my life from an early age gives me the ability to wander in and out—silent as a mouse’s ghost.

  It’s difficult to see him sleeping. Even in dreams, I imagine he is still building onto his sky-city, not satisfied until the scraper stabs the stars and sucks the light out of them, too.

  I steal the book, then scurry to my room to trace the photographs.

  She is beautiful. I am just an eerie reflection of her—Father’s silent Temple pawn, who rarely ever gets a lull from clients. Only in these barest moments before dawn.

  Caught halfway between fawn and doe, my mother passed her gray eyes to me. Her apple cheeks, soft doll skin, and the slender curve of her neck, too. Even her curves are mine. Unicorn curves, my father says—the fable kind men will spend their lives searching for. He’s usurped all to his advantage. From corporate moguls and royal dignitaries, infamous graphickers and foreign ambassadors, thriving oil barons and old wealth cultural elites…not one powerful station has missed my curves. They all have their different flavors and preferences. Different instructions and tastes. At the end of the day, they are all the same.

  I keep them close, holding a thousand bits and pieces of skin, bones, muscles, sweat, sinew, tongues, stubble, and cologne—all of which I’ve used to erect a mountain around my heart. No love to feel.

  When my mother left my father, she shattered his heart. An uncut diamond shredding that vital organ.

  Nothing but scraps for me.

  All this time, all these years, he’s never given up his search for her. Or the baby she took. My sister.

  I press down on my wrist tattoo with embedded computer that wills the volumetric projection just above my hand. Returning to a previous entry, I scan the footage of my sister and her last Swan dive exhibit. I watch her body, so like our mother’s and mine, but she moves differently. She moves like Father. Too much spirit. Too much mania. When the director’s body tangles with hers, I flick the screen off, disinterested in how he crushed his mouth to hers. Her resistance, too, even if it’s the first time in Museum history a director became part of an exhibit.

  She’s special to Father. Why shouldn’t she be special to the rest of the world? He says her name is Trinity.

  I should not fault her as much as our mother, but I want to. The knowledge of our time in the womb, our first breaths ended with her free but me left in the hospital for the first month, clinging desperately to life…I try to convince myself it’s not her fault, but when I look into her Swan eyes and see how different they are, I believe she must have sucked me dry. Like our father, she fought harder. Like our mother, she escaped and left nothing but the scraps. Scraps that are never enough for Father. Scraps he’s used again and again, hoping to find some purpose, but I know the truth. He will never have purpose until he finds her again. Until he finds them both.

  “Mara.”

  I startle at his voice. My new name—a bitter reminder of what he lost. When I look up with a frail expression because he’s caught me with the book, I expect him to ask me to go into his closet for the whip. Instead, he cups
my cheek, staring down at me with a smile. My automatic assumption is a singular client. Father doesn’t give me much of a reprieve between them, so healing through the Implant isn’t an option.

  “She is mine, Mara.” He strokes my dark hair, and I wait in silence because it’s what he expects, what he wants. “Your mother is mine again. And it won’t be long before we have your sister inside these walls where she belongs. Serafina has changed much over the years. It’s the first time I haven’t managed to get her to speak, but I think it is time for you to meet her.”

  He extends a hand to raise me from the floor, sweeps the hair from my neck, but I don’t tremble once. I stopped shuddering years ago at my father’s close touch.

  “Come with me. I will introduce you.”

  It’s the first time I’ve wanted to tremble. Show some emotion. It’s only natural for a girl meeting her mother for the first time—a mother who gave no thought or consideration before scooping up her golden child and leaving the broken one behind. To my father, I will be nothing more than a broken doll. Even if I’ve spent all these years building myself up again and again.

  My father opens the door to his Breakable Room. It’s an urban legend this room gave birth to the same name handed down to girls in the Glass District. The broken glass décor of the floor returns memories in waves. Although the walls are all glass, it’s always reminded me of a padded room with no possibility to see the outside world.

  Force guides me inside where I see my mother for the first time. She’s a figurine from a music box. A paper doll I once played with as a child. Smaller than I thought. With how crumpled she is, I imagine I could fit her into the palm of my hand. Her clothes dangle off her skin, fitting more like loose rags because that is my father’s preference. His orphan girl fantasy. One of many playing in his head like wind-up ballerina dolls. Her eyes look sick. The Breakable Room will do that.

  Then, she faces me. Suddenly, her gray eyes become cathedral doors. She unfolds herself, rising from the corner she’s since painted herself into. I stand still. Keep my eyes as iron shells. I can’t break because there is nothing left unbroken. However, her piteous hand reaches out for me, sleeve dipping down one shoulder in response. There, I can see the hint of her past—a memory of a scar. No fresh ones. My father is biding his time.

  “Bliss…”

  It’s the first time anyone has said my name that way. It’s always been whispered as nothing-lust in my ear. She says it differently. Like there are no hidden agendas or motivations.

  I don’t move when she touches me. Her fingers light on my cheek, softer than a leaf dropping on a pond’s surface. What I want is to deny it, to acknowledge this is simply one of Father’s party tricks. After all, he’s never imparted a gift without strings attached, but the next words out of her mouth confirm this visit has nothing to do with me. It’s a means to an end.

  “Why?” she asks my father, voice hoarse and withered.

  Placing his hands behind his back, he circles her. “I thought I might try honey with you instead, Serafina. Vinegar wasn’t working. That will change once I possess what is rightfully mine. For now, she is beyond my reach. But I will allow you one visit per day with Mara. All I want is her name. Her real name,” he specifies while circlipng to stand in front of her again, blocking my body from hers.

  I step to the side, and my mother stares at me before sinking her head, pursing her lips together, and succumbing. “Serenity. Her name is Serenity.”

  2

  B a r g A i n s

  Two Months Later

  Serenity

  Sky peels away the last of the prosthetics from my skin just as the sun sucks the leftover starry glitter in the sky outside our glass prison. If he hadn’t been here to help me through the past couple of weeks, I’d have gone insane.

  “Your father will be coming today,” Sky notes, frustration creasing his forehead.

  I nod.

  My father has made a routine of checking on me at least once a day. We eat our breakfasts together. Well…not the first breakfast. That ended up on the floor, but I couldn’t continue to justify wasting food. Especially not Temple food.

  Force has resented my faux face as much as I have. He never knocks. At least the suite is spacious with a lower-level sitting area, so if I’m in the upper bedroom, I can hear the click of the door opening to give me enough warning.

  “You have no idea how many times I’ve just wanted to climb down from one of these rafters and stab him in the jugular.”

  “The feeling is mutual.” I grimace. “But we need to find out more. For all we know, he could have my parents in a holding center separate from the Penthouse.” My half-hearted response doesn’t convince Sky. He knows my real motivation. I can’t risk losing him, too.

  “He hasn’t been very forthcoming during his time with you. What makes you think anything will change today?”

  I gesture to my real face. “Because I’m finally me again.”

  Coiling one hand around my neck, he tilts his forehead to mine. “Yes. If there’s anything good about this day, it’s I can finally kiss you like I should. Your old mouth didn’t quite fit mine like it’s supposed to.”

  Sky doesn’t hold back. For the first time in weeks, from keeping me warm to holding me through my rage and tears—yet never once stepping over the boundaries we’ve set—Sky doesn’t hold back.

  He doesn’t smell the same. Too much time in the Temple. Clothes more metallic from the rafters, exploring every nook and cranny of the Temple’s behind-the-scenes world. By now, I’m certain Sky’s memorized every back route of the Penthouse. One Sanctuary-tech item he brought with him was a camo-device to help him blend in to any environment as well as tricking motion or heat sensors. Thanks to my father’s generosity in allowing me to order whatever I want from the food printer, I’ve seen to it Sky never goes hungry. My only fear is we will both become part of this place. Like one of the many twisted glass pieces my father chooses to decorate his empire.

  Thanks to the Immortal implant in my skin, Sky can’t get me out. My father always wears my location embedded in the Temple system within his brain because, of course, my father would have a brain interface. The entire Temple bows to him. Except for Sky, whose cloaking device keeps him under the radar.

  For now, we must hold onto our lightning and thunder to fuel the fire in our hearts for Force. He doesn’t deserve the title of father.

  I pull away before Sky can sink farther into my mouth. Closing my eyes, I turn around and rub my face, groaning because I can’t even manage to accept a kiss without thoughts of that monster creeping into my head.

  “What?” Sky wants to know. He doesn’t pressure me. Only winds his arms around my waist, chin nuzzling my shoulder.

  “It’s just—this place. It’s my father and the Temple. Up till now, we haven’t even talked about us because of my face—”

  Sky cuts me off, hands on my waist urging me to turn. “You think that’s the only reason?” Rolling his eyes, he cups my cheeks. “Oh, Serenity. You will always be my silly, insufferable, beautiful girl. Yes, I love your face. I love every speck of your skin, marrow, bones, and heart—butterflies included.”

  I smirk at the analogy I adopted long ago for the inner workings of my fickle heart. The one I revealed the first night we spent in the Temple.

  “But your soul matters most to me. And I won’t jeopardize that soul.” His eyes shift from side to side, reflecting. “You’re only seventeen. And I’m twenty-one.”

  I narrow my brows, a little stunned. “You’re talking about things like age and virtue? Here in the Temple? Really?”

  “Because Kerrick and your mother raised us to know better. They might not have had the chance. But we do.”

  “But in this world, what’s the point?” I wonder if he can sense the hesitation in my voice, my words more of a test than anything. Despite having lost all my dignity, the little I have left, I would never want to lose it in the Temple.

  Sky’s hands
warm my cheeks to a flush when he says, “Because we can beat this world. Together.”

  I pass the moments until my father comes by exploring the fish inside the enormous fish tank. Cylindrical shaped, at least twenty feet wide, its foundation is rooted in the suite’s lower level and continues in a spiral all the way up to the bedroom ceiling. Koi fish flit around inside. This suite was specially designed for my watery love. At night, I’ll even indulge in the virtual landscape above my bed. All I need to do is press the button and my ceiling transforms into an underwater world complete with fish, stingrays, dolphins, whales, and even a shark or two. I don’t want the swans.

  The bedroom also features glass floor-to-ceiling windows for an uninhibited view of the Boroughs…and the country. Two more singular characteristics I can’t ignore in this suite: the dining room chandelier—glowing, frosted, and swan-shaped—and the crystal Skeleton Flowers arranged in flowing patterns along the walls.