by Marata Eros
All damaged with the brainwashing that only Father Weston can deliver.
How someone so talented with speaking and leading can use all that he's been given to exploit and corrupt is beyond me.
But I've also been given that gift.
I cause dissent; I was excommunicated.
Now I'm back. Only because of my threats will he allow my presence. Every moment that we share the same oxygen, he makes sure I know that the second my back is turned, that knife will plunge in.
My only question is: literally or figuratively?
Is Weston a murderer?
Short answer: yes.
And I believe my mom was the first victim.
*
My thoughts shred and fly away like a billion pieces of paper when I see who the new wife is, standing timidly beside Anna.
Her.
I know her.
My gut bottoms out when she hesitantly comes into view.
Anna's golden-blond head is inclined to Audrey's, their deep chestnut and dark honey strands pressed together, their church-mouse words like white noise of discontent.
She hasn't noticed my presence or passive eavesdropping yet.
But Audrey Lancaster will. She's not a typical bride.
I stare for a handful of unobserved seconds before Anna tips her head up in intuitive alarm, her soft, light brown eyes colliding with my deep gray ones.
Gotcha.
Except I don't feel smug when I hear the warning sounding as clear as a bell—Anna cautioning Audrey to stay away from me.
Suddenly, her face turns in my direction. Audrey's brows come together, her silky, touchable skin becoming a stern line between eyes like the crystalline Caribbean seas. Those eyes glitter with wetness.
The emotion I see there softens my expression quicker than anything else could.
She's gorgeous, without a bit of that bullshit girls lather on their faces, though she must have some on today. It was the big wedding day, after all.
She doesn't want this.
This sham of a marriage. This arranged exploitation.
Her expression is full of fear.
Full of longing—but for what?
I allow a small smile. Try to give the message that I don't bite. I might lick, kiss, hold, and pound—but I've never been a biter.
Not yet.
I imagine Audrey's never had anything like my brand of love.
She must be a virgin to pass the test of Chosen. Father Weston wants only the undefiled.
He wants to be the first to defile.
Anna takes Audrey's elbow, hauling her into my dad's private bedroom, her eyes raking me with disdain. I know the look. It's the same one I get from everyone in The Community. I'm definitely seen as the scourge.
No one leaves. Anyone who goes outside, once they've been assimilated into our cult, is willfully excommunicated—no exceptions.
My hand tightens on the door as Audrey appears to be swallowed by the gallery-height door. It looms above her, Anna practically tossing her in. Audrey totters on heels she's clearly never worn before.
Her eyes search for mine.
It takes everything I am not to run to her, pull her out of that yawning mouth of the doorway and escape—anywhere. As long as she's safe from my father.
I miss my opportunity. The door shuts, and her anxious face is gone. Anna knots her hands behind her back, the severe bun at her nape like a perpetual growth. Her eyes find mine, her lips pursing.
“You know you are not to speak to the Chosen, Kiev.”
“Yeah,” I say, understanding that speaking to her is the first fucking thing I'll try. I cock my head, baiting her. “Address me by my title, Anna.”
Her lips disappear in the sharpness of her mouth. “First Son,” she whispers.
“Good. You remember that, fourth wife.”
Her chin snaps up, and without another word, she whirls, her hands fisting the thick material of her floor-length skirt, and strides to the staircase.
I wait for an entire tense minute until I'm sure she's out of sight and finally release the breath I'm holding.
It's critical that the wives don't see a speck of weakness. Anything that Weston can use as leverage.
Because I know the law now too. And there's plenty of it waiting to bust Father Weston. He's blatant about his commune. He tows his four wives into town routinely. Most of the men of our small town of Tea, South Dakota are disgusted by a middle-aged man claiming four women.
A few are not. Maybe there are a few men that wish for what he has.
If Weston was a little smarter, he'd make that work to his advantage, but he's too vain to allow it. No—he'd much rather taunt the locals with the implication of all that he has.
That's made men on both sides of the fence pissed.
And zealotry has a price.
Soon it will be a price too steep for Father Weston to pay.
I stare at the closed door, willing it to remain that way, locking Weston out.
It won't. The house is a mansion—a bedroom for each wife. My mother's stands empty. As hollow as a shrine with only the echo of life.
One wife is assigned to the periodic dusting and plumping of pillows—keeping the room exactly as it's always been. As though Weston gave a shit about Madeline DeVere. He only cares about how it appears.
And right now, Audrey occupies the newest bedroom.
The solid-core heart-pine door creaks under my grip. I waver, indecision making me ill.
This wife has a chance.
Father Weston breached protocol with her. The rule of first menstruation does not apply to Audrey—it couldn't.
There's no way she hadn't already had first blood when the Lancasters joined The Community. At almost fifteen, she would have already had periods.
By his own doctrine, he can't bend that rule.
Someone did.
If not Audrey—who?
To be considered as Chosen, all women must have first menstruation after being a Community member.
She doesn't qualify.
Weston doesn't believe in loopholes—and neither do I.
I'm not sure what it is about this girl that makes me want to protect her—save her.
But I do.
I let go of the door and step into the hall just as Father Weston's hand touches the newel at the top of the staircase.
We face each other.
Our builds are almost the same, though at six feet two, I have him by two inches.
Ten feet separate us, but it might as well be ten miles.
“What are you doing?” he asks in his steely way.
Only for me.
He's radio-broadcaster perfect for The Community.
For me, he's one hundred percent serpent. I can almost hear the rattles on his tail shaking.
“I'm checking out the new virgin, father,” I say sarcastically.
His grin is immediate. Lascivious.
My palms dampen.
He doesn't bother hiding how much it gets his rocks off to deflower Audrey. No. He glories in her degradation.
“God told me—” he begins.
I snort. “God didn't tell you dick. It's all about fucking an innocent.”
Weston's smile fades.
“If you don't appreciate our ways, Kiev—perhaps you should cover your ears.”
What?
He reads my puzzled expression and gives an indulgent chuckle. “For the noise,” he explains softly.
Then he moves toward the door Audrey went through. A hint of his smile remains.
Chapter Three
Audrey
The room is cold. Nightfall is chilly this early in the summer, and the air-conditioning has been turned on. I get a flash of a class field trip to the art museum in Sioux Falls. Cold air, unwelcome walls surrounding me. I was in seventh grade then, and it feels foreign—wrong—to think about life outside The Community.
Because that’s what I’m told.
My life before has been f
orgiven. I belong here and can repent of my sins. But I wasn’t a sinner before. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was only a girl, crushing on boys, telling secrets to Michelle, my best friend.
Michelle.
And I get another memory flash. I wonder what happened to her, if she went to college as she wished. I wasn’t allowed to tell her where I was going, just that we were moving. I had only two daysʼ notice anyway. It was barely enough time to say goodbye.
What would she think if she saw me now? The other wives are proud to be here, or at least that is how they seem. They’re Chosen, above the rest in a way, yet too humble to gloat. I don’t feel Chosen. I don’t feel special. I don’t see how I’m going to make a difference.
I clasp my hands on my elbows and look around the room. It’s big, and it’s dark. The only light coming in is from the porch lights below. I get up off the bed, my heels softly clicking on the hardwood floor, and go to the window. I look out, seeing the lights of The Community from this angle for the first time.
We’re nestled in a valley, surrounded by thick forests and rough terrain of quartzite boulders on both sides. Father Weston’s big house is up on a knoll, overlooking the tiny homes the rest of the members live in. Each is plain and looks exactly the same. To see one house is to have seen them all.
We enter into a small foyer that connects a laundry room and family room. Beyond that is a combination dining room and kitchen. Down the hall are the bedrooms. Some houses have two. Some have three for bigger families. And there is only one bathroom for everyone to share.
It’s all we need and is more than enough. A roof over our heads, a safe place to eat and sleep…what more can we ask for?
My hands shake as I reach to turn on the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed. My bed. Our bed? Soft yellow light illuminates the room. I let out a shaky breath and look around.
The bed is centered against the wall, with two nightstands on either side. Identical lamps sit on top of them, and not one speck of dust shows on the dark wood. Two large windows are on the wall across from the door, with a tall wardrobe between. The bed is bigger than any I’ve ever slept in, covered with a shiny ivory comforter and matching pillows. Another dresser is across from that, next to a closet door.
Everything is empty. Nothing is decorated. The room feels fake, as if it’s teasing me with an ostentatious facade.
I perch on the edge of the bed. Should I unpack my bag? Change into the short black nightgown I’ve been provided? Before the wedding, one of the wives told me to remove my panties. Father Weston prefers us that way. I shaved for the first time in years and find the sensation of my smooth skin rubbing together as I cross my legs provocative.
Someone puts their hand on the doorknob, and I jump before turning around and staring at the door with wide eyes. My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat, pounding away, and suddenly terror takes over, and I can’t stop shaking.
I’m in a house with six other people, yet I’ve never felt more alone. I know I can’t trust the other wives. They’ve been here too long, are too loyal to Father Weston. My mind goes to the one person who makes the least sense: Father Weston’s son. He’s called “First Son” and is rarely addressed, rarely spoken to.
But I know his name is Kiev. I’ve heard the whispers about him. I know the rumors. He’s a sinner, cast out only to return. They say Father Weston prayed for his son’s redemption, and it was granted when the man showed up again.
I looked into Kiev’s eyes. Steel-grayish blue like his father’s but dark. They are not the eyes of a man redeemed.
And yet I want to go to him.
“Ahh, there you are, my Audrey.” Father Weston opens the door and steps inside. “You are absolutely stunning.”
I blink from the harsh light spilling in from the hall. I open my mouth, but no words come out. What should I say? Thank you? So do you?
I snap my mouth shut and press my sweaty hands on the front of my dress. I want out of it, then I can breathe. But taking it off means only one thing.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says and comes into the room before shutting the door behind him and cutting off the bright light. He unbuttons the cuffs of his white shirt as he walks across the room. I stand, facing him, feeling like the executioner is coming for me. My heart is still racing, and I think I might throw up.
He stops in front of me, standing too close. I can feel his breath on my face, and it takes everything I have not to take a step back. He’s my husband now. I can’t let him know he terrifies me.
He knows.
He knows and he likes it. A smirk pulls up his lips, and he untucks his shirt from his pants.
“Unbutton my shirt.”
I nod and reach up, my hands trembling. I fumble with the buttons but get them all undone. I swallow hard and flick my gaze to his. He’s waiting, expecting me to take his shirt off. I sweep my fingers across his skin and pull back.
“No,” he orders gruffly and snatches my wrist in his hand. He presses it to him, right over his heart. He’s warm and muscular, with just enough hair on his chest. “Have you ever touched a man?”
“N-no.” He knows this. Why is he asking?
“I know you’re a virgin,” he grunts. “But have you ever been touched?”
I shake my head, unable to look into his eyes. My hand is still on his chest, feeling his steady heart beating.
“Have you touched yourself?”
I clench my jaw. I have, but only a few times due to the lack of privacy. For the first two years, we lived with another family. I shared a bed with a girl a year older than me. Showers were my only time alone, and they were timed. I was never allowed more than ten minutes.
I turn my head side to side again.
“You’re going to touch yourself tonight. And I’m going to watch.” He grabs my chin and makes me look at him. “Turn around.”
I close my eyes and spin, my feet aching in the heels. I focus on the pain and pretend I’m at home with my parents, where it’s safe. With deft hands, Father Weston unlaces the corset that’s holding my breasts hostage. The relief I feel as it loosens is replaced with fear. Fear of being touched, by him and myself. Not while he’s watching.
Slowly, he pulls each lace out one by one, until the dress is loose enough to fall around my feet in a puddle of satin and ribbon. I’m not wearing a bra.
Father Weston lets out a groan and steps close behind me. I bring my arms up, covering my exposed breasts.
“No,” he says again and takes my hands, putting them at my side. I’m shaking from head to toe, and goose bumps break out on my skin. A warm hand finds the small of my back, then runs down and over my bare ass.
His fingers slip in between my legs, and I tense.
“Relax,” he whispers in my ears. “Now get on the bed.”
I carefully step out of the dress, my heels getting caught in the material. I look at the floor, feeling so exposed. I sit on the bed. Father Weston pushes me down. He kneels over me.
“Unbuckle my belt.”
The leather is stiff and new. I can feel his cock, hard and wet at the tip, pressing against his pants. I’ve never felt a cock before. Hell, I’ve never seen a cock before.
I’m scared. I don’t know what to expect. I’m almost twenty and have been kept in the dark about this. How am I supposed to be a good wife and please my husband when I don’t really know what things look like?
“Now take off my pants.”
I clamp my jaw shut and force myself to take slow breaths. I unlatch his pants and pull the zipper down. The top of his dick is sticking out through the opening of his boxers. I take a second to stare at it, study it, get familiar with it so I’m not afraid. Because I know I’ll be touching it in one way or another soon.
“You’ve never seen a cock before.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He knows I’m inexperienced. I’ve seen things in movies, seen things on the Internet before I came here. I have a general idea of what happens
, but doing it firsthand scares me.
“No.”
He pulls his pants down, fully exposing himself. “Take a hold.”
I reach up and wrap my fingers around his shaft. It’s hard and warm. He puts his hand over mine and moves it up and down, up and down, breathing faster with each pump. He rocks back, pulling himself out of my hand.
“Now touch yourself.”
My fingers are sticky and wet with precum. I put my hand between my legs, wiping the wetness on my thigh. This is wrong. I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to be in bed with Father Weston.
“Look at me,” he commands. I lift my head off the pillows and see him near the foot of the bed, his hand on his cock, pumping it up and down. “Keep touching yourself.”
I move my fingers around, taking the time to explore my body.
“You know you’re special, Audrey,” he starts. “You’re Chosen, and you’re different than the others. The end is on the horizon and—” He cuts off, hunching forward with a moan. “And you will save everyone.”
I want to ask how the hell I’m supposed to do that. How is lying in the bed in this cold room saving anyone? I bend my knees, pretending I’m enjoying what I’m doing.
“I’ve been told,” he pants, “through dreams… dreams… you’re to be saved until The Reckoning.”
“When is that?” I blurt. Does that mean I’m safe until then? Wait, no, I’m not safe now.
“Whenever I say it is,” he grumbles and pitches forward, his body trembling as he comes. He pumps his hand and holds himself over me, spilling his seed onto my breasts and stomach. I close my eyes and look away.
He is my husband now. Look at him.
Luckily his eyes are shut. He hasn’t seen my abhorrence, hasn’t seen my disobedience. Follow the rules. Pleasing him is a rule. It doesn’t have to be said for me to know that.
“That’s a good girl,” he says, still gingerly stroking his cock. He leans back, and I watch his shaft start to soften in his hands. His eyes focus on my mouth, and I know what’s to come next.
Suddenly, a crash sounds outside the door, followed by a deep voice calling, “Oh, Father!” almost as though he’s teasing, taunting, knowing he’s interrupting.
