by Marata Eros
Kiev.
Father Weston sighs, and rage takes over his face, something I’ve never seen before. He’s always smiling, warm, and welcoming in The Community. I lie perfectly still as he gets dressed, then leaves the room, not closing the door behind him.
I’m naked on the bed, exposed for anyone walking down the hall to see. I slowly sit up and look at the shiny liquid that covers my body. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I have no idea what to do.
Minutes tick by, and Father Weston hasn’t returned. On trembling legs, I get up, close the bedroom door, and go into the small bathroom. I avoid the mirror. Not wanting to look at myself, not wanting to see what I have become.
I turn on the water to the shower and take off my heels. I get in before the water is warm, getting shocked by an icy blast. I wash myself, and when my hand slips between my legs, I feel a rush of warmth flow through my body.
I’m not thinking of Father Weston. I’m thinking of Kiev.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Chapter Four
Kiev
I can't stay silent.
Father Weston disappears behind the glowing antique wooden door, sealing Audrey's fate.
But fate can be manipulated—changed. Isn't that one of the words Father uses in his eloquent sermons?
Be malleable to the word of God.
What a load of horseshit. It's more like “be open to my commands.”
In this case, it's him tapping whatever young girl he wants to sample.
What is it about this girl that gives me pause? Makes me want to progress my plan? I've fucked a hundred chicks if I've fucked one.
Why her? Why now?
I clench my fists. Unclench. I feel my jaw slide back and forth with indecision. I can be complacent. I have the ability.
God knows, that's my modus operandi. Apathy has been the key to my survival when I was in The Community.
I blend right in outside. In fact, I'd say I'm a natural fit within the decadence that The Community believes is beyond its borders.
But what Father Weston has going on here is far more decadent that the blatant shit of outside.
He breeds an insidious perversity.
His own.
I close my eyes, imagining Audrey in there getting her sweet cherry popped by dear old dad.
I've moved forward before I can stop myself.
My mind's eye fills with the vision of her in that white dress, a rack shoved up high and tight that makes my mouth water. I'd love to get my hands on her body. Hell, my dick is a satellite coming to orbit, sniffing out her sweet cunt like a homing device.
But her eyes stop me.
Make me fucking tender.
I hate it.
The last ounce of compassion was used up when my mom left. That was the last woman I felt something for.
I want to sex this Chosen up.
And that's exactly what I'll do.
It doesn't matter that she looked terrified before she entered that bedroom.
That she's innocent and was probably too young to think independently.
I want to hurt Weston where it counts—right in the balls.
I move forward. The plan is firmly in my mind, and I smile, knowing the case of blue nuts I'm going to deliver.
Courtesy of my interruption.
*
I press my ear to the door. I know the other wives are deep inside their rooms. They know the rules. I'm unobserved.
Not that I give two shits.
Father Weston is presumably stuffing his cock in a new hole. The wives know to stay away.
I hear a muffled groan, and at once I think I'm too late. What did he do, pound himself dry inside her?
Panic seizes me. “Oh, Father!” I say loudly and use my fist to bang on the door.
There's a soft curse and a rustle of clothing.
Father Weston jerks open the door.
My fist is raised for a second round.
If I'd had proper momentum, I might have beaten him. As he did me when I didn't do as I should.
Which was often.
He gives my raised hand a significant glance.
I don't drop my hand because of a look from my fucked-up dad. It drops in shock.
Audrey lies on the bed, frantically trying to adjust herself from my line of sight.
Too late.
Her pussy is open and pink, glistening with wetness.
Arousal?
Cum covers her from the top of her mound to the giant valley between her tits.
My mouth goes dry.
She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
It's only a glimpse—seconds. But I want more.
I try to push past Weston, but he grabs my arm, shutting the door and the view of Audrey away.
My eyes slit to razors of hate.
“What are you doing, interrupting my time with my Chosen?” His grip is a vise.
I jerk my arm out of the painful hold.
“I thought I heard something. Something not consensual.”
A lie, but an effective one. I wanted to throw a bucket of cold water on their time.
His frown is a grim ripple of flesh between his dark eyebrows. “You heard me pleasuring my Chosen, Kiev.” His smile is smug.
“That's not what it sounded like. You into rape now, Father?” I ask in a tone laced by venom accusation.
“No,” he replies emphatically. His chin kicks up in haughty denial.
He stabs a finger in my chest, and I capture it. “She is my Chosen, Kiev. You are not to interfere.”
I shove him in his chest, noting his pants are undone, a shadow of moisture covering the crotch of his dark slacks.
Prick.
He shoves back, reentering the battle zone.
“I know what you're doing here, Father.”
His inky eyebrows rise, and our chests are almost touching.
“Oh? You're omniscient now? You know my thoughts—as though you were God?” The corners of his lips turn up.
I wanna wipe the expression off his face with my fist. Instead I say, “I'm not the one who thinks he’s God.”
He reaches behind him, feeling for the solid brass door handle.
He's going to finish what he couldn't with Audrey.
Adrenaline surges. I need to fuck this up.
Fuck him up. I pull out the ace card from my deck of scheming.
“This discussion is over,” Weston says, turning away from me.
Dismissing me. Again.
He won't dismiss me now.
Weston doesn't wait for my reply. He begins to turn the softly glowing brass handle.
“I know your secret,” I intone in a low voice.
I paid through the nose to get it. But it's surprising what a good lick job will get you from a grateful girl that works at the local medical clinic. Nice to have the goods on someone you hate.
And there's no one on this planet I hate more than Father Weston.
I see the slight tremble of his fingers hovering over the knob. “You do not know anything about me.”
“I know that Anna doesn't have any children.”
Weston whips around so fast he causes a breeze to flow between us.
“Rachel doesn't have any.”
Wives three and four barren? I don't think so.
He fists the material of my shirt.
I whip my arms out, leaning into his gesture as if to say, Bring it. I can tell by his tight expression he'd love to. He's holding on to his false demeanor by a thread. “Careful, Father Weston.” I lean forward, our noses a centimeter from touching. “Don't want to spoil your lily-fucking-white rep,” I goad him.
The grip of his hand tightens.
“You're fucking sterile,” I grind out, “and you think a new wife will somehow make your cock shoot something other than blanks?” I laugh. And yeah, it's at his expense.
He hits me.
I didn't think Weston would chance it.
I stagger b
ack, my jaw aching, my hands whipping out for balance. I go down on one knee, gingerly touching the sore spot he put there.
I know I can kick his ass. Twice. I taste my vengeance like ashes on my tongue. But that won't feed into my tidy plan. Getting Weston where I need him is critical.
I want a piece of the Chosen pie. And I'll commit every sin known—and ones that aren't—to see my agenda through.
My gaze meets his. “Hit me again, and I won't hold back. Physically or verbally,” I say in a low voice. “I'll tell everyone that you're marrying women to produce heirs for your fucked-up legacy that you can't produce.”
He pauses, his other fist ready to mete damage. A familiar dynamic in the Weston household. I'm littered with scars and healed fractures from his love.
“You wouldn't.”
I smile, taste copper at the corner of my mouth, and grin. It feels like a malicious expression on my face. Cuz it is. “Oh yes I would, Dad.”
His hand drops to his side, his eyes darting down each direction of the hall. Weston's shoulders lose the tension they held when he sees we didn't have an audience.
I stand, wiping a finger where my lip is cut. A crimson smear stains the tip.
He folds his arms. “I won't ask how you found out.”
I smile, and the movement stings. “Does it matter?”
His expression is fleetingly uncertain, then his face moves into the typical hard lines of absolution and confidence.
But I'd seen the shadow of his indecision and happiness bloom like an ugly flower at the fissures in his perfection, easing the tightness of my chest.
“No,” he finally answers, his voice curt. His gaze narrows on my face. “You want something.”
No shit.
I want to fuck the Chosen. I'll get her pregnant and then make her love me and leave you. The fall from his tower of ivory will be great. I'll have a front-row seat at his collapse.
Audrey is collateral damage.
“I want you to leave me the fuck alone, or I'll ruin you.”
I'll give Weston this. He doesn't react. Not a flicker. The man's made of stone. His powerful hand cups his chin, his eyes hooded.
His hands drop to his side, his stance one of defeat.
I feel as though I've won.
Then he tells me it's a limited victory. “You are the vessel of my will, Kiev.” His spine straightens.
I'm nobody's vessel. “What?” I ask in a hollow voice.
“I am still her husband. And as such, I have full rights to her body. Any woman's body who becomes my wife.”
It's a sucker punch of words.
Somewhere deep down, I'd thought that I could save her from Father Weston. His sick agenda. Yeah, I'd wanted her for myself. I want to use her as a weapon against my father.
His lips curl. “Did you think I would relinquish my rights to her because I am—”
“Can't perform,” I fill in with a voice as neutral as I can make it. Which is, of course, full of meaning with its very emptiness.
He growls, stepping into my space again, and I hold my own, wanting to hurt him in the worst way. I bite the inside of my lip, letting the pain keep me in line.
I have poked the snake. I know it. He knows it.
I have to rein in my temper. I won't get what I want, and patience is not my best quality.
“I perform fine.”
I can't contain my surprise. I clench my jaw. Fuck—I'd been hoping he was impotent. I don't think about why that matters.
“You want to have her? Even though you can't produce your spawn?” I feel my chin jerk back in disbelief. “Doesn't that violate about a hundred of your fucked-up rules?”
He slaps me.
My face rockets back.
I jettison my palms into his chest like two well-timed bombs, and he hits the door.
The knob hadn't been seated in the striker, and it flies open, revealing a red-faced Audrey.
Her eyes chase between Weston and me.
“What's going on?” she asks in a small voice. Her luminous aquamarine eyes are like startled jewels in the white sea of her face as they find me.
Incinerate me to my soul.
My dick jumps at the last memory of her. At least now she's got something on besides cum and skin.
Chapter Five
Audrey
My heart races as I reach for the doorknob. Two angry voices shoot whispers back and forth. I jump at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. I don’t want to stand back here and hide, oblivious to the danger around me. The room closes in, mocking me, jeering at me as it holds me captive.
I don’t think twice. I open the door.
Father Weston stands a few feet from me, as I expected. My heart lurches when I take in the sight of Kiev, his eyes clouded with anger.
I should look away. But I can’t.
“What’s going on?” I say, my voice weak, and I force myself to blink and look down.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Father Weston says, putting his hand on my arm, causing me to flinch.
Kiev appears to notice and smiles, his eyes narrowing. He must be as horrible as I’m led to believe, smiling and taking pleasure in my discomfort. I risk a glance back at him and realize he’s staring down his father.
Is his satisfaction with my distaste for Father Weston?
“Go back to your room and get some rest.” Father Weston’s tone is soft, caring, and doesn’t match his stance in the least. He’s tense, with one hand curled into a tight fist.
Kiev’s body language mirrors his father’s, but he relaxes the more he looks at me. I’m under a microscope—a tall, muscular, tattooed microscope—and part of me doesn’t mind.
Father Weston’s hand runs down my side, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh above my hip. I grind my jaw, mad at myself for the tears trying to fill my eyes. The want for home, for my old bed and the comfort of the small house and my parents, rips my heart apart.
My head moves up and down, yet my feet are frozen. Going back in the room means submitting to Father Weston—again. I look at him, his clothes rumpled, a smug smile on his handsome face, and see him in an entirely different way.
Darkness surrounds the light he claims to have.
The notion of doubt in the faith we’ve built our lives around causes panic to flicker inside me, and I turn, afraid that doubt is palpable, able to be seen and heard as well as felt. Not believing is a death sentence, a one-way ticket to be exiled.
Which is exactly what is rumored to have happened to Kiev.
My heart lurches with the thought of the outside world, of seeing what lies beyond the walls of The Community.
I rush through the door of the bedroom, fear of God smiting me with a lightning bolt strong enough to make my stomach churn. I take reprieve in the small bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet with my shaking hands pressed firmly against my thighs. My breath leaves in huffs, and my heart pumps blood loudly in my ears. I strain to listen to what’s being said outside the door, prepping myself for Father Weston to come back inside and finish what he started.
I can’t stay in the bathroom all night. I flush the toilet to make it seem as though I actually used it, and leave, then cross the room to get into bed. The door is still open, and Father Weston and Kiev are still in the threshold, arguing.
Kiev looks past his father and locks his gaze with mine. His hard expression softens, and for a split second, it’s as if I’m looking at the man behind the mask. Behind the tattoos and bad attitude. Behind the defiance and anger.
He feels sorry for me, because as hard as it is to tell by looking at him, our situations are as different as they are the same. He knows what it’s like to be here against my will, to battle the fear and questions and guilt.
He knows what it’s like to be trapped.
*
“Stop overanalyzing everything. You’ll drive yourself crazy looking for symptoms,” Caroline, wife number two, says to Rachel, wife number three.
They're in the kitchen mak
ing breakfast and are wearing form-fitting dresses, with their hair and makeup applied to perfection.
I stand in the entryway, feeling self-conscious in my jeans and plain T-shirt. My hair is in a braid over my shoulder, and I don’t own makeup.
Rachel sets down a wooden spoon and puts her hand over her stomach.
“I’m not getting any younger. Why is it taking so long?”
“Oh, honey,” Caroline soothes. “These things take time, especially given our arrangements.”
“It didn’t take you this long to have a baby.”
The word hits me like static shock, sending a tingle of fear down my body. Having a baby. Father Weston’s baby. A half sibling to those Ginny and Caroline gave birth to. In the back of my mind, I know it’s wrong. But for the last few years, it’s been drilled into my head this is the way life should be lived, the way God wants us to carry on.
And we will all be Saved because of it.
It’s not logical. It’s not rational. It makes no sense. Yet this is what we believe.
Or is it what I’m told to believe?
“Oh, Audrey,” Caroline says, taking notice of my presence. “Good morning.”
Rachel whips around, her eyes cold as she looks me up and down. “Good morning.” There is no emotion in her voice, yet I know she sees me as a threat. Whatever time Father Weston spends with me is a lost chance for her to conceive a child.
If it were up to me, she could have him all the time.
“How was your first night?” Caroline asks.
I take a tentative step into the kitchen, my stomach grumbling in response to the scent of bacon and pancakes.
“Um, okay.” Am I supposed to give details? I have a feeling Father Weston won’t want them to know he never finished what he started. He and Kiev continued to argue until I fell asleep, gratefully alone in the big bed, tucked between soft sheets and lush comforters.
There was something deliberate in the way Kiev threw insults at his father, and I can’t help wondering if he pushed buttons to up Father Weston’s temper to keep him away from me.
But why?
Was it obvious I was scared—obvious I didn’t want to be forced to have sex with Father—I mean, my husband? And if it was, why would Kiev want to help me? He doesn’t know me.
