The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1) Read online

  My hands close into fists. It’s not his time. It’s mine.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Noah must have been watching. “You’re all tense.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I loosen my fingers as my father asks, “And who is your Protector, sweet girl?”

  She turns toward me, her gaze finding mine with ease. He follows her look.

  “Noah? Adam?”

  I nod.

  “Well.” He turns his focus back to her and grips her waist, his hands profaning her smooth skin.

  She doesn’t flinch.

  “I think I’ll need to deviate a bit here. Give you a name that suits anyone who has to deal with Adam on a daily basis.” He fakes a consoling look. “Not that he’ll hurt you, of course. He’s a Protector, after all. Hmmm.”

  I itch to punch him in his smug face even more than usual, which is saying something.

  “How about we call you Delilah?” His hands slide lower, easing across her hips.

  “Thank you, Prophet.” If you weren’t paying attention, you could miss the faint tremor in her voice. I hear it just fine.

  “Go on now.” He lets his hands drop, and she steps back into line, all the girls bare for the leering assholes below them.

  “God is good.” Dad stands and motions to the Spinners. They rush forward, golden dresses in their hands, and help the girls put them on.

  Once the show is over, the men disperse and sit down at the tables, their rough voices overcoming the quiet chatter on the stage.

  “When is he going to stop doing this?” Noah yawns and motions his Maiden over to him. She comes like an obedient little dog, her gold dress skirting her ankles.

  “I suppose whenever these girls stop falling for this shit.”

  Noah’s Maiden gives me a shocked look before inspecting the floor again.

  Noah leans close. “Don’t let Dad hear you saying any of that.”

  “I’m careful.”

  “I know. But we can’t risk it.”

  “I know.” I walk away from him, ignoring whatever warnings he wants to add. My Maiden, Delilah, stands at the edge of the stage, the gold dress giving her an even more unearthly look.

  “Come.” I take her hand and pull her to the nearest table. She sits opposite me, not a word from her light pink lips.

  Who was she before she came here? I’d have to investigate her file. Plenty of the girls who expressed an interest in the Cloister came from broken homes and, above all, had intense daddy issues. Ones my father took full advantage of. Is that who Delilah is? Another broken cog in a wheel that was never made for her?

  It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. Who she was doesn’t matter. Because now she’s in the Cloister. She likely didn’t notice it when we walked in, but each door with outside access has a keypad, cameras set up everywhere, and the windows similarly monitored. Once the faithful supplicants enter my father’s clutches, they don’t leave. Not on their terms, anyway.

  “What’s your name?” The question pops from my lips though it should have stayed tucked away with all the forgotten things that resided in my mind.

  “Delilah.” The sound barely reaches my ears.

  “Your real name.”

  “Delilah.”

  “Fuck.” I lean back in my chair, staring her down.

  She doesn’t meet my gaze, her mask of obedience firmly in place.

  “We have one more small ceremony before you girls can retire for the night.” My father strides to me with Abigail at his side, a small green device in her hand.

  “I’m sure you’re ready to get on with it.” He grins down at me.

  I hold my hand out to Delilah.

  She looks at it as if it’s a venomous snake.

  “Take my hand.”

  She glances at my father.

  “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” I keep my tone even, but no less lethal. Showing weakness in front of my father isn’t an option.

  She puts out one delicate hand. I engulf it with mine, keenly aware that every Maiden in the room is watching.

  Abigail, her graying hair wrapped up in a tight bun, loads the plastic gun. “Hold her.”

  I yank Delilah across the table.

  She cries out in surprise, but I don’t let go. Instead, I rise and pin her arm down with both hands. After only a second of struggle, she returns to placid, as if someone flipped a switch inside her. She’s learning quickly, adapting to the violence that is this place. That is me.

  “It’ll only hurt for a second, little one.” My father runs a hand through her hair, touching what’s mine.

  In that moment, I hate him more than I ever have.

  “Here we go.” Abigail places the end of the gun against Delilah’s upper arm. “It’ll sting, but you’ll be fine.” She squeezes the wide trigger, and the microchip slides under the pale skin. Then Abigail grabs a syringe from a tray held by another Spinner. “This is to stop your monthly curse. We value clean women here.”

  Delilah doesn’t make a sound, her tenseness the only way I can sense that both injections hurt. The tracker insertion point bleeds a little, so Abigail applies a bandage.

  “Well done.” Dad gives Delilah a pat, as if she’s a faithful dog who fetched him a prize duck.

  They move on to the next girl as Delilah sits up and presses her palm to her arm.

  One of the nearby Maidens leans over to whisper to another. A Spinner hurries from her spot along the wall and steps between them, a deep furrow in her brow. “No speaking when the Prophet is present unless it’s to say please or thank you.” She doesn’t draw her small baton and hit the talker.

  Not yet.

  Chapter 3

  Delilah

  I follow Adam down a long hallway. Doors break off to the left and right at intervals, and Spinners stand at a few of them, their hands folded in front of them, eyes down. I don’t need to see their faces to know I’m headed for a dark fate. My instincts scream at me to run. I don’t. I’m here for a reason, and I won’t leave until I get what I came for. I force my fear to take a backseat to my determination.

  After what feels like one hundred yards of walking, he turns to the right and pushes through a set of double doors. A Spinner stands inside the new area. She’s young, maybe not even twenty-five, and a scar cuts across her forehead and disappears beneath her blonde hair.

  “Which is hers?” Adam asks, impatience slicing the spaces between his words.

  She turns and leads us down the hall. I count a dozen doors, each named after a book of the Bible. She motions to the Psalms door, and Adam pushes past her and into the room.

  Something cold slithers around my spine, squeezing and cutting off my ability to move. If I go into that room, what will happen? Nothing good. But this is what I signed up for. I have no illusions like some of the other girls. The Cloister isn’t a haven, it’s a prison, and I walked right into it. This is just the iron bars clanging shut behind me.

  “You’d best follow,” the Spinner whispers.

  I glance at her, but she gives nothing away.

  “Delilah.” Adam’s low voice carries more than a hint of menace. “Get in here.”

  I steel my nerves and step into the room. Adam sits on the bed, his eyes on me. The room is bigger than what I’m used to. A small bathroom connects on the right, a closet on the left. The furniture is simple and matches the log cabin décor. A white bedspread covers the bed.

  “Close the door.” He hasn’t taken his gaze off me.

  I do as instructed, pushing it shut. The click of the handle carries a finality that chills me.

  “Come.” He points to the floor in front of him.

  Swallowing hard, I move to stand in front of him. He looks up at me, his eyes dark and fathomless. So much like his father’s that bile rages in my stomach.

  “Down.” He taps his foot on the pale blue rug.

  Heat seeps up my neck and into my cheeks.

  He must see it, because he smirks. “I’ve never had on
e who won’t do what she’s told.”

  Shit. I can’t stand out. Fitting in with the other Maidens is the only way this can work.

  Slowly, I sink to the floor and keep my gaze on the rug.

  “Closer.” He reaches out and plucks a lock of my hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.

  I scoot nearer. He spreads his knees wider and yanks on my hair. “Closer.”

  I clench my teeth, but I obey, moving until I’m between his legs, my face level with his stomach. I don’t look down.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Delilah.” I flinch as he yanks my hair again.

  “What’s your real name?”

  I look up at him. “Delilah.”

  His nostrils flare, and his eyes widen. I quickly drop my gaze.

  “You’re different.” He uses both hands to stroke down my hair. “I mean, obviously you look different. Albino or something?”

  I’d been called that by mean children since the first grade. His use of the term rolls off like water on a duck’s back. My skin and hair are the result of a genetic defect, a close cousin to albinism, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’ve dealt with rude comments on my odd looks my whole life. I could deal with his, too.

  “So white.” He studies my hair. “Like a fairy.”

  I remain still and silently hope that he will lose interest, that his perusal of my hair will be the end of the evening, and he’ll leave me in peace.

  A few more moments pass, then he leans back. “Take your dress off.”

  God, it had been so hard to do it the first time in a room full of gawking men. Now, in a quiet room with just one man, it seems infinitely more difficult.

  He taps the small buckle at the front of his belt. “You’ll learn that you need to obey me. Every time. Immediately. I’ll give you a pass tonight since it’s our first time together, but from now on, when I tell you to do something, you do it. No hesitation. Now, take your dress off.”

  My lip trembles as I reach down and pull the gold fabric from beneath my knees, then ease it over my head. Goosebumps race all over my body as the cool air hits me in secret places, but I won’t cry. I drop the fabric next to me, then resume staring at his stomach, though now my eyes are drawn down to the shiny silver buckle.

  “Good lamb.” He presses his index finger under my chin and draws my gaze up to his face. Square jaw, sharp nose, full lips, dark hair, and those unreadable eyes—he is handsome. I assume Satan is, too.

  “Whenever I come to visit, I expect you to strip and kneel before me immediately. You don’t ask questions. You don’t hesitate. Do you understand?” His gaze flickers to my lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He releases my chin, and I return my gaze to the floor.

  He clucks his tongue. “Don’t hide from me. Always look me in the eye when I speak to you.”

  “But the Spinners told us never to—”

  “When we are in this room, we do it my way.” He shoots a glance to a vent in the ceiling, then refocuses on me. “I’m your Protector. I would never lead you astray.”

  I meet his gaze again, feeling its weight settling all over me, pulling me down to an abyss full of dark shapes and moving shadows.

  “Good lamb.” A smirk toys with the edge of his lips. “Now open your mouth.”

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I open.

  He frowns. “Faster next time. And wider.”

  I spread my jaws, pulling my lips back from my teeth.

  “Better.” He slides two fingers into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue. “Have you ever taken a man in your mouth before?”

  I shake my head slightly.

  His smirk blooms. “Liar.”

  Panic threatens to constrict my throat. Getting into the Cloister required virginity. I had that in the technical sense, which was supposedly “confirmed” during the exam required for all applicants. A virgin? Yes. A saint? No.

  “How many dicks have you sucked, little lamb?” He presses down harder, his fingers sliding closer to the back of my throat.

  I gag, but he doesn’t remove his fingers. My gorge rises, more from a memory than anything he’s doing to me.

  “How many?”

  “One,” I say around his fingers.

  “One?” Seemingly satisfied, he pulls back. “Leave your mouth open.”

  Spit pools on my tongue, but I can’t swallow.

  He gives me a hard look, one devoid of pity. “Do you have any idea what you’re in for? What a year in this place will do to you? What I will do to you?”

  I can’t respond. But I want to tell him I’m not afraid. That I will do whatever is necessary.

  “You’re a fool for coming here.” He sighed. “Close your mouth.”

  “Spinner!” His sudden yell makes me jump.

  The door opens, and the scarred blonde enters. “Yes, sir?”

  “Begin throat training tomorrow for this one. Her gag reflex needs work.”

  She nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She disappears, and the door clicks shut again.

  “Get on the bed, and spread your legs.”

  My knees go weak, but I try to stand. He doesn’t help, just watches with cold eyes that seem to miss nothing. Humiliation courses through me as he treats my nudity like a banality, as if nothing is off about this, all of this.

  “Delilah, you’re testing me.” His hand strays to his belt buckle again.

  I walk to the far side of the bed and sit down, then force myself to lie back. Telling my legs to open is one thing—them actually following the command is another.

  Adam rises and stands at the foot of the bed, his face cast in shadow. “Spread them.”

  My chin trembles, and for a second, I don’t think I can do this anymore.

  He unfastens his belt and slowly pulls it from the loops with a schick noise as a girl starts crying next door. “Last chance.”

  I clamp my eyes shut and open my legs.

  “More.” His voice seems to drop an octave, taking on a rougher edge.

  My heels scoot across the white quilt until cool air caresses the most intimate parts of me.

  “More,” he grates.

  I open all the way, and a tear slips from my eye and rolls into my ear. He doesn’t say anything else.

  The girl next door wails, and another girl screams from down the hall.

  The bed dips, his knees between my ankles. I clutch the quilt, fisting the material as he looms over me. I can’t open my eyes.

  A scream sounds from down the hall. I jump.

  “Shh.” His warm breath fans out along my inner thigh.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Look and see.”

  I open my eyes. He’s between my legs, his mouth hovering along my bare skin, moving up, up, up my thighs. His gaze locks with mine, pupils wide, as he stops only an inch from the part of me that no man has ever seen.

  “Do you taste as good as you look, Delilah?” His warm breath tickles along my sensitive skin.

  Every rational thought in my mind grinds to a halt.

  He breathes in deeply, and I clutch the quilt so hard my fingers ache.

  “I think you do.” His tongue darts to his lips. “I think you’ll beg me to taste you. Soon.”

  My heart pounds and stumbles as he inhales me, his gaze holding me prisoner. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s staking a claim all the same. I can’t relax, can’t think, can’t look at anything but him. His light breaths ignite little sparks along my skin, and I’m horrified at how I’m reacting to him. Something warm unfurls low in my stomach, a faint longing that shouldn’t be there. Not in this place. Not with this man.

  He licks his lips, and I gasp in a breath. With a smirk, he leans back and stands, then grabs his belt from the bed. He strides to the door, then pauses. “Don’t open the door for anyone but a Spinner or me. Understand?”

  I can’t even nod.

&nbs
p; “Goodnight.” He leaves, and I finally take a breath.

  Chapter 4

  Adam

  I lean back in my chair and take a long draw from my glass.

  “That bad?” Noah walks in and tosses his jacket onto the pool table.

  “How was yours?” I don’t want to think about Delilah. From the first moment I saw her, my thoughts have been circling her like a vulture around carrion, and it has to stop.

  “Fine.” He shrugs. “She had no problem obeying. Then again, I’m never hard on them, even if they’re not quick on the obedience thing.”

  “Which leads to trouble.”

  “Maybe.” He fixes himself a drink and plops down next to me in his favorite leather chair. “But I don’t want to hurt them.”

  “You’re the only one.”

  “I know.” He frowns. “I wish Dad wouldn’t let Craig or Newell near them. They shouldn’t be Protectors.”

  “Perks of being in the Prophet’s inner circle.” I snort and drain my glass, then rise to make another.

  Noah’s phone pings.

  “Fuck.” I slam two ice cubes into my glass. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  He checks his phone. “Yeah. He wants to see us. Upstairs.”

  I down my drink and follow Noah up the curved staircase that leads to the main floor of the Prophet’s house. Everything up here gleams—the floors, the chandeliers, the priceless art. How many heads of state have walked into the Monroe Mansion on the Heavenly Ministries property and taken a deep breath, the taste of money on their tongues?

  “Office.” Castro leans against the wall beside the French doors to my father’s lair. He’s been with us for a few years, but hasn’t proven himself enough to be a Protector and get his very own Maiden to play with. Maybe next year. The bitterness in his eyes tells me he’s well aware of what Noah and I have been doing in our stupid white outfits.

  He opens the door for us, and we walk into the office, the familiar smell of cigars tainting the air as my father scrutinizes us through the smoke.

  “Are you two happy with your picks this year?”