Reckoning, page 5
He dined with sinners. He touched the sick. He listened to women.
That mattered. That meant something.
This wasn’t the voice of a tyrant. It wasn’t Michael’s voice.
It was love. And it was truth.
My eyes caught on a line I’d read before—years ago, in a chapel that smelled like candle wax and dust. But now, here, in this place that tried so hard to make me small, it hit differently.
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…”
I whispered the words aloud. My voice was barely a breath, but it trembled with something I hadn’t felt in days.
“…but of power, and of love…”
I stopped there. Let it sink in.
Power.
Love.
Not fear.
I repeated it, slower this time. Like a prayer. Like a promise I wanted to believe again.
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…”
I wasn’t powerless.
Not in Him.
And not even here.
The room was still a cage. The walls still too close. But the Word in my lap felt like a key—one I’d forgotten I’d always had.
I closed my eyes. Breathed in the stillness.
Let the light warm my face.
And I held on.
The door clicked open behind me.
I didn’t turn. Just stayed on the bed, spine straight, hands folded. The Bible still rested on my lap, though I wasn’t reading now. I was listening.
Heavy boots. The soft rustle of robes. The scent of overly perfumed sanctity that always made my stomach twist.
Two Purifiers stepped into the room.
One carried a tray—bread, rice, something warm enough to smell real. The other lingered behind, watching me like I might sprout horns if he blinked.
They placed the food on the small table and turned to leave.
I bowed my head.
“Thank You, Lord,” I whispered, just loud enough to be heard. “For another day. For nourishment. For the strength to endure.”
The one in front of the door stopped. Turned back.
“Don’t mock us,” he said sharply.
I looked up.
His mouth was twisted with something between disgust and amusement. “We know you don’t believe. You let a demon lie with you.” His voice was thick with judgment, like it tasted good on his tongue. “God doesn’t want your posturing.”
I didn’t flinch.
“I let my husband lie with me,” I said calmly, clearly. “Which the Bible explicitly states is part of being married.”
The second one—the silent one—spit on the floor, just inches from the table.
I didn’t look at him.
I turned my gaze back to the food, and with steady hands, brought the first bite to my mouth.
I chewed. Swallowed.
I wasn’t hungry, not really. But I ate like I was starving—like each mouthful was a claim, a refusal to let them take one more thing from me.
They didn’t speak again.
They left in silence.
I stayed seated, head bowed again—not in shame, but in quiet communion.
Let them think what they want.
God saw me.
He knew my heart.
And I refused to let their poisoned righteousness cut me off from the love I still believed in.
They came without knocking.
Two more came, women in white, faces calm and unreadable. They didn’t meet my eyes.
One carried folded linens, stacked precisely in her arms like offerings to a god who never bled. The other held a shallow bowl filled with anointing oil and a bar of plain white soap that smelled faintly of bitter mint and lavender.
They led me down a narrow corridor, the soles of their white slippers whispering against the stone floor, never speaking, never glancing my way. I followed in silence, wrapped in a thin robe that did nothing to stop the chill sinking into my bones. The hall smelled faintly of incense and sterilized air—like a chapel hollowed out and bleached clean. At the end of the corridor, an arched doorway opened into the bathing room, pale steam curling from within. I stepped inside on quiet feet, heart steady, expression still, as if I were walking into a ritual—because I was.
The scent hit me before the door closed behind them—sweet and sharp, like sanctified grief.
No one spoke.
I knew what this was.
Preparation. Cleansing.
My fingers moved slowly, pulling at the ties of my dress, letting the fabric fall away. The air against my skin was cold. Unforgiving.
I didn’t speak.
Neither did they.
I stepped into the bathwater—frigid, still, waiting. It clung to my legs like glass. My breath hitched, but I didn’t flinch.
One of the women knelt beside the basin, dipping the soap into her hand, but still didn’t touch me. She just watched. Waiting.
I stared at the far wall. Gray stone. No warmth. Just silence.
My thoughts betrayed me before I could stop them.
Walton.
His hands—rough, scarred, steady. Gentle when he touched me, like he thought I might vanish if he held too tight.
The way he’d press his forehead to mine, breath warm, eyes soft in a way I didn’t think demons could look. Like I was his whole damn world.
Not a vessel. Not a bride. Just his.
A shiver passed through me.
Not from the water.
The women moved around me like I was furniture. They worked in silence, and I let them. My body didn’t tremble, even though I was sure my soul did.
They didn’t ask how I felt.
I wasn’t being cleaned.
I was being stripped.
Polished into someone holy enough to cage.
But I held tight to the memory of his hands. His voice. His love that had nothing to do with thrones or rituals.
They could scrub my skin.
They’d never touch what mattered.
She entered without knocking.
Tall. Severe. Her presence sucked the warmth from the room, not that there was much to begin with. Her features were sharp—cheekbones like cut glass, eyes rimmed with the cool precision of someone who’d long mistaken cruelty for holiness. She didn’t look at me when she stepped in, just closed the door behind her like a judge arriving for sentencing.
Her voice carried the chill of sanctified authority.
“Your body has known filth,” she began. “It must be made holy.”
I didn’t move. I stayed seated on the stone bench; the towel clinging damp to my skin. The scent of lavender and oil still lingered on me—clean, but not cleansed.
She paced slowly, deliberately.
“Your desires made you weak. You will fast from vanity. You will cleanse your womb through prayer.”
Her words landed like ash, like the fallout of a sermon meant to burn rather than heal.
I raised my head. My voice came soft, but steady. “Wanting love is not a sin.”
She turned her full attention to me for the first time, eyes narrowing like she was trying to see what part of me still needed breaking.
“You are to submit,” she said coldly, “as Sarah submitted to Abraham.”
I didn’t blink. “Sarah loved Abraham. She was happy to submit.”
She stiffened. Her fingers twitched at her sides. “The heart is deceitful above all things.”
“And nothing,” I said, each word quiet but deliberate, “can separate us from the love of God.”
There was a pause. A long, breathless stillness.
Then her face twisted—rage, frustration, something cracked behind the mask.
She stepped forward and struck me across the cheek.
The sound rang loud in the stone room. My head turned with the force, but I didn’t fall. Didn’t cry.
I just looked at her.
“You think yourself righteous,” she snapped. Her breath was sharp now, her calm fraying at the edges. “Pride is your greatest sin.”
She turned in a fury, yanking the door open with a clatter of robes.
“Sister Mara,” she spat, like I’d asked, though I hadn’t. “Remember the name of the woman who tried to save your soul.”
Then she was gone.
I sat there, cheek throbbing, heart aching—but still anchored in the truth that had kept me alive this long.
And I whispered to the silence, “God already has.”
I was halfway through dressing when I felt him.
Not heard—felt. The air shifted before the door even opened.
Michael stepped inside without a word, without knocking, like he’d been waiting just beyond the threshold for the right moment to make it his.
His presence was sharp, smug, all radiant authority polished to a shine. The scent of incense and ozone followed him in like a cloak.
He didn’t speak right away.
Just watched me fasten the final clasp on my robe, then began circling like a serpent measuring prey.
I stood still. I wouldn’t let him see me flinch.
“I heard Sister Mara’s visit was… spirited,” he said lightly, like we were gossiping at a garden party.
I didn’t answer.
He moved closer. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his judgment pressing against my skin.
“You use the Word like a weapon,” I said quietly, “not a guide.”
He smiled. A slow, dangerous thing.
“The Word is a sword, Everly,” he replied. “And you should be grateful I choose to wield it for your soul.”
I met his eyes. “You don’t wield it to save anyone. You slice it apart, piece by piece, until it justifies whatever you already wanted to do.”
Something flashed in his eyes—not quite anger. Annoyance. Like he hated being read so clearly.
In one swift motion, he stepped forward and grabbed my chin between his fingers. Not hard, but firm. Commanding.
Michael moved like a statue brought to life—elegant, controlled, every gesture deliberate. His beauty was blinding in that cold, celestial way: too perfect, too polished, like something sculpted to be worshipped rather than understood. Golden hair, robes that shimmered faintly with power, eyes that burned with holy fire and something far less pure, just beneath. He radiated divinity and domination in equal measure, as if God Himself had carved him to command and never be questioned.
I froze.
His hand was warm, unnervingly gentle.
“You will submit,” he said, his voice low, close, coaxing. “Not because you’re afraid. But because eventually, you’ll see that I am right.”
The silence between us cracked with tension.
My heart pounded.
My defiance flickered—just for a breath.
But my gaze didn’t fall.
He saw it.
He held me a moment longer, then released me with a small sigh, like I’d disappointed him for something he already knew I would.
He straightened his cuffs. Smoothed invisible creases.
His calm returned like a switch flipped.
“Pray, Everly,” he said, already turning to leave. “Tomorrow, your vows begin.”
The door clicked softly behind him.
I stood still in the quiet.
But inside, I burned.
The two women led me back in silence.
Their hands didn’t touch me, but their presence pressed close — tight smiles, lowered eyes, the stiffness of duty done and conscience buried. Neither spoke as the door shut behind me with its soft, mechanical hiss.
The second I was alone, I dropped.
My knees hit the floor beside the bed, hard enough to bruise, but I didn’t care. My body folded in on itself like the weight of everything had finally been allowed to land.
My cheek still burned from Mara’s slap—hot and pulsing, a living mark of righteousness twisted cruel.
My hands trembled.
I couldn’t stop them.
It wasn’t fear. Not entirely.
It was the flood after the dam broke—the cost of holding myself together long enough to not let them see me fall.
I reached for the Bible, fumbled for it, clutched it to my chest like it was armor, like it could still be a shield even here in this hollow, holy prison.
I pressed my forehead against the edge of the bed, chest heaving, lips parted but too raw for a full prayer.
Just one line made it through. Barely more than a breath.
“Be with me,” I whispered. “I can’t do this alone.”
I didn’t ask for strength. Not courage. Not vengeance. I didn’t have it in me tonight.
I just wanted to feel Him again.
To believe He was still here.
That He hadn’t abandoned me to marble altars and golden chains. That He saw me—not the sin they called me, not the vessel they wanted, but me.
I stayed like that for a long time, eyes shut, heart cracked wide open.
Waiting for silence to feel like more than just an absence.
Waiting for something sacred to answer back.
I took a breath.
Then another.
Sharp at first, then steady. My hands still trembled, but the storm inside me began to quiet—just enough to think, to choose.
I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand. No more crying. Not tonight. I couldn’t afford to drown in self-pity. That wasn’t what this was about.
I had made my choice.
And I’d make it again.
Walton had gotten the children out. I knew it in my bones. Whatever blood he had to spill, whatever fire he had to walk through, he would’ve done it. For them. For me.
And now… now I was here. Still breathing. Still held together by faith and grit and that quiet thread that told me God hadn’t let go.
I looked down at the Bible in my lap.
He was with me. Even now.
Especially now.
That had to be enough.
Even if I couldn’t feel Him.
Even if all I had was silence.
I closed my eyes. Held the book against my chest again. Not as armor this time—but as surrender.
Not to Michael. Never to Michael.
To God.
To Walton.
To the plan I couldn’t see.
But surrender—real surrender—wasn’t easy. It wasn’t soft or romantic or holy light pouring through stained glass. It was terrifying. It was letting go of control. Letting go of what I wanted. Of what I feared.
Letting go of myself.
My voice shook as I whispered into the stillness. “Help me, God. Please. Help me let go.”
Not because I wanted to give up. But because I wanted to trust.
And trust was so much harder than rebellion.
So I stayed there, breathing slow, heart open, tears drying on my face, praying not for rescue—but for release.
Because no matter what came next, I couldn’t do it halfway.
I had to be all in.
Even if it broke me.
Chapter 6
Walton
The valley stretched out around us, dry and brittle as old bone. Scrub grass clung to the dirt like it hadn’t realized it was supposed to die already. Sunset bled out across the mountains—red and bruised and low, like the sky was getting ready to let go.
We’d set up a camp, if you could call it that. Just a dip in the land and a half-circle of rock, a small fire coughing smoke into the dusk. It curled low, thin and gray, carried by the breeze that smelled like dust, old pine, and something older. Something metallic.
Blood memory.
Malak sat across from me, elbows on his knees, face half-lit by the fire. He hadn’t said a word since we stopped. Just stared into the flames like he was trying to see something inside them, or maybe keep something buried.
Fine by me.
Silence sat next to me, leaning her body against my shins.
The quiet was easier than whatever the hell kind of conversation we’d have if either of us tried to pretend we were men instead of monsters.
I pulled a cigarette from my coat and lit it with a flick of my old silver lighter. The click of the flame cut through the hush like a shot. Malak mirrored me a beat later, the flare of his match lighting his eyes for a breath before they went hollow again.
The air between us sat heavy. Not tense exactly. Just thick. Like everything we’d done to get here was still walking alongside us, waiting for someone to blink first.
We smoked in tandem, the crackle of the fire and the slow drag of breath the only rhythm.
I leaned back on my elbows, eyes on the horizon.
Nothing out there but dying light and silence.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Not even here.
Not even now.
Her voice. Her fire. The way she’d look at me like I was worth saving when I knew damn well I wasn’t.
I took another drag.
Didn’t say her name.
Even in a place like this, with ash on my boots and a devil at my fire, she was the only thing still keeping me facing forward.
“You ever think about how you got here?”
Malak’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade dulled from use—lazy, but sharp enough underneath.
I didn’t look at him. Just exhaled slow, smoke curling from my mouth toward the bleeding sky.
“Every goddamn day.”
He nodded like he expected that. Like he’d already had the whole conversation in his head and was just waiting to hear if I’d match it.
The fire popped. A little ember snapped free and floated between us, gone before it touched the ground.
Malak leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, watching the coals like they might open their mouths and confess something.
Then he smirked.
“Gave up bounty work,” he drawled. “All that grit, all that edge… for pussy.”
I didn’t even blink. “That’s my wife.”
Said it like I was naming a war.
The words sat between us, solid and heavy, like steel laid on the table.
Malak didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the fire, like he was considering it—not mocking it, just weighing the thing for what it was.
