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“This what you raised her for?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

My father’s head jerks faintly, a rasp tearing through the oxygen tube. His lips part, trembling. For a heartbeat I think he’s going to speak.

But nothing comes.

They turn back to me. And I see them, truly see them. Eyes like my father’s. Eyes like every monster who ever wore a shepherd’s robe.

A cold weight coils in my stomach. I twist. The ropes bite deeper. There’s nothing to work loose. But I keep testing.

“This is what you were made for,” Clyde says, voice nearly gentle. “Not to kill or to judge. To submit.”

I lift my chin. My voice is rough, barely more than a breath. But it holds.

“He never once opened his mouth for me,” I rasp, staring past Clyde at the man in the chair.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-EIGHT

Pain radiates through my body, sharp and all-encompassing. The altar beneath me is unforgiving, biting into every bruise. The ropes cinch tight, the flesh beneath rubbed raw.

The door creaks open. Clyde steps inside.

His boots click across the floor, slow, measured. He stops at the foot of the altar.

“Well,” he says. “You’re still here.” His gaze sweeps over me, colder this time. “Tougher than I thought.” He tilts his head, studying me like a craftsman assessing a damaged tool. “But they will break you. Everything fades, Lydia. Even defiance.”

He crouches beside me. “How are you feeling? Sore? Broken? Humiliated?”

“You didn’t break me,” I rasp.

Clyde chuckles, shakes his head. “Not yet.” He leans in, his voice sinking lower. “You’ve been through a lot tonight, haven’t you? And yet here you are. Still clinging to that little fire of yours. Why is that?”

“Because I’m not like you,” I bite out. “I don’t twist scripture to justify my sickness.”

He straightens, begins to pace. “Let’s talk about what you’ve done.” His gaze flicks to the photographs pinned along the wall. “You thought you were cleansing the world, didn’t you? Thought you were righteous.”

“You already said this,” I snap, my voice raw. “You’ve been saying it over and over. I get it.”

For a beat, silence. Then Clyde freezes.

His entire body goes rigid. “YOU DON’T GET IT!” he roars, the sound shaking the walls. His fist slams into the altar beside me. “You haven’t repented! You haven’t confessed! You haven’t begged for forgiveness!”

Then, just as quickly, he straightens. His breathing slows.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. It’s the disappointment, Lydia. Seeing you like this.” He kneels beside me again. “But tonight was a step forward. Do you know what the men whispered when they left this room? They said they were satisfied. But they also said they wanted more. More of you. More of this.”

My skin prickles.

“You’re not just a problem to be fixed anymore,” he murmurs. “You’re an opportunity. A living sermon. A way to show the women of this world where they belong.” He leans in, close enough that I can smell his breath. “We could keep you here, Lydia. Train you. Shape you. Out of all the girls, you always had the most promise. And then, when we’re ready, we could show you to the world.”

Something twists in my gut. “You’re delusional,” I rasp. “No one will follow you.”

Clyde laughs, hollow and bitter. “You’d be surprised. People are desperate for someone to tell them what’s right.” He begins pacing again. “Do you know what happens to lost sheep, Lydia? They get brought back to the flock.” His smile sharpens. “Or they get slaughtered.”

I lift my chin, the fire flickering stubborn in my chest. “You’ll burn,” I whisper. “Every last one of you.”