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He scowls at the shivering Maiden standing in front of him, then snaps his gaze to meet mine. His eyes round the slightest bit, and I drop my focus back to the dirt, then close my eyes. I shouldn’t have done that. I silently berate myself as Leon—no, he’s the Prophet—as the Prophet continues his lesson on the safety of the Cloister. I let my disguise fall back into place. I am a devout follower of the Prophet and eager Cloister Maiden. The hum of my thoughts grows louder, and I realize the Prophet has stopped talking.
I open my eyes and peek at the Maiden to my left. She’s lifted her pitcher, her eyes still downcast. I do the same.
“The water signifies an offering from Maiden to her Protector. A righteous man—one who will teach her and lead her in the light of the Lord our God. The Protector is sanctified by God, and his decisions will always be made in the best interest of the Maiden under his protection. Just as God instructed in Genesis, the man is leader, the woman his helpmate. And so it will be here. The Protector—with God in his heart—shall lead his Maiden and show her the ways of true believers.”
“Amen.” The men’s voices seem to have grown louder, hungrier.
“Now, Maidens, offer yourselves as vessels made to carry the knowledge and light of our Lord, to your Protector.”
With shaking arms, I hold out my pitcher. A brief brush of fingers against mine, and the weight lifts. After a few moments, the drained pitchers fly over our heads and crash into the fire at our backs. A primal roar rips from the men—wolves with appetites whetted for blood.
“Protectors, lead your gentle lambs back to the Cloister where we will welcome them into the fold.”
A hand appears, the wide palm up. I take a deep breath and remind myself that Noah is a good draw. Slipping my hand into his, I lift my eyes to find the entirely wrong man attached. Noah leads a different woman away from the bonfire.
Adam’s smirk darkens as he grips my hand too tight. “Shall we, little lamb?”
Chapter 2
Adam
The Cloister—a vast log cabin complex—appears through the trees. I pull the Maiden along with me, her bare feet skittering over dry leaves and pine needles. She doesn’t complain. They never do. My father’s little army of Maidens always behaves perfectly at first. The problems wouldn’t begin until later tonight.
We exit the woods, and she picks up her pace on the grass expanse. The other Protectors and Maidens follow us, none of the women making a sound as the men grunt and laugh.
I yank my Maiden closer. “Hurry up.”
She starts to pull against my grip, then seems to reconsider and allows me to continue half-dragging her to the Cloister. A little hint of spark flares in her eyes, then quickly dies. I saw it at the fire ritual—the great theater my father just loves to put on every year when we have a new Maiden crop. I’d switched with Noah because of that hint of something hidden inside this one, but it was likely a stupid choice on my part. After all, she’d signed up to be a Cloister Maiden. There was no backbone inside her, no keen intellect. Just another lamb to the slaughter. The thought makes me grit my teeth as I pull her inside the doorway leading to the banquet hall.
A few Spinners kneel to the side, bowls of warm water next to them.
“Wash.” I shove my Maiden toward them and point at her filthy feet.
She follows my command like an obedient little supplicant, pulling up her shift and allowing one of the Spinners to sponge the dirt away. When I first spotted her walking through the trees, I did a double take. A fairy—her hair white, her skin pale—she seemed to float along the path. Watching her now, I realize she has gray eyes, ones that hardened to flint as she peered at me during the ritual. I thought I’d sensed something more in her … A trace of defiance. But it can’t be. If she was dumb enough to fall for my father’s line of “chosen one” bullshit and leave her life for the Cloister, there was no way she had any real wheels turning in her skull. Just blind devotion, ignorant worship, and foolish faith.
A Spinner dries the girl’s feet. My Maiden looks young, early twenties at most. Features too delicate to be real, easy to break. Medium height, small build, light pink nipples at attention beneath her shift and a waist that narrows before flaring out to full hips. Light penetrates between her thighs, giving me the outline of her sex. That one little hint isn’t enough. I want more.
“Come.” I hold out my hand.
She glances down at the Spinner, hesitation in her eyes.
