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Obviously, option one was the only way for me to keep my sanity.
I headed toward the front door, my footsteps heavy on the hardwood floors, knowing she could hear them from where she was beneath me. I swung the door open and stepped out onto the porch. Every inch of me was coiled up tight, ready to explode. My fists balled at my sides. I breathed in, letting the fresh air clear my mind, praying for peace.
Maybe she would make my choice for me. I’d intentionally given her a chance.
I waited. Waited for the sound of broken glass from the basement window. Waited for the creaking of the basement door, followed by her footsteps on the living room floor. I stood there, quiet and breathing, until the waiting stopped and the chaos inside me settled. Like the leaves falling softly to the ground after a windstorm.
I leaned against one of the wooden posts and continued to wait. I’d seen the fire in her eyes. She wanted to run. I knew it. And when she did, I’d be here.
Maybe I’d watch her as she ran as fast as her feet would carry her, all the way down the road to the front gate. I’d smile as she tried to find a way back over it and into the wilderness. Or maybe I’d chase her. I almost felt it already, the adrenaline. The rush of blood through my veins as my feet pounded the pavement, closing the distance between us. I already heard the sound of her heavy breathing in my ear when I pounced on her, tackled her, threw her to the ground. Her chest would heave against mine. Her eyes would be wild, her hands clawing at my skin.
The thought of it made my body ache to claim her. Possess her. Ruin her.
Fucking Christ.
I closed my eyes, forcing away the thoughts that tainted my soul.
When I opened them again, I drank in the calm serenity of our community. We were mostly made up of white, two-story cottages with black shutters and wrap-around porches. There were thirty white houses—fifteen on each side of one long street. Mine was in the back, looking out over the others like a beacon. A watchtower.
There were ten more cottages off to the side. Those were stained wood, smaller, and single-story. The road leading to them was made of dirt instead of asphalt, making me believe the white cottages were the originals and the smaller cottages were built later. There were already two families per cottage. If we kept growing, we’d have to find a way to build more.
We didn’t do business outside of our community. We didn’t barter with the vampires or other camps and settlements. Everything we had was our own. We grew it, made it, or found it. We used solar panels for power. We raised animals—cattle, pigs, horses, sheep and chickens. We fished in the stream. Around the borders of our community, between the houses and the fence, we had crops and barns for storage. There was even a distillery. The whiskey came in handy when someone needed to numb the pain, on the inside or the out. Medication for the body… and the soul. My soul was so damaged that I had my own barrel.
Directly behind my house was our church. It was a simple, plain white pavilion with a large open space underneath. There were chairs lined up in rows for our services and a podium at the front where the Priest gave his sermons.
In front of the church was a stone altar and a fire pit where our blooding and claiming ceremonies were held.
We were far away from the wars that went on around us. We were a peaceful settlement and fought hard to keep it that way.
This wasn’t only about me. Or her. It was about every person inside these walls.
Which was why I left the comfort of my front porch, collected the members of the council from their homes, then gathered them at the pavilion.
The citizens of Sanctum Sanguinem elected the council the same way most governments elected their officials. There was a chain of command, much like a president, vice president, and so on. Only our council was made up of the Shepherd, the Prophet, the Priest, and the Speaker. The Shepherd was the leader. That was me.
The Prophet heard the voice of God most clearly, then used his gift to offer wisdom and guidance to the Shepherd.
The Priest made sure our people learned and adhered to the teachings of the book.
And the Speaker did exactly that—he addressed the community with anything important that we felt needed to be discussed.
Council meetings were typically planned beforehand and occurred at night, away from curious eyes and ears. Council members wore dark blue robes and always brought a gift for the Shepherd.
I’d gone knocking on their doors in the light of day with no notice or warning. There were no robes or gifts. There was only the three of them, sitting in front of me with blank expressions as I stood behind the podium.
The only other time the council had conducted a non-sanctioned meeting was after the sudden death of my father. This was completely out of line.
Fuck it. That was why I was the Shepherd. My rules.
I opened our meeting with a prayer, after which everyone repeated in unison, “Amen.”
“There’s been an incident,” I said as my gaze met each of theirs. “A woman showed up at the gate last night. Silas used his own discernment and chose to let her live.”Stupid, stupid Silas.
Joseph, the Prophet, shifted in his chair, then folded his arms across his chest. His salt and pepper hair was kept short and neat. He wore all white, looking like the voice of God that he was.
Jacob, the Priest, folded his hands together on his lap. He had curly, sandy blond hair and a smile that would melt panties—if he cared anything about that. While Joseph looked every bit his role, Jacob was a saint in a sinner’s body.
Ezekiel, the Speaker—and also my younger brother—sat up straight and pursed his lips. He was my mirror image, only five years younger and with dark brown hair and no tattoos. Apparently, the idea of a needle and soot piercing skin was only appealing to people who enjoyed pain—people like me.
