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The cold seeps deeper into my skin as I take a step back, the moment pressing heavy on my shoulders. I keep my gaze locked on him, watching the weak, erratic twitch of his muscles, the way his body sags further into the restraints as exhaustion takes hold.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” I whisper, my words for him alone, though I know the pigs are listening too. “I want you to think about what you’ve done. About all the pain you’ve caused. You’ve had years to run, to drink, to hide from the truth. But now…” I pause, my breath clouding in the air as I step closer again, my hand brushing the chain that keeps him suspended. “Now there’s nowhere left to run, Kerr. The only thing left is me.”

He thrashes weakly against the restraints, the chains rattling in protest. The sound grates against my nerves, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I let it wash over me, feeding the storm building in my chest.

I turn to leave, pausing at the door to glance back one last time. His figure is a silhouette against the dim light of the space heater, his body swaying gently as he struggles to keep himself upright. “Goodnight, Kerr,” I say, my voice dripping with false sweetness. “I hope the pigs don’t keep you up.”

The door groans as I pull it shut behind me, the final sound of Kerr’s muffled protests swallowed by the darkness.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

The past creeps into my mind like a poison, spreading through every nerve, every thought. Kerr’s face forms behind my closed eyes, a twisted snarl of satisfaction as he loomed over me, the leather strap coiled in his hand. The damp, mildewed scent of the cellar seeps into the memory, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat and fear.

I was small again, barely more than a child, the hard wood of the bench biting into my palms as Kerr’s voice rose above the whimpers clawing from my throat.

“Hold still, girl,” he commanded, his words cold and clipped. “This is for your own good. A man of God deserves obedience. Submission.”

My father stood behind him, his broad shoulders stiff, his hands clasped in forced patience. His expression was unreadable, but his lips pressed thin, his jaw working as if he wanted to speak but didn’t dare.

The whip cracked against my skin, and I jolted, biting back a scream. Fire bloomed along the backs of my thighs, and I choked on the cry rising in my chest. My legs trembled, but I didn’t fall, not yet. Kerr didn’t like it when you fell too soon.

“See, Pastor Anderson?” Kerr drawled, his voice slipping into something almost conversational. “Discipline is the key to salvation. The flesh is weak, but it can be strengthened. Tempered… if you’re willing to break it.”

He stepped closer, dragging the strap along my trembling legs, the rough leather scraping my skin. “She’ll be the deliverance for this congregation one day. But only if you’re willing to mold her.”

“She’s too willful,” my father muttered, his voice low and tight with irritation. “Just like her mother.”

Kerr chuckled, a dark, knowing sound that curled in the pit of my stomach. “That’s because you’ve been too soft with her. Women are like wild horses. They need to be broken before they can be tamed.”

My head hung forward, hair clinging to the sweat slicking my face. The next strike didn’t come, but Kerr’s shadow stretched over me, blocking out the dim light of the bulb swinging above.

“Look at her,” he said, his tone almost reverent. His fingers grazed my chin, forcing my face upward. His touch was firm, the way a sculptor might handle clay. He pulled a tube of lipstick from his pocket, bright red, garish against his sun-worn hands, and uncapped it with a soft pop. “A good woman knows how to serve her man. And you, Lydia, will learn to serve the way the Lord intended.”

My breath caught as he smeared the lipstick across my lips, the waxy texture clinging to my dry, cracked skin. He was rough, deliberate, painting the shape he wanted me to wear. “Red,” he murmured, tilting my face to the light. “Red is the color of devotion. Of sacrifice. You’ll wear it well.” His gaze flicked toward my father. “You see, Pastor? A proper servant leaves proof of her service. The color should be smeared, like blood on an altar.”

My father nodded stiffly, his eyes never quite meeting mine. He didn’t stop Kerr. He never did.

Kerr steps back, surveying his work with the pride of a craftsman. His hand lingers on my jaw, calloused fingers dragging along my skin with deliberate care, like he’s sculpting something fragile and his. Then it moves lower, down the slope of my neck, brushing across my shoulder, following the trembling line of my spine.

I feel it before it happens, the change in the air, the tug of fabric.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

I go still.

His hand slides further, violating more than space, more than skin. Not forceful, but certain. Like he believes he has the right.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I don’t flinch. I’ve learned that flinching gives them something to aim for. Something to break.

“Ah,” he murmurs near my ear, breath hot and vile. “The Lord is blessing your body. Preparing you for what’s to come.”

Cold spreads through me. Not fear, an older, more bitter thing.

My father clears his throat behind him, the sound tight and awkward. “She’s not ready yet.”

“No,” Kerr agrees, withdrawing with the slow confidence of a man who knows he’ll get what he wants. “But soon. Very soon.”