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Looking over my shoulder, I searched for Cyrus. She’d stayed a few feet behind me, trying not to draw more attention to me.

But now, I wished I could cling to her broad shoulders and let her body shield me from the thrash of the crowd.

She seemed to have the same desire, shouldering past the followers to reach me.

Wrapping her arm around my waist, she pulled me into her chest. “Stay close, Ragdoll.” Her gruff voice rumbled into my ear even over the panicked cries of the crowd. She kept herself wide, a firm stance keeping us from shifting.

I stood on my tiptoes as Rubin moved toward his SUV, seeing the back of Lola’s head as she waved the idol in Rubin’s line of sight.

Through the shifting heads of The Messenger’s parishioners, I watched Rubin turn to look at Lola. He spotted Travis first, then grabbed the crucifix from Lola’s grasp.

His lips moved slightly, muttering something to her.

Once the crowd realized he was speaking to another follower, they grew rabid. Each of them wanted a moment with their prophet. The thrash of the crowd caught Cyrus and I off guard, tumbling a foot forward.

My hood slipped off my head, exposing my bleached hair.

A mutter began around Cyrus and I, prying eyes starting to widen as they looked at my face.

“Prophet! Your wife! Claim your wife!” A rogue man screamed, staring deep into my eyes.

Cyrus growled, as her grip on my waist tightened. “Shit.”

Before we could move toward an exit, the crowd swarmed around us. Hands reached for me, dragging down my hoodie and body.

Cyrus used her free hand to stiff arm them away, as many as she could. “We have to get you out of here.”

But the acolytes kept shouting for Rubin. “Claim her, Messenger! Your holy bride!”

As the crowd swallowed us, I heard the slam of the SUV’s door, the squeal of tires peeling away from the scene.

His disappearance didn’t stop his followers from pushing in on me.

My chest tightened, feeling like getting air into my lungs was like slipping a piece of paper through a vise.

Through the bodies, I saw fear on Nash and Blade’s faces. They were doing their best to push past the eager crowd. Left without their prophet, they were desperate for the next best thing — his promised bride.

But a man came right up to us, pressing in next to Cyrus. His words were barely audible over the chants of the religious zealots surrounding us.

“You’ve ruined the prophet’s wife, heathen.” His arm shifted by his side.

My eyes darted behind me.

The man pulled a long blade from Cyrus’s ribs, a rush of red liquid flowing into the black her black shirt.

“Oh, fuck.” I couldn’t look away from the wound, blood gushing from the wound.

But Cyrus gritted her teeth and whipped around, throwing a fist into the man’s face.

“HELP! HE’S GOT A WEAPON!” I shrieked over the crowd, trying to make my words reach Blade and Nash’s ears.

As the followers scrambled away, chaos breaking out in the crowd, Cyrus grabbed her assaulter's collar and lifted a knee to his balls.

Keeling over, Cyrus held his head in place and brought the same knee to his face.

People ran around us, a circle forming around Cyrus and the attacker as Cyrus drove fist after fist into his body.

“PLEASE!” I yelled, watching more blood drip from the hem of Cyrus’s shirt and into the browning grass of Valemont’s center.