Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
When I finally get to the chamber I’m looking for, I fish my key from my pocket and ram it into the lock, kicking the door open as fast as I can.
Soren’s whip stops midair, splattering blood across the wall. His body blocks my view, but I know exactly what he’s doing.
“Can you please stop the noise?” I growl. “I’m trying to read.”
Soren merely replies with a grunt.
“Thanks,” I reply, and as I close the door again, another THWACK sound follows, but no more cries.
Good. I don’t like being interrupted, especially not when I’m trying to figure out what to do.
Because no one else before me has done what I’ve done. No man has ever contemplated, let alone tried, to bring in a sinner who wasn’t sent to us.
But I did. And now I don’t know what to do with her.
The answer seems simple, but it never really is. Because for a sinner to be redeemed, there must be one to judge. There must be forgiveness. But who am I to forgive her for a sin she did not commit against me?
The other girls … they have family who sent them here. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts. Friends. Foes. Someone who thought they needed this in order to redeem themselves.
But not Amelia. No one is waiting for her to apologize. How in the world am I going to trigger her to confess?
I return to my study and sit back down in my chair, rubbing my eyebrows. There must be someone in the history of this House who has done the same, right? But no matter how many books I read about our family, the more I’m lost to the question I don’t have the answers to. Because what do you do with a sinner who cannot even remember her own sin? Let alone the fact that she wasn’t sent … she was invited. She said yes because deep down, she knew she had to … even if she cannot remember why.
But I will help her.
It’s what I do best.
Twelve years ago
The first day I was allowed to go down the stairs into the cellar made my heart pump so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest.
For years, my father had been teasing me with hints of what went on down there. Because I was too young, he never fully disclosed what his job was. Whatever happened behind closed doors stayed there even though I could always hear the groaning, the cries, and the whispers.
They lured me again and again to come and have a peek, but the minute I did, Father’s guards would be there to keep me from trying.
And now the day has finally arrived that I get to join my father in his work. The one thing our family has been doing for centuries. Divine work, he calls it, and the responsibility of it has been handed down from generation to generation.
And I can’t help but feel as though it is finally my time to shine. My time to learn what hides behind these thick, wooden doors.
I pause in front of the stairs, the guards eyeing me up as though they’re reminding me that my father can take back permission at any time, and they will intervene. I must do everything I can to ensure my father is content with me.
Just as he always says … behave, and you will be rewarded.
It’s our family’s mantra. A good one, but a harsh rule to live by if you ask me.
I swallow hard as I take a step down into the cellar, where the shrieks are still audible to this very day. I’ve always wondered what was hiding in there. An animal? Or a monster? My imagination always ran away with me.
My father taught me there is no shame in the work he does. He’s proud of his accomplishments, so I’ve always assumed the noise was just part of the job … along with the pain to your heart the second you hear those screams.
But I’ve grown used to it. Or rather, I was forced. As someone who was homeschooled, I didn’t know any better, and I wasn’t allowed to know the truth either. Not until today.
And because that day has finally arrived, the tension is almost too much to take.
I walk down the stairs and go through the dark hallways lit by only a couple of lights. It’s scary and damp and reminds me of a dungeon. There are several wooden doors, but only one of them seems to be in use right now, and my father is standing right in front of it.
I suck my lips inward and stop in front of him.
“Finally … it’s time,” he says, his deep voice always striking fear into my heart, even to this day. Not the fear of danger but the fear of sheer power.