Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
The man Mr. Hathorne called Graves, his face hidden behind a menacing skulled deer head, moved to stand behind the woman wearing the fancy collar.
As the flames burning within the wall scones cast eerie flickers across the room, the iron was placed against her skin.
It sizzled, searing the flesh just beneath her left shoulder. A muffled cry escaped her lips, followed by a sob that echoed my own silent scream. At the same time happening right beside her, the other woman was receiving the same treatment. Her serene composure was a stark juxtaposition to the searing pain inflicted upon her. She remained detached, a distant witness to her own suffering.
Another disturbing realization swept over me then—this was what awaited me. My thoughts spiraled, a tumultuous storm of panic and denial. I couldn’t do anything to evade it. I was trapped in this damn box and surrounded by a mass twisted loyalist.
Mr. Hawthorne stepped between the two women and regarded them with nothing more than a curt nod of approval.
"The brands they bear shall serve as a reminder of their chosen path and whom they belong to. Let this be a reminder to all that we do not tread the path of the faint-hearted."
Each masked head bowed and what I was starting to assume was praise was recited. "Laus Diabolus, dominus tenebrarum, qui regnat in aeternum. Gloriamus in malum suum et nutrimus per viam obscuritatis.”
The women were led away and taken out of sight. The word consummate reached my ears and gave me a grim idea of what awaited them. It was sickening.
“Rise,” Mr. Hawthorne commanded the room as two feminine masked figures approached me. They opened the door of the box and offered their hands to help me climb out. I’d briefly considered refusing to move, but I knew one way or another I would be forced to the front of the room.
As gloved hands guided me, I could feel a mix of awe and reverence all aimed at me. I wondered if Esther and Nicolette were amongst these people watching all of this unfold.
The walk to the front of the room felt like a country mile. When I was finally before the altar and turned so that I was facing the room, I couldn’t bring myself to kneel. I was forced to do so by one of the masked nun’s gentle touches on my shoulder.
As my knees hit the cold, blood-stained marble floor, the truth of my reality sank in and the terror that had gripped me since my abduction amplified.
I couldn't escape from this.
"For too long, we have yearned for this day." Mr. Hawthorne weaved a spell that held everyone captive. "We have bided our time, anticipating the arrival of those who would be worthy of our embrace."
I heard his soft footfalls as he advanced on me, his overbearing presence radiating a dark power. His hand brushed the top of my head with a possessive tenderness.
"Tonight, we celebrate not only my Electi’s arrival, but the strength of our purpose. Let this Rite reaffirm our shared destiny and illuminate the path that lies ahead. Together, we shall usher in a new era of darkness."
As his words hung in the air, an unsettling sense of unity pervaded the church. They had a bond forged from some sense of twisted devotion to their leader and the sinister religion that united them all.
Without further warning, heated iron seared my flesh where the dress exposed a portion of my back. A strangled cry of agony and anger tore from my lips and tears blurred my vision. It wasn't just the searing pain—it was the knowledge that I was being marked.
I was a possession—his—and everyone would know it. Despair threatened to overwhelm me, but before I could be wholly consumed, hands raised me from the floor and ushered me through a rear door. The second I stepped through, a figure stepped from the shadows faster than I could track.
A sharp prick in my neck plunged me into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I traced the outline of the brand—my mark—that was now a part of her. It was a symbol of unity that gave me a deep sense of satisfaction. The only way for it to be removed was if she cut the flesh from her body, and I would never allow that to happen.
If and when Lolita was going to bleed, it would be solely because of me. I studied her beautiful sleeping face, feeling a surge of possessiveness mingled with tenderness. It was a confusing mix of emotions I had never felt until her.
I cradled her head in my lap and did my utmost to keep from ripping off the dress she was wearing. The only thing stopping me was the short amount of time remaining until we were home. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I wanted her so fucking badly that for the first time in my life, I was on the verge of losing control.