Dove
Taos, New Mexico
I woke up today as I do every morning. The sun barely rises, casting a faint orange glow through the dusty blinds. I rub my eyes as I get out of bed, slip into my white cotton robe, and shuffle into the kitchen. The house feels colder than usual, the kind of chill that clings to the air and settles in your bones. I fill the coffee maker with water and put it on the stove. The low hum of the heating element is the only sound that breaks the silence. The familiar smell of coffee grounds fills the air.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. My eyes drift toward the front door, but it's the same as it always is—locked, bolted, untouched since last night. By the looks of it, the Prophet hasn’t returned. I pause for a moment, listening for any signs of life, but there’s only stillness. But there's nothing; he's not home. I sigh. Thankful for the quiet moment, and my body finally accepts the truth and relaxes. Ever since the death of the last priest, the Prophet has been at the compound. The town whispers that he lost his mind, claiming to hear the voice of Eden in his final days. No one ever speaks of how he died. Even though authorities claimed it was a suicide.
I lean against the counter, gazing out at the horizon. The distant mountains glow softly under the rising sun. Rumors have been spreading that a new priest will arrive soon, and the Prophet is not pleased about it. How many false prophets will they send until they understand? Taos has its own God, its church. We don't need a priest. But it doesn’t matter, though. Not here. Not in Taos, where the Prophet and the Church of Eden control every house, street, and inch of land as far as the eye can see.
Heading back to my room, I open the French doors and let the crisp morning air wash over me. A faint smile crosses my face as the sun's warmth touches my skin. Mornings like this are a rare treat—a quiet escape from the Prophet and the weight of duty. For just a moment, I can simply be.
While waiting for my coffee, I head to the bathroom to prepare for the day. Today, I know my free time will be cut short, and soon Gabriel will burst through the doors to the compound. At least I’m not doing God’s work—not in that way, at least. Not that this is any better, but this is life. Well, mine, anyway. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me lately. I used to be so obedient, so accepting, and now all I feel is turmoil. Resentment spreads through me as I put on another white dress. It's cotton with thin spaghetti straps. And then I place my wild curls into a bun, leaving a couple of strands to frame my face.
The smell of coffee invades my room, and a smile curls on my lips. Coffee time . Barefoot, I walk back toward the kitchen. The silence in the house is broken by the soft gurgle of brewing coffee. Its aroma fills the hallway and overpowers yesterday's incense. Pouring myself a cup of coffee, black with two sugars. Wrapping my hands around the hot mug, letting the warmth seep into my skin, grounding me in the stillness of the morning. Then, the familiar sound of tires crunching over gravel interrupts the quiet. I look up just as Gabriel’s pickup truck pulls into the driveway. I know it's him—it's always him. The Prophet only ever sends his second-in-command when he calls for me. And if anything happens to the Prophet, I'll belong to Gabriel.
Gabriel’s truck grows closer, and a lump forms in my throat. I prefer solitude over facing him, but I know better. The Prophet’s wishes are not to be disobeyed. Unless you want to be punished. I don’t bother looking away; instead, I watch as Gabriel steps out of the truck. He is tall and muscular, with long black hair that falls past his shoulders. He has sharp cheekbones and striking hazel eyes. He’s everything the men back at the compound aspire to be. And everything I might have once wanted—back when I was too na?ve, too obedient. A sheep.
A smirk spreads across his devilish face as he walks up to the house. I don’t bother waiting for him, so I walk back to my room. Taking a drink from my cup of coffee, I step into the closet and slip into white sandals to complete the look. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing now. It always ends in two ways for me: either off or completely covered.
The sound of Gabriel’s boots echoes through the house. Asshole didn’t even knock—but of course, he wouldn’t. Men like him or the Prophet don’t ask; they take. And speaking of the devil— “Sol, buenos días. Good morning, time to go.” Gabriel calls out from the hallway, his footsteps growing closer. Placing the cup of coffee on the dresser, I quickly grab the cocoa butter lotion and rub it onto my skin. When I feel him behind me, I look over my shoulder to see him, tall and demanding, leaning on the wooden frame of my door.
“Ready, Sol?" Gabriel's voice is a smooth rumble, like thunder rolling in the distance. His eyes roam over me, taking in the white dress, the sandals, and my hastily arranged bun.
“Yes," I reply, keeping my voice steady. The lie slides easily from my lips, as it always has. I’m anything but ready, but duty calls. As I walk toward the door, I almost— almost —make it past him when his arm pulls me back into him. My ass is pressed up against him. He's hard.
“What does he need today?” I ask through gritted teeth, feeling his hand roam up my leg and underneath my skirt.
“The usual prayers with the maiden, arts and crafts with the children, and we have a mandatory mass nice and early,” he replies, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather, completely unperturbed by the tension of our proximity. His hand rests a little too high on my thigh, and I find myself holding my breath, suppressing a shiver .
“Is that all?” I ask. The bastard smiles against my neck.
“How much longer will you stay mad at me? Hating me?” Gabriel whispers low, his hot breath ghosting over my skin, causing unwanted goosebumps.
“Would it help if I said, 'until eternity'?” I retort, wriggling in his grip, but his arms tighten around me like a vice. His laughter rumbles low and deep behind my back.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. He bites my earlobe, sending a jolt of heat through me, igniting a warmth in my core that I shouldn't feel. One that I refuse to acknowledge.
My nostrils flare as I focus on the anger that I feel and allow it to spread through me like wildfire. With a sharp jab of my elbow, I hit him in the stomach, forcing him to loosen his grip.
“Fuck, Sol,” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous as I break free and spin to face him. His nostrils flare, his hand curling into a fist. For a tense moment, I think he might hit me. But he doesn’t. Gabriel just stands there, eyes burning into mine, holding himself back. "It doesn't have to be this way," he says as he takes two steps closer. “I can fix this.”
“It didn’t have to be this way—you chose this,” I snap, reminding him of the pain he caused me. Not that it bothers me anymore. It’s been years since that day, the day etched into my memory like a scar. But I remember, and I’ll always remind him.
Gabriel's eyes shimmer with an emotion I can’t quite place. Is it regret? Understanding, maybe? But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, and he’s back to being the same asshole I’ve come to know and loathe.
“Let’s go. I can’t play with you today,” he says as he walks past me. I follow behind him as he storms out of the house and gets into his truck. Climbing into the passenger seat, I keep my gaze on the road. Thankfully, Gabriel doesn’t say anything or even bother to look my way.
It doesn’t take long before we arrive at the compound. As usual, a flurry of movement surrounds me as they rush to dress me for the mass. They slip a long, stiff, white gown over my head. It covers every inch of me—my arms, my neck. It trails so long I might trip over it. Next comes the white silk veil. It is placed to obscure my face, to keep the illusion of purity.
I can hear him; the Prophet’s voice is echoing through the compound.
“Blasphemy! We rid this town of one false prophet, and they deliver another devil, another sinner. But fear not—God has spoken and delivered judgment. Matthew 24:24 says, "For false Christs and prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect." But we are the chosen, the elect! We will not be swayed by the deceivers of this world!” The Prophet’s voice echoes through the room. Once I’m covered from head to toe, I’m allowed to head over to the altar where he waits for me.
“This is a trying time for us,” the Prophet continues, his voice a booming authority. “All these false prophets coming into our home, our town, defiling it with their city words. But fear not! In the verse of Corinthians 11:13-14, God says, ‘For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself disguises as an angel of light. But we will not be swayed. God has given us the strength to stand against these deceivers.”
As I reach the altar, through the thin veil I can see Gabriel standing beside the Prophet. I bow my head, not daring to stare at them directly, as it is considered blasphemous in our church.
“Daughter of Eden,” the Prophet’s voice softens as he addresses me, “do you believe in His word, in His guidance? ”
“Yes, Prophet,” I reply, my voice trembling slightly. “I believe.”
“The Bible says in Psalms 27:1, "Then you shall not fear the trials ahead, for The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?" The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’” The Prophet preaches on.
I nod, fighting to keep the growing dread inside me at bay as the Prophet places his hand on my head and whispers a prayer. His words envelop me, and I can feel Gabriel's piercing gaze, a silent reminder of the life I've been forced into. One of obedience, submission, and endless devotion to a cause that's lost its certainty for me.
But doubt is a sin, and in this place, sinners face swift and merciless judgment.