Chapter 4
EVIE
My fingers flex as I lift the last of the boxes and start up the concrete walkway for what feels like the hundredth time. Late summers in the San Diego heat are no joke, but I do my best to ignore the beads of sweat trickling down my neck.
I find the single step that leads to the porch, unable to see the ground as I shift the box, my arms trembling with the effort of balancing it.
Just when I think I’ve got it, the end of my skirt tangles beneath me, sending me toppling forward.
The cardboard box crashes to the ground, books spilling out in every direction.
I let loose a string of curses that would earn me an exorcism from my father and repress the urge to scream. A sharp sting pricks along my knee, small drops of blood welling across the scraped skin. Great.
Moving would be so much easier if I didn’t have to wear the cardigan and this stupid fucking skirt.
If every inch of my body didn’t have to be covered for modesty’s sake.
My entire closet is like this. Skirts and pants have to reach my ankles.
Tops must have sleeves to the mid-arm and be loose.
Some of the women in church enjoy the restriction, choosing to forgo everything but approved dresses.
But me? I’d kill for a set of shorts right now.
Gentle caws of seagulls mingle with the boisterous noise of people along the sidewalks. Some are headed in the direction of the university, but most are wearing sundresses with swimsuits beneath, enjoying the afternoon without a care in the world.
How do they do that? I have the art of smiling and laughing down to perfection—the careful tilt of lips, the forced burst of breath at just the right moment—but these women aren’t putting on an act.
Most of the time I can pretend I’m normal, but there are moments like this where I realize other people are existing in real time.
Walking and talking and breathing as if they genuinely want to live.
Is that something that can be taught? A fake-it-till-you-make-it type of situation, or are some of us just damned?
Maybe I am one of the forsaken. Something was lost in translation when the Almighty God created me.
Or He looked at the makeup of my soul and decided that was it.
Before I’d even had a chance to live, I’d been cast out.
No shiny light of peace and happiness for me.
That’s fine. I’m better suited for darkness anyway.
I maintain the facade as best I can, fooling my family and the church, but the truth is I take after my namesake in the worst way. They tell me Eve is the ultimate sinner—the first woman, meant to be pure and good, expected to listen and obey, to heed warning and submit—but she fell.
They want me to hate her. It’s been pushed down my throat so many times. Eve is evil. Women are bad, especially without a man to lead them. The awful things they say about her twist and tangle with my self-loathing and haunted past. But I don’t want to believe them anymore.
I repeated the scripture each morning, the pages of my personal bible worn and stained from how often I was forced to read.
I wore loose clothing—I still do—covering my body, keeping my dark red hair tied back in a single, simple braid or hair tie.
And I stay as quiet as possible. But I never could stop my mind from wandering. From wishing for a way out.
The thin, scabbed cuts across the inside of my forearms are a testament to the shadows I couldn’t leash.
Just a scratch. Just enough to take the edge off.
The way the sliver blade slices through my pale skin, the bright scarlet streaks—the pain and wrongness of it all—it calms the chaos of my mind.
And yes, I know how unhinged that is, but those moments are the only spots of color in my otherwise grey world.
Brushing myself off, I grab the edge of the box and start tossing in the books that have spilled free. Thank fuck this is the last of my stuff, I think as I push the door open.
The cuts are tucked away beneath my oversized cardigan, and even if someone did happen to see them, I doubt they’d guess what they are.
Because no one knows the real me. I’m nothing more than an oversized skirt and baggy top.
A rule-abiding, meek little girl swallowed up in the big bad world full of things beyond my feeble mind’s comprehension.
Just like I was raised to be.
But I’m almost twenty now, and by some twist of fate, I’ve been granted a reprieve from my sentence in hell.
My sneakers squeak across the terracotta floors as I shuffle past the brightly colored living room and toward the stairs. I glimpse the beginning of a kitchen at the end of the hall, along with a washroom, and what looks to be a bedroom.
Setting the box down with the others at the foot of the stairs, I tiptoe over to the door.
There’s a symbol of a serpent wound around the number seven across it.
My brows furrow as I tilt my head, catching a glimpse of a dark green comforter inside and what appears to be an easel.
I draw my lip between my teeth, knowing it’s shitty of me to go through Tempest’s things, but if I don’t enter the room, it should be okay, right?
I won’t go through anything—just glimpse pieces of the person I’ll be living with for the next year.
I nudge the door open a bit further. There’s a green rug beneath the blank canvas, flecked with bits of colorful paint. Half-smushed tubes of paint clutter the desk beside it, clustered along the side of paintings of dark caves and serpentine eyes.
Odd decor choices, Tempest. She didn’t strike me as girly, per se, but our conversations hinted at an optimistic, bright type of vibe. To each their own, I guess.
With a sigh, I return to the pile of boxes clustered together, glancing at the wooden stairs before crouching to inspect the bent one containing my books. The rest of my things were approved by my family, but my books are the only items I’ve been allowed to choose for myself.
Privacy isn’t a right in my house—a lesson my father teaches often.
Just last week, he entered my room while I was changing, demanding to go through my things.
Jonathan hovered in the doorframe, a small bulge forming in his pants as my father dumped my underwear drawer onto my comforter, lifting each piece as if I’d be stupid enough to hide anything.
But he didn’t think to look closely at my books.
To him, they’re just words. Reading is a humble activity, one I can do while staying out of everyone’s way.
What he’ll never understand is that books offer glimpses of other worlds.
They pierce the haze of my reality with pulses of electricity strong enough to keep me breathing until the next day.
It’s a precarious dance of staying grounded enough to know I’m alive, while remaining detached enough to not want that fact to change.
I lift the box, starting up the steps to where Tempest described my room on the second floor.
Sweat pools under my arms, beads of it dripping down my chest. Fuck, it’s hot.
I walk through the open door on the left, a grin stretching across my face.
It’s easily half the size of my room at home, with mismatched furniture and a small closet, but the large window lights up the space. And most importantly, it’s mine.
I set the box down at the edge of the bed, arranging the books on the desk as I check for damage.
A small bookshelf will fit nicely beside the dresser, but this will do until then.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging from the back of my door.
More than a few curls have broken free from my braid, and I have no doubt there are stains under my armpits.
I look ridiculous in my floor-length skirt and cardigan, sweating away—and for what?
Mother says modesty is a key pillar of being a woman.
It’s our duty to protect men from being tempted.
Logically, I know it’s all bullshit—it has to be, right?
—but I still hear her voice reprimanding me, threatening eternal damnation if one man were to glimpse the embarrassingly white skin of my stomach.
Fuck it. I’m alone.
Making quick work of the buttons, I toss the cardigan into the laundry bin, leaving me standing in a thin white tank top before drawing up the edge of my skirt and tying a large knot, securing the fabric above my knees.
It’s hard to unlearn a rhetoric I’ve been taught my whole life—harder still when I’m surrounded by the same nonsense daily. But I’m trying. And Grace University might have given me the perfect chance to break free.
Sweat drips down my neck as I trudge down the stairs once more.
My arms feel like jelly with all the lifting, and the shallow scrape across my knee pricks with each step.
I should’ve known there would be a catch with the low rent and prime location of this place.
The A/C unit is shitty. It’s arctic-level freezing in the main room, but upstairs feels like the gates of hell have opened and swallowed me whole.
I’ll need to have a talk with Tempest about the thermostat—or at the very least, get a few fans.
I take a moment to undo my hair from the dissolved braid, twisting the dark red locks into a messy bun situated on top of my head. It’s another small rebellion, and I lean into the surge of energy my defiance brings.
One of these days, I’ll chop it all off, I think, choosing one of the lighter boxes as I turn up the stairs again. Mother would hate that. For years, I’ve allowed them to shape and mold and use me… but it’s never enough. I am never enough.
“You’re at college,” I remind myself, muttering as I rip open the top of the box. It’s filled with dresses—and smells like Jonathan. My stomach twists. Rather than hanging them up like I intended, I dump them in the laundry bin and pad down the stairs.
“Your childhood was fucked and you have no idea what a normal almost-twenty-year-old is supposed to be like, but you’ll buy some new laundry detergent, wash everything, and figure it out.”
The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle as a shadow moves at the edge of my vision.
“Do you always talk to yourself?”
A scream tears from my throat as I slip and tumble down the last three steps.
Fear threatens to take hold, my breaths coming in ragged gulps as my heart pounds against my ribs.
There’s a soreness in my ankle and a sharp spike of pain where I’ve bumped the back of my head on the step, but I force myself to move with unnatural speed as I scramble to my feet.
My pulse spikes, adrenaline tensing every muscle in my body. It’s hard to think over the sound of blood rushing through my ears and the throbbing in my skull, but I do my best to focus and dart for the door.
A hulking man wearing biker boots and a motorcycle helmet rushes forward, trapping me against the wall with only a few scattered boxes between us.
Fuck, he’s fast—and nearly a foot taller than me, with pounds of muscle straining against his black T-shirt and jeans.
Tattoos cover his forearms, extending down to his fingers—marking him as the predator he is.
But I’m quick. All I have to do is find a way to slip past him.
“Don’t get any ideas, little fox,” the man growls, tugging his helmet off and tossing it aside.
Piercing green eyes bore into mine, his dark strands of tousled curly hair perfectly framing thick lashes.
The muscles lining his jaw flex as he drags his gaze over me, lingering on the swell of my thighs and peaked nipples pressing against the thin fabric of my top.
I fight the urge to cover myself, even as his green eyes find mine again, burning with something primal and far more dangerous than curiosity—desire. He cocks his head as if my idea of escaping him was amusing. And in the next breath, I understand why.
Two massive men appear behind him, wearing leather jackets and helmets just like his, followed by another four. The smell of gasoline and leather swirls in the air as my legs begin to tremble.
This is the part in stories when a brave knight or gallant price would arrive, sweeping in just in time to save the day. So, where are they? Devils surround me, live and well, but where are the angels? Where is the righteous fury of a god who protects the innocent?
A humorless laugh huffs from my lips as I back up, my spine pressing against the wall. There’s no savior, because I’m no princess.
I could sprint up the stairs, maybe even make it to my room before they reach me.
The black gloves of the man with emerald eyes flex, his fingers curling as if anticipating a chase. His lips twitch, the tense set of his shoulders and slightly bent position of his knees making him look like he’s preparing to hunt me down—like the little fox he’d called me.
I’m messed up in a lot of ways, but I’m no coward.
Lifting my chin, I stare into the dilated blackness of his eyes, pouring every drop of hatred buzzing through my body into a lethal look—and welcome death.