Chapter 18 Elias
ELIAS
My cock is rock hard, straining against my striped suit pants. There’s nothing I’d love more right now than to join Jules on the horse and ride her. Alas, she looks completely wrecked. We’ll have time to enjoy ourselves on my rides in the future. That is, if I convince her to have a future with me.
“Come on, Little Sapphire,” I murmur in her ear. Her panting breaths warm my collarbone, reminding me she’s naked and exposed to the elements. I help her off the white carousel horse, then shrug off my suit jacket before draping it over her shoulders.
Her pupils are still shot as she stares at me, her eyelids heavy, her blinks slow.
“Where are we going?” she asks quietly, without much of an inflection.
“To talk,” I answer, before pulling her into my side.
The cool evening breeze raises goosebumps on my naked chest as I lead her to the Tunnel of Love.
“Talk about how I’m going to be your sex slave?”
Some of her usual obstinate fire returns to her voice, and I smile with relief.
There you are.
“No,” I drawl. “We’re going to talk about how you’re going to be my partner.”
“In crime?” she mutters sarcastically.
I sigh and pinch her naked ass, making her jump.
“Just because I decided not to kill you, Jewel, doesn’t mean I’m above punishing you.” I grin down at her. “I think I’ll enjoy finding reasons to do so daily, if I’m honest.”
“Honest,” she snaps. “What about tonight has been honest?”
We’ve reached the ride entrance, and I nudge her in before I answer. “I haven’t lied to you, Jules. The Sanctum of Ash Prophets are vile, depraved demons. Not every story is mine to tell, but I’ll share what I can.”
I help her into the pink two-seater boat, then follow her in.
“Alright,” she says once the boat stops rocking. “I’ll listen.”
I wink at her. “Off the record, of course?”
“Of course,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes.
I chuckle one last time before allowing myself to revisit the past.
The boat drifts forward with a soft mechanical hum, plastic brushing against water as we slip into the tunnel. Pink hearts hang crookedly from the ceiling, their paint chipped, the bulbs behind them dimmed to a jaundiced glow. The contrast almost makes me laugh.
“I wasn’t born in a hospital,” I say at last. My voice sounds strange in the enclosed space, too honest. “No birth certificate. No doctor. No name, at first.”
Jules stays quiet. She’s good at that, I’ll give her credit.
“Like all babies in the Sanctum of Ash, I was born on a mattress on the floor of a church basement,” I continue. Jules’s fingers curl into the sleeve of my jacket around her shoulders.
The boat glides past a tableau of plaster lovers locked in an eternal kiss. Their faces are cracked, eyes blank.
“My mother died three days later. Infection. They said it was God’s will. They buried her in an unmarked grave and told me she’d been too sinful to stay.”
The tunnel grows darker.
“The Sanctum of Ash wasn’t a church. It was a factory.” I tilt my head back against the plastic seat. “They manufactured obedience. Fear. Guilt. Boys were raised to be tools. Girls to be vessels. Everyone to be expendable.”
A fake cupid jerks to life on the wall, its wings creaking as it fires a chipped arrow into nothing.
“They beat us for asking questions. Beat us for not asking questions. Beat us for thinking the wrong thoughts.” My jaw tightens. “They called it correction. Discipline. Love.”
Jules exhales shakily.
“They starved us during fasts that lasted weeks. Made us kneel on gravel. Locked us in prayer closets until we forgot what day it was.” I glance at her. “Do you know what happens when a child is told every day that pain is proof of devotion?”
She shakes her head, eyes glassy.
“They stop believing pain is wrong.”
The boat turns a corner. The water smells faintly of rust.
“The sermons were fake Christianity,” I go on. “Crosses on the walls. Bibles on the altar. But the words were twisted. God wasn’t mercy. God was hunger. God was obedience. God was whatever the Prophets needed Him to be that day.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the boat.
“They called us chosen. Special. Told us the outside world was corrupt, evil, diseased. That we existed to cleanse it.” A humorless smile tugs at my mouth. “Funny thing is, they believed that part.”
The boat bumps gently, then continues.
“There are things,” I say more quietly, “that were done to us that don’t belong in stories. Things that don’t need names to leave scars.”
Jules swallows hard but doesn’t interrupt.
“Some of my brothers carry those scars on their bodies. Some carry them in how they flinch. How they can’t be touched. How they break when they’re alone.” I look at her then, really look. “None of us walked away whole.”
The tunnel begins to brighten, a heart-shaped arch glowing faintly ahead.
“So when we hunt them,” I finish, my voice low and steady, “we’re not murdering men. We’re ending Prophets. We’re burning rot at the root.”
The boat slows. Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
Finally, Jules speaks. “You were children,” she says hoarsely.
“Yes,” I reply. “We were.”
I reach out, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse.
“And they taught us exactly how monsters are made.”
The boat reaches the end of the tunnel, slows, then jolts softly as it’s redirected onto the track again. The same warped hearts pass overhead, their lights flickering like tired veins.
Jules shifts beside me, the vinyl seat creaking.
“You said you escaped,” she says quietly. “How?”
I don’t answer right away, wondering if the second ride in the Tunnel feels different for everyone else too. Like some of the enchantment has worn off.
“We were supposed to die there,” I say finally.
Jules’s gaze stays on me, steady. She’s listening the way reporters do when they know the truth is about to hurt.
The tunnel darkens, the water reflecting fractured hearts onto the ceiling.
“There was a fire,” I say. “Officially, candles too close to old wood. That’s what the police report says.”
I snort softly.
“Logan always did have a knack for stealing matches.” My jaw locks. “The youngest child in the commune was supposed to be sacrificed the next morning. A cleansing. The Prophets said God demanded blood to renew the covenant.”
Jules’s breath catches.
“Marek knew before anyone else,” I go on. “He always did. He heard things. Saw patterns. Cole stole the keys to the dormitories. My brothers carried as many of the kids out as they could before Logan set the fire.”
The boat drifts past a mural of smiling lovers with hollow eyes.
“I stayed behind,” I say.
Jules turns toward me sharply. “Why?”
“Because someone had to keep the Prophets busy.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“They were drunk on their own righteousness,” I continue. “They never thought the boys they’d broken would fight back. That was their mistake.”
I don’t describe what they did to me that night as my brothers smuggled children out. I don’t have to.
“The fire gave us cover,” I say instead. “Smoke. Screams. Confusion. We ran into the woods barefoot, bleeding, half-starved. Some of us didn’t make it.”
The tunnel begins to brighten again.
“Those who did…” I glance at her. “We became something else.”
The boat slows near the exit again, then jerks as it’s sent back into the dark for a third pass.
Jules swallows. “And the Prophets?”
I smile without humor.
“They scattered,” I say. “Changed names. Bought houses like Ezekiel’s. Grew lawns and families and reputations.”
My hand closes around the edge of the boat.
“And we decided,” I finish softly, “that if God wasn’t coming for them… we would.”
The ride hums around us, cheerful and obscene.
Jules exhales shakily. “You don’t see yourselves as killers.”
“No,” I agree. “We see ourselves as consequences.”
The boat glides forward as I give her a moment to process.
“And you?” I ask, turning to her now. “What do you see when you look at me, Jules?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. When she does, her voice is quiet—but steady.
“I see someone who survived something that should have destroyed him,” she says. “And who doesn’t know how to stop surviving.”
The boat drifts on, the music low and romantic.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then Jules’s hands go to the button of my pants.
“Little Sapphire… what are you doing?” I ask with a surprised, delighted purr.
“I want to make you feel good, Elias,” she admits, opening my pants enough to let my cock spring out. “Let me make you feel good.”
I know she hasn’t said if she’ll stay by my side yet. And I know I shouldn’t be swayed by more sex before we set those boundaries. But damn it, I want her so fucking bad, I’m twitching in her hands.
“Do it, baby. Take my cock in that pretty, smartass mouth. Let me feel your throat,” I growl.
The answering glint of challenge in her eyes brings my dick to a full salute.
“Yes, Ringmaster.”