18. Leandra
My heart pounds in my chest, not with anticipation but with a terror so profound it has become indistinguishable from devotion.
I kneel on the stone floor, the cold seeping into my bones like a premonition. My hands are clasped so tightly my knuckles ache, a small, grounding pain I cling to.
Ezekiel stands before me, his aura a swirling maelstrom of bright red and molten gold, and I know no matter what happens today, no matter how good I am, he’s going to crush the last bits of me.
The colours move with a manic intensity that makes my head spin and my stomach churn, confirming what I’ve always believed; that he is a prophet, a deity among men. But deity’s, I am learning, are not kind. They are vast and hungry, and their love is a consuming fire.
His dark eyes bore into mine, and I feel equally petrified and desperate for his approval. He is everything to me. My prophet, my saviour, my god, and I am beginning to understand that to be loved by a god is to be unmade entirely.
I’ve been trained for this moment, conditioned to perfection.
I will not fail him, because failure is not a punishment, it is an absence.
To fail is to become nothing, to have the warmth of his golden gaze withdrawn and be left in a cold so absolute it feels like death, and I would rather be hurt than be nothing.
“You know why you’re here,” he says, and it sends a shiver down my spine that is not pleasure, but a primal warning my body has forgotten how to heed.
“Yes, Prophet,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The air around him shimmers with gold, a sign of his divine approval, but right now it looks like the glint of a predator’s eye. “To prove myself worthy.”
He nods slowly, his expression unreadable. His aura flares, a burst of red that makes my breath catch, not with awe but with the instinctive panic of a prey animal scenting their own blood. “You will answer as my true bride would. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Prophet.”
I’ve studied his ways, his expectations, his every desire. I’ve moulded myself into the perfect vessel for his will, hollowing out every secret corner of my soul to make room for him.
I am ready, I am empty. I am his.
He begins his questions, each one a scalpel peeling back a layer of myself. His aura shifts with each word, red and gold intertwining like flames licking at a funeral pyre. “What does the scripture say about obedience?”
“Obedience is the highest virtue,” I answer without hesitation. The truth is a soft blue, steady and unwavering but I feel it now as a cold, clinical light illuminating the cage I have willingly walked into. “A bride must submit fully to her prophet, body and soul.”
“And what does it say about pain?”
“Pain is a gift,” I say, my voice steady but inside, a small, buried part of me screams. The blue remains, pure and untainted, a horrible, holy truth. “It purifies the soul and brings us closer to divinity.”
Closer to him. Pain is the only intimacy he truly offers.
Ezekiel’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly. His aura flares again, a burst of gold that I interpret as approval but right now I can see the jagged edges of it, the way it consumes the red rather than mingles with it.
He asks more questions, each one more personal, more invasive, peeling back my skin to peer at the trembling thing beneath. I answer them all perfectly, my voice unwavering even as I feel a silent, internal haemorrhage of the self I once was.
I am ready I am a creature dressed in obedience.
I am his, I am no longer my own.
When he finishes he steps closer, his shadow falling over me like a shroud. His aura engulfs me in reds and golds that swirl like fire, and I feel the heat of it, a promise of the burning to come.
“Good,” he says, and the word sends a rush of warmth through me that is indistinguishable from the flush of a fever. “Now, pick up the knife.”
My breath catches in my throat, a sob that I swallow whole.
I know what is coming, what is expected of me, but I don’t hesitate.
I rise to my feet, my hands trembling as I reach for the blade.
The cold metal feels heavy, not just with weight, but with meaning.
Because this knife is an instrument of his will, an extension of his love.
I grip it tightly, my palm slick with sweat, ready to do his bidding.
Ready to carve my devotion into my own flesh.
“Cut your arm,” he commands, his voice low and guttural, a sound that vibrates in the base of my skull.
I press the blade to my flesh, the sharp edge biting into my skin.
The first sting is a cold, bright shock, a moment of clarity before the deeper pain blooms. I wince, a tear escaping the corner of my eye, but I don’t stop.
I drag the knife across my arm, watching as the blood wells up, slow and thick, then drips onto the stone floor.
The pain is sharp, but it is not delicious.
It is a violation, and I tell myself the violation is a sign of his love.
I must believe it, because the alternative, that this is just cruelty and I am just a body being broken, is a chasm I cannot look into without falling.
“Good,” he says, his voice thick with a satisfaction that makes my skin crawl even as I lean into it. “Now, fuck yourself with it.”
I hesitate. For one eternal, crystalline moment, my body rebels. My heart pounds a desperate, ragged rhythm, a frantic SOS from a part of me that still wants to live. But I know I must obey. My hesitation is a sin, and I bury it back down so quickly I hope no one sees it.
My hands tremble violently as I guide the knife between my legs.
The cold metal presses against my entrance and I gasp, a choked, animal sound as I push it inside.
The pain is not excruciating; it is so much more than that, it’s a tearing, a rending of the most intimate part of me.
I thrust the knife deeper, feeling the sharp edge cut into my flesh, and I feel a hot gush of blood that is not just physical; it is the death of the girl who dreamed of gentle hands.
When I pull it out, it’s covered in blood, like a grotesque parody of my arousal.
“Lick it clean,” he growls, his eyes dark with a desire that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his own reflection in my suffering.
I bring the blade to my lips, my tongue flicking out to taste the metallic tang of my own blood. It coats my tongue, thick and warm and I lick the blade clean, savouring the taste because I have been told it is a sign of my submission. But my stomach heaves, and I feel a profound, soul-deep nausea.
I am consuming my own violation, and calling it communion.
“Good,” he says, his voice low and guttural. “Now, strip.”
My breath catches in my throat, a silent, hitching plea.
I don’t hesitate. I rise to my feet, my hands trembling as I reach for the ties of my dress.
The fabric falls to the floor, pooling around my ankles in the puddle of blood that is gathering there.
I stand before him, exposed and vulnerable.
I feel no shame, because shame requires a self to feel it, and I have given mine away.
This is what he wants, and I will give it to him willingly.
Just like always and a small, dying voice whispers, willingly, or just inevitably?
He steps closer, his eyes raking over me not with desire, but with the cold appraisal of a butcher.
His aura pulses, mingling with a darker, more primal hue, a bruise-purple black that swallows the gold.
When he grabs me, it’s rough, violent. His hands are hot against my skin, branding irons.
His aura envelops me like a storm, and I am drowning in it.
He pushes me onto the bed, and I don’t resist. I let him use me, let him hurt me.
His hands are cruel, his movements brutal, but I don’t cry out. I bite my lip until it bleeds, and I reason that this is how it’s supposed to be. This is how he shows his love.
His breath is hot against my neck, his body pressing into mine with a force that leaves me breathless, not with passion but with the sheer, crushing weight of him.
His aura engulfs me, swirling in a frenzy that mirrors his movements.
I feel every thrust as an invasion, every touch as a claim staked on territory that was never mine.
His hands grip my hips, leaving bruises that will bloom purple and yellow, a secret garden of pain I will tend in the dark.
His lips find mine, biting and claiming and I surrender completely, because surrender is the only option when you have already been conquered.
I kiss him back with a desperation that tastes like goodbye. Goodbye to the girl I was, goodbye to the hope of a love that doesn’t leave scars.
I am his, body and soul.
And my soul is a bruised, bleeding thing, curled in a corner of my body, watching.
He pulls away for a moment, his eyes dark with a desire that is terrifying in its impersonality. “You are mine,” he growls, his voice thick with possession.
“Yes, Prophet,” I gasp, my body trembling with a need that is not pleasure but a desperate, clawing need for this to mean something. “I am yours.”
He flips me onto my stomach, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts into me again. The pain is excruciatingly sharp, a white-hot wire pulled through my core.
I moan, and it’s a sound torn from a place beyond pleasure, arching my back to meet him while his fingers dig into my flesh, anchoring me to the pain. “You belong to me,” he snarls, his voice low and guttural, a vibration I feel in my teeth.
“Yes,” I cry out, my voice breaking with a grief I cannot name. “I belong to you.”
He pulls my hair, forcing my head back, exposing the vulnerable arch of my throat.
The pain is exquisite only in its totality; it leaves no room for thought, for the treacherous hope that this could be different.
His hands roam my body, leaving bruises and marks that I will wear with pride, because pride is the only garment left to me.
When he finally finishes, it’s with snarl that is both a sound of triumph and annihilation. His aura explodes in a burst of red and gold and I feel it wash over me, not as a blessing but as a searing, permanent stain. That I am branded as his for all Heaven and Earth to see.
He collapses on top of me and I lie there, trembling and spent, my body a landscape of his making.
But despite everything he has done, all the pain he has inflicted I am filled with a sense of fulfilment I can barely begin to understand, because it is the fulfilment of a vessel being filled, not a person being loved.
I am his bride, I am a consecrated by his touch.
I am nothing without him, I am no one.
I turn to him, my voice barely a whisper, and I speak the words that have been repeating over and over in my head.
“I love you.”
The words taste like ash and blood. I need him to be worthy of that love. I need this to be a sacred act, not a desecration. My entire world depends on it.
He cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a way that is so soft, so caring that it breaks something inside me that the violence couldn’t reach. His aura flickers, a brief flash of something darker, a serpentine coil of pure black in the gold, but I convince myself it’s a good sign.
It has to be.
If it is not, then I am not a bride, but a victim.
And I cannot survive being a victim.
He loves me, he must love me.
He sees me as more than the others. I am special, chosen, better than the rest of his wives.
Maybe I’m silly, but I let my heart swell with hope.
I glance across the room at Isaac, who has witnessed everything.
His face is its usual impassive mask, like a mirror reflecting nothing back.
But in his stillness, I see for a fleeting second not indifference but a deep, unutterable pity.
It is the most horrifying thing I have ever seen.
Because if Isaac, who knows our prophet’s ways and he pities me, then my hope is a lie - I am not beloved at all. I am just the next one.
I look away quickly, back to Ezekiel’s face and I smile. Refusing to see it, refusing to acknowledge the cracks in my rose-tinted world.