Preacher sat at the table. His blood roared in his head as he waited for the knock on the door, his eye on the pink stationery, the cursive with its loops and curls as feminine as a woman’s curves or the scent rising from the paper itself. He read the letter, again and again.
Smiled.
In his darkest fantasies he’d never imagined one of them coming to him. Reaching out to him in such a manner. Believing she could understand him. That she knew him. Could save him. Yet, in prison, he had received letters from many of them. Dozens. Women wanting to help him. To be with him.
Save him.
He stared at the book on the table. The Bible.
Words.
Words words words.
Yet more.
Salvation.
Freedom.
He’d read the words. Learned them, recited them, behaved in the way they instructed, the good ways.
There were many terrible ways in this book, but these passages, he believed, showed how weak some of us were, how we had to fight to resist the terrible ways. He did not have to fight. He was stronger than that. He had always been stronger than that.
How easy it had been. They all thought he was a fraud. That he was not truly saved. They saw him as the beast, the monster, saw him as they saw fit. Even when he did them favors and told them the truth, gave it to them straight, like he had on the phone with Rath, they did not want to accept the truth. The unforgiving bastards. He smiled. He had to keep his old temper in check. Be better than that. Be godly.
Before, he’d thought to be godly was to use his power, like the God of old, vengeful and spiteful and merciless, wielding a power of violence and ruin.
He’d learned.
He was not sorry for his past sins. He was saved. Forgiven.
Real power was to resist those urges, rise above them. Power was the truth.
The truth.
The book was the truth. Yet people did not want the truth. Franklin Rath did not want the truth about the type of woman his sister had been. Franklin Rath did not want to hear the truth about who his daughter was, and he did not want his daughter to know the truth.
But she would. And soon. Preacher had given Rath enough time to tell his daughter the truth, and Rath had failed.
Now, Preacher would tell her. How good that would feel. To lay it bare. How freeing. To see what the truth did to them both.
It was up to them to face it. Accept it. Learn from it. Or let it crush them. If Franklin Rath and his daughter were destroyed by the truth, it proved only that they were weak. He could not help that. Even if they wanted to kill the messenger.
Preacher hoped Rachel would eventually accept the truth. He dreamed of it. Dreamed she would come to him as his daughter one day.
As soon as this visit was over, he would go visit Rachel, go visit his blood child, and tell her who she was. Who he was.
The knock he’d waited for came at his door.
He stood, his pants down around his ankles, erection straining. He needed to gain control of his terrible self. Demonstrate real power.
He tucked himself in and pulled up his pants, left his shirt out, to drape and conceal himself, and went to answer the door to receive his Love.
Her eyes shone when she looked up at him, shone just to be in his presence. She did not look how he’d imagined, and he had to fight to hide his disappointment. He’d hoped she’d be more . . . tempting. Harder to resist. She was his first test.
“I’ve looked forward to this more than I can say,” she said, her breath shallow, wanting.
She would do. For his first test. But first he needed to find out if anyone knew she was here. Anyone knew she’d been in contact with him, had planned to come here. He’d not heard a car pull up. Had she walked all this way? Or been dropped off? Knowing they were alone would make it harder for him to resist. Test him as God would have him tested.
“Come in,” he said.
He let her go up the stairs in front of him. Her long raincoat hid her body, and he clenched his teeth against the temptation of his Terrible Self. There was time for all that if that is how it went. If he failed this first test. Proved weaker than he thought. He might need to be tested many times. There was time to get it right.
He had all the time in the world.
But he needed to be safe, make sure the sorry thing had not told anyone. If she had, the test would be too easy, and he would need to let her go. A loss, but a small one. There were others.
“Through here,” he said at the top of the stairs, pointing at the kitchen’s swinging doors straight ahead.
She went through the doors.
He felt sick at his living conditions, three chairs that did not match one another, and a table that did not match any of the chairs. He had swept the place, though, washed his few dirty dishes, and put a tablecloth on the table. A paper tablecloth, but still, a tablecloth.
All for show—she’d not be around long, either way—but still the disgust was there.
“I apologize for the state of things.”
“The Lord does not judge us by material worth,” she said.
He pulled the chair out for her and stood behind her, breathed in the scent of her hair. His erection strained, and she had not even taken off her coat yet. They had not even begun.
“Take off your coat, be comfortable.”
“I am,” she said. “Very.” She lowered her coat off her shoulders, draped it over the back of the chair as she looked back at him, her eyes on him, unable to hide the lust even as she pretended she was here to do the Lord’s work. Let her pretend. Let them both pretend and play the game. Play their roles. Let the Lord test them.
His cock leaked.
She had to know what she was doing to him. How she was testing him. She knew. She knew. They all knew. He was not mistaken. Was she leaking, too? She had not come for the Lord.
Her breathing was deep and unsteady, her chest rising and falling beneath her dark blue dress.
She sat.
He sat opposite her.
She gave him a shy smile, but her eyes were hot with wickedness. He knew the look. Knew her mind was hot, too, with nastiness. He knew.
This was going to be good. Still, he needed to know if anyone knew she was here, if she’d told anyone about him, about this. He’d hate to have to let her go and not be truly tested. But how could he ask her and not scare her off?
She gazed at him, drank him in, his face. Her breathing grew heavier. It was not his imagination.
She unbuttoned the button at the throat of her dress.
“I came alone,” she said as if she knew his thoughts. “I came alone in the trust of the Lord. And to prove my trust to you.”
He could smell her sweat. It disgusted him even as it aroused him. This was good. A real test. The truth would come from it, and that was all he could ask. Was he man or beast?
“No one knows I’m here,” she said. “Only the Lord. And the Lord will keep me safe. I know you will not harm me. You are not a beast. You are a man. A real man.”
His pant leg grew damp. His erection fierce.
He could smell her sex from across the table.
“You know I want to be good. I do not want to sin. And I know you are good. You do not want to sin,” she said. “But.” She swallowed, unbuttoned the next button of her dress. A hint of dark red revealed. Her bra. Or an underthing. “It’s hard. Isn’t it? Isn’t it hard?”
Yes, yes it was hard. Hard. Painful. Torture.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. It’s hard.”
“Hard to be good. Hard not to sin. Hard to control yourself.”
He nodded, swallowed. The slut. Coming here all alone. Teasing him knowing who he was and what he’d done. She was sick. Filthy. And she was his. All his. She deserved whatever she got. The tease. He’d make it slow. Make up for lost time. All that lost time. He’d eat her fucking alive.
“I want to do things to you. With you,” she said, her voice shaking, a whisper, trembling. “Things I know I should not do. I must not do. Awful. Sinful acts against my nature. But with you . . . I cannot help myself. I cannot stop myself.”
“Don’t stop yourself,” he growled.
Yes, he’d eat her fucking alive. He’d tear her hot living flesh with his teeth. He’d go further than he’d ever gone before; he’d cut her and slice her and then he’d chop her into fucking pieces and bathe in the pieces in his tub. He’d dump her remains in the woods to feed the coyotes. Grind up her bones.
She stood.
He flinched, not expecting this.
She was a brave one.
Dumb as mud. But brave.
She walked over to him.
Stood before him, undid a third button.
The scarlet showing.
For a moment he thought—
She touched him.
His shoulder.
Softly.
He recoiled.
No one touched him like that.
Ever.
No one.
Who did she think she was?
Who did she think was in charge here?
“Shh,” she said. “I know what you need. I know what the beast in you needs to do to me.” She whispered as if she couldn’t breathe. “But I need to get what I need first.”
She came around behind him, fingers trailing the flesh under his chin, his throat, to the back of his neck, his skin hot where her fingers touched him, as if lit on fire. She pressed her thumbs deep into the flesh and muscle back of his neck.
Fuck. It was good. She was good. She was evil.
He’d not been touched like this in—forever.
Never had he been touched like this in his life.
Never had he known this.
He was going to—
She bit his neck.
He felt a hot quick pain.
No.
She bit again.
No.
He wasn’t being bit.
He was being stabbed.