My heart tore at the sadness in her voice. My throat clogged at her compassion. This is what this feels like, I thought. This is what affection was—unbarred, unforced . . . natural. No coercion. No panic. Just freely given.
Harmony’s fingers twitched. She swallowed hard, then began to stroke the back of my hand. It soothed a fire I hadn’t realized flared in my heart. She was silent as she brushed her fingertips along my broken skin. I tried to breathe, but her touch stole all the air from my lungs.
“Tell me,” Harmony whispered. I closed my eyes at the sound of her gentle voice. “Tell me what is wrong. What plagues you?”
What I wanted to confess was on the tip of my tongue. But when I opened my mouth, my soul spoke instead. “I’m lonely,” I said, brokenly. “I’m so damn lonely that I can barely breathe.”
I opened my eyes to see Harmony’s deep brown ones shining with tears. “Rider,” she hushed out. Her fingers stopped stroking my skin. Instead her hand slipped under mine, and her fingers threaded through my fingers. She gripped them tight. She didn’t say a word, but I understood . . . she was here for me.
She was with me in my pain.
I stared into her eyes, and she stared into mine. No words were spoken, but they didn’t need to be. Words were useless right now. Our silent touch gave me more peace than I had ever felt in my entire life.
A single sweet touch took away the hurt . . . just for one cherished moment.
Suddenly, I heard a gasp from the doorway. In a flash, I had released Harmony’s hand and rushed to sit up straight. I turned my head to see who had entered my cell, and my eyes clashed with Phebe’s. She stayed frozen, eyes wide as she glanced down to the brick-less gap in the wall.
The water basin in her hands shook. “Phebe,” I whispered, moving away from the wall.
The blood drained from Phebe’s face, but she managed to pull herself together and close the door of my cell. She ducked her eyes and walked slowly toward me. She placed the basin on the floor, keeping her head down. She dipped the rag into the water, picked up my arm and began washing the blood from my skin. She never once lifted her head.
My heart raced. She had seen me holding hands with Harmony.
I couldn’t let Phebe tell Judah. I couldn’t let her tell the guards. I wouldn’t let them take Harmony from the cell beside mine. I wanted her here . . . I needed her here.
As Phebe moved to wash my other arm, I flipped my hand and gently took hold of her wrist. The touch was soft, but Phebe jumped as though I had just slapped her across her face. I frowned as she tried to pull away.
I kept hold.
“Phebe,” I said quietly, my eye drifting to the door. She was beginning to panic. I didn’t want the guards to hear her. “Phebe,” I tried again. “Please . . . I won’t hurt you.”
At my words, Phebe seemed to come back from whatever nightmare she had drifted to in her mind. Her head was still turned away from mine as she tried to control her breathing. I gently pulled on her wrist. Her body grew stiff. Confusion and concern fogged my mind. Phebe was not herself. Not at all. She was drawn in and flinching at my every touch.
I wondered what Judah had told her about me to warrant this kind of response. Deciding to find out, I leaned forward and lifted my free hand to place my fingers under her chin. Phebe’s breath caught in her throat. She was a deer caught in the headlights. As gently as I could, I turned her face toward mine. She tried to resist at first, but then finally submitted.
Just like every woman in the commune would naturally do.
My eyes widened in shock. Her face was heavily beaten, her pale skin awash with black and blue. Fading yellow bruises laid the canvas for more recent cuts and wounds. Phebe kept her blue eyes facing down to the ground.
“Phebe, look at me,” I ordered. Her shoulders sagged in defeat, and she looked up at my face. Tears tracked down her marred skin. “Who did this to you?”
Phebe’s gaze dropped once more, but I tilted her chin up higher. “Tell me,” I insisted. Phebe closed her eyes, her bottom lip quivering with emotion. When her lids opened again, she stared right at me.
“Prophet Cain,” she said softly and my stomach flipped over. I opened my mouth, to ask her to confirm that my brother had done this, when I realized that her voice had carried a strange inflection—she wasn’t answering my question at all . . . she was addressing me. She was letting me know that she did know who I was. She knew what Judah had done . . .
. . . she knew.
I nodded, not wanting to speak in case Harmony was listening.
A small, relieved smile tugged on Phebe’s split lips. She pointed to my tattoos, hidden under blood and dirt. “It was confirmed by these, but I knew what he had done before that, because you are so different.” I glanced back to the gap in the wall. I turned back to Phebe, placing my finger over my lips. She nodded in understanding.
“Who did this to you?” I asked again.
Phebe picked up the discarded rag and dipped it into the water. As she cleaned me, she whispered, “The prophet pulled me from my duty as a sacred sister many weeks ago. In fact, he has pulled all of the women back who were recruiting in the outside world. He has grounded us all. We practice with guns like everyone else now. We are Rapture-focused.” She rinsed the dirt off the rag and brought it back to my chest. “At least, all of commune . . . but me.”
The pain in Phebe’s voice was evident. “You are no longer his consort at all?”