Series: The Un Series by Izzy Sweet
Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Raphael roars again, but this time it’s in desperation. “Alena! Run!”
My legs and feet suddenly tingle with the desire to comply, but I’m trapped in the Prophet’s frosty clutches.
“Now there will be no more of that,” the Prophet growls in irritation. “You don’t belong here! This is my domain!”
As if a great gust of wind knocked into him, Raphael is swept off his feet and sent flying backwards. He’s sent so fast and so far, he becomes merely a black dot in the distant horizon before blinking out of existence.
Turning my attention back to the Prophet, I throw my head back and stare up at the darkness where his face should be inside his hood.
Paralyzed by fear and shock, all I can do is stare.
Stare and hope somehow I wake up.
But what if I’m not dreaming?
What if somehow, someway, this is reality and everything else has been a dream?
“Again, fear not, my child,” the Prophet says. “You are safe here with me.”
But where is here? I want to scream.
Unfortunately, my lips and throat refuse to do my bidding.
My mind is cracking…
Shattering.
Breaking.
A person can only take so much. Especially when their entire perception of existence is thrown into chaos.
And to make it even worse, I feel the ground beneath my feet changing. Shifting from mud to something solid and hard.
The icy grip on my arms relaxes, becoming not as tight and painful, but remains firm and unyielding.
I continue to stare into the Prophet’s hood, mind shredding to pieces, until a voice finally breaks the silence.
“You found her, Your Holiness,” Jeffrey chokes out in disbelief.
My head whips toward him on its own volition. My eyes needing to confirm he is truly here, too.
Here, in that awful room in Boston, standing beside the Prophet’s throne…
“Yes, Jeffrey, I’ve found her,” the Prophet responds with a harsh bite.
I shiver involuntarily, feeling that bite nipping at my soul.
Jeffrey seems to shrink in on himself and drops his head to stare at the floor. “I’m sorry for failing you, Your Holiness.”
“This failure is not your fault,” the Prophet growls. “Be at ease.”
Releasing one of my arms, the Prophet tugs me along with him as he glides toward his throne.
I don’t resist. I don’t try to fight him. Knowing it would be completely fruitless. If he can blast Raphael out of this existence, what hope do I have of escaping?
Instead, my eyes dart frantically around the area, confirming it’s the room where he had me stripped naked and kneeling before him.
But the room has changed. The throne, bookshelves, and drapes are still here, yet nothing is dusty or falling apart. Everything is in pristine condition. Even the floor gleams as if it was scrubbed and polished recently.
The Prophet takes his seat on his throne, and instead of forcing me to kneel before him, he pulls me down until I’m sitting in his lap.
My entire being wants to jump out of my skin. To be anywhere than where I am. There’s just something about his body pressing against mine, about the aura and power radiating off him, that makes me want to run, screaming in terror.
His hand lifts, his bone-white fingers lightly caressing my cheek, and it takes all of my willpower to keep from flinching away.
“My dear, beloved, child, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he croons with a musical lilt to his voice.
Out of everything that has happened so far, the way he croons, his voice saturated with affection, is the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced.
Even more terrifying than being trapped in a room full of vampires who could rip my throat out in less than a millisecond.
His fingers close around my chin, holding my face in place and forcing me to stare into the black abyss inside his hood. “Where have you been?”
I know I should answer him if I don’t want to experience pain or punishment, but I don’t know what to tell him. Does he want to know I’ve been with Raphael and his friends? Or what happened before that?
“I want to know all of it,” he says.
I involuntarily shudder, hating that he read my mind again. I have nothing. I own nothing. Not even my own thoughts.
Nothing is sacred.
“Would this make it easier?” he asks, before his visage transforms in front of my eyes.
The dark abyss inside his hood melts away, reminding me of Raphael coming out of his shadow form, and a face appears.
A face so beautiful it hurts my eyes.
Where Raphael looks like the Devil, the Prophet looks like an angel sent down from the heavens.
His hair flows around his face and over his shoulders. Long, blond, and gleaming as if every strand was painstakingly crafted from gold. The shape and bone structure of his face is somehow both strong and delicate at the same time. His cheekbones and chin are bold and sharp, but his eyes and lips are big and soft.