As if discarding nothing more than a sack of dirt, Meister released the body to the floor. And then he turned to me. His blue eyes blazed with adrenaline, with the thrill of the kill. I begged my traitorous limbs to cease in their trembling. But it was no use; fear held me tightly in her embrace as Meister stepped toward me.

He was displeased. He was more displeased than I had ever seen before. I squeezed Sapphira’s hand tighter. Crying, I kissed the back of her hand, the skin broken under my lips. Then I let her go. I could not let Meister near her. I could not let him hurt her like he had done the man on the floor.

I forced my body to stand and edged my way toward the door. My eyes searched the room as I wondered idly what I should do, where I would go. How I would get Sapphira out.

Salt from my tears ran over my cracked, dry lips. Meister was unmoving in the center of the room as he watched me. I swallowed, trying to lubricate my swollen mouth enough to speak. I ran my gaze over the females I knew, whom I had once laughed with and shared food and drink. Their bodies, so hurt, poisoned with the strange liquid, glared back at me as if I were part of the devil’s worst ever joke.

“What is this place?” I managed to croak.

Meister’s nostrils flared, and the veins in his thick neck pulsed. He tipped his head to one side and ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

“These . . . these are my New Zion sisters.” My eyes drifted back to Sapphira lying on her small cot, and I felt my heart crack down the center. Her dress was still baring her modesty from where the now-dead male had been touching her young skin. Vomit crept up my throat as I thought of her being taken, as I thought of the man taking her. Her fourteen-year-old body.

Her dignity.

A whimper left my mouth as I tried to get to her, to cover her up. I wanted her to open her eyes and look at me, but the potion had pulled her from consciousness. I needed her to wake up and see me. To know I was here for her. That I loved her.

A firm hand seized my wrist, bringing me to a stop. Meister’s grip tightened, and I cried out; I could no longer bear the pain. He was silent as he twisted my arm. I dropped to my knees, tears falling from my eyes.

“Please,” I begged when I feared he would break the bone.

Meister glared down at me. My entire body shook. Slowly, ever so slowly, Meister crouched down until he was at eye level. I had always thought Meister was handsome. Yet it amazed me how a person’s polluted soul could seep from their heart and corrupt even the most beautiful features.

“I told you to stay beside your shack.” He ran the index finger of his free hand over my cheek, a soothing, calming gesture, the tenderness a sharp contrast to the pain at my wrist.

My eyes squeezed shut. When I opened them again, I repeated, “What is . . . what is this place?” I drank in the devastating sight of good females reduced to this pitiful state, the smell of male release and joining . . . the sense of helplessness and capture.

But Meister did not answer me. Instead, he brought his face to mine and regarded me with his unique version of adoration. His cheek rubbed against my own; his lips brushed past my lips. “I have been good to you, Liebchen,” he murmured, lovingly. “I have cherished you, cared for you, kept you away from all of . . . this.”

It took mere seconds for Meister to snap, to change from benevolent to malicious. His hands dropped from my face and wrist, only to reach out and fist within my hair. He wrapped his fingers around the damp strands and hurled me to my feet. I screamed as loud a scream as my weak voice could muster. My scalp was on fire as Meister wordlessly wrenched me from the room housing my sisters, my Sapphira. I tried to resist, I tried to get back to her, but Meister did not tolerate disobedience of any kind.

He would not let me go.

Turning on his heel, he raised his free hand and sliced the back of it across my face. My legs buckled, yet I did not fall—Meister kept me upright by my hair. I struggled to find a fragile footing as he dragged me back into the sunlight

We came to an abrupt stop outside the building Meister had run to earlier, when he had ordered me to stay at the shack. The “Dentist” sign idly wandered into my mind as I stared at the ground.

A set of booted feet came into my peripheral vision. “Meister,” a low voice said, a question in his tone.

“I’m using this. No one comes in unless I say so. Anyone dares and I’ll fucking kill them.”

“Sir,” the male replied, stepping aside.

I dared to raise my head, but I immediately regretted it. A lifeless male body lay in the dirt beside the wooden building. But unlike the male Meister had strangled, this one wore a blade in the top of his skull, his blood pooling around him.

I tripped as I was forced up the step to the building. And then we were inside and all I saw was blood. Blood on the floor. Blood smeared on the walls . . . and blood covering the pale, lifeless body of a young girl, no more than seventeen, strapped to a large leather chair. Her wrists were bound, her ankles were pinned down with cuffs, and blood pooled between her legs. A clear bag like those beside Sapphira and my New Zion sisters hung at her side.

I could not hold back the tears for the girl who stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Her hair was long and brown, the thick strands matted and dull.

And then I studied her face. Her beautiful face . . .

Rachel.

My chest caved in when I recognized the beauty before me. A Sacred Sister. Only sixteen years old. Sweet, kind Rachel with the pinkest rosy cheeks. But her cheeks wore no rose tint anymore.

“Get her the fuck out and burn her,” Meister ordered.

The male lifted Rachel from the chair. Her naked, ashen body was skeletal in the male’s large arms. He tossed her lifeless corpse over his shoulder, as if she had never been a person, a spirit and a soul. But instead disposable and nothing. Not even worthy of respect after death.

Wordlessly, the male carried Rachel toward the door. As he passed, I found my hand drifting upwards and my fingers wrapping around her own.

They were cold.

They were so cold. Nothing more than skin and bones. Just like Sapphira . . .

Worse, they were stained with crimson, the spilled blood of her ordeal. Whatever that was. The blood dripped from her body, leaving a trail in her wake, a dark red path leading from the place of her earthly hell.

I closed my eyes. I wanted to run to Sapphira and free her. I wanted us to run away and start somewhere new. Go to some heavenly place where there was no pain, no blood. Where there was kindness, not cruelty.