Chapter 1

The town of Havenwood smells of damp earth and blind faith. I hate it here.

I only came back for the funeral. My sister, Maria, the town' s beloved Harvest Queen, was dead. She was the 63rd bride of Pastor Rufus Morris.

She died on her wedding night, just like the 62 before her.

But when I walked into my parents' house, there was no grief. The air was thick with the smell of roasting chicken, not sorrow. My mother was humming a hymn, arranging a vase of white lilies on the mantle.

"Gabrielle, you're back."

My father didn't look up from polishing his shoes. He was preparing for a celebration.

"Where is she? Where's Maria?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Her body is with the Lord, where it belongs," my mother said, her smile serene and unsettling. "She has ascended. A great honor for our family."

I stared at them, my stomach twisting. They were celebrating my sister' s death.

"She was murdered," I said, the words feeling like stones in my mouth.

"Don't be blasphemous, Gabrielle," my father snapped, finally looking at me. "It was a holy union. A blessing that has saved this town."

My mother walked over, her hands cool on my arms. Her eyes held a feverish light I recognized from the most fervent of the pastor' s followers.

"And now, the blessing continues," she whispered, her voice filled with a terrifying joy. "Pastor Morris has chosen his next bride. He has chosen you."

My blood ran cold. I pulled away from her touch as if she had burned me.

"No."

"It is a God-given honor, Gabrielle," my mother insisted, her grip tightening. "Our family will be twice-blessed. You will bring salvation."

"I'm not marrying a murderer," I spat. "I'm engaged to Matthew. We're getting married."

My father scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound.

"Matthew Clark? That deputy? He is a nobody. You will marry the Pastor. It is decided."

I felt the walls of my childhood home closing in. The smell of the roasting chicken was suddenly nauseating. I turned to run, to get out, to find Matthew, but my father was faster. He blocked the door, his face a mask of righteous certainty.

"You will not shame this family," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You will accept this honor."

"I will not," I screamed, my voice raw. "You can't make me!"

"Oh, we can," my mother said softly. She took a key from a hook by the door. "We will."

They dragged me to the storm cellar. The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and the bolt slid into place, plunging me into cold, musty darkness. The last thing I heard was my mother' s voice, muffled through the wood.

"It's for your own good, Gabrielle. You'll thank us when you're in the Lord's embrace."