9. Teysha

9

TEYSHA

"They're called the Chosen Saints and they're one of the most dangerous cults in the country," says the five o'clock news anchor. On the screen next to her is a photograph of the Chosen Saints's logo: a large cross covered in vines and flowers. "They are believed to operate in the states of Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Texas. Investigators believe they have several factions in Ludic county alone."

The anchor proceeds to brief her captive audience at home on all the warning signs that the Chosen Saints are in the area. She cautions against walking alone at night and giving personal information to solicitors.

"Keep doors and windows locked," she says definitively.

Frustrated by the generic advice, I change the channel with the TV remote. "I'm sure everybody that's been taken left the front door open, Barbara."

"Who're you talking to?"

The gruff voice comes from the hall. Logan appears a second later on his way to the kitchen. He's leather and denim from the torn jeans he wears to the motorcycle boots that clack on the floor tiles .

My gaze drifts from the TV screen for the first time since the last commercial break.

Logan geared up and ready to walk out the door isn't unusual. I quickly learned this only days into living under his roof. He stays on the move, barely ever home.

But the sight of him isn't any less affecting. Logan wears it well. Over six feet, ropey muscles, blue eyes, rough beard. What's not to find visually appealing?

"The TV," I answer, blinking out of my thoughts. I press the mute button on the remote. "Where are you headed?"

"The saloon."

"Can I come?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He pops the tab on a can of beer and swallows his first mouthful. "'Cuz you're supposed to be recovering."

"I'm recovered."

"You're not a member."

"I need fresh air," I say, sitting up. "Don't the others bring their girlfriends?"

"You're not my girlfriend."

"Wives—"

"The answer is no." He sets the beer can down and snatches his keys and wallet off the counter. "I'm out. Don't wait up for me."

The door thuds shut behind him. A couple seconds later, his motorcycle rumbles awake. I listen as he rides off and the thunderous sound fades out.

The silence that follows makes the loneliness ten times worse.

I unmute the TV and turn up the volume.

It's said that some people are sensitive to loud noises after a traumatic ordeal. I'm a week off my captivity and I'm the opposite—loud noises provide comfort.

The voices from the TV are another presence when I've spent so many hours alone.

When Logan escaped the compound, I never expected him to return days later. The men he showed up with were even less expected. They called themselves the Steel Kings, a motorcycle club I had heard about in passing from living in the nearby town Boulder. By all accounts, they were supposed to be dangerous, violent, bad men.

But while they were violent—taking out many of the Chosen Saints in bloody fashion—they weren't the kind of bad men I had imagined them to be.

They set what believers they could free .

They took them to the hospital for treatment and so they could eventually be reunited with their loved ones.

I was taken to the hospital, too. A full checkup confirmed I wasn't seriously injured—just malnourished—and I wasn't pregnant or infected with an STD either. After my exam as I returned to the truck outside, I saw the conflict etched on Logan's face.

He was wondering what I was. What the heck was he going to do with me?

I was his wife. The woman he promised he would help escape with him.

Now here I was, a living, breathing inconvenience he was legally attached to.

He rubbed the back of his neck and asked me what I wanted to do. If I wanted him to take me home to Boulder or if I wanted to come stay with him for a few days while we sorted things out.

In a daze from everything that had happened, I chose the second option .

Logan and his group drove me to Pulsboro and dumped in the apartment his younger brother had never stopped paying rent on in the vain hope he'd someday come back. I've been in a new kind of captivity ever since.

Alone with thoughts I haven't faced and feelings I'm not sure what to make of.

Grandma Renae always said prayer would give me the clarity I need in dark times. She said God would hear me and grant me strength. I would persevere and carry on.

Prayer would heal me.

A part of me still reverts to that belief. I still delude myself into thinking if I read the Bible enough times and say enough prayers, it'll be like it never happened.

They never hurt me or took away pieces of myself. I'd be whole again.

The problem is, every time I close my eyes, I'm inundated with bad memories. The living nightmare I endured being held captive by the Chosen Saints. I see the exorbitant dinners with the Leader at the head of the table and the times one of the guards took me when we were alone.

I taste the seed I've been made to swallow.

I can't sleep and food no longer seems appetizing.

The few minutes Logan's around, I'm hoping for a crumb of affection. Some comfort or reassurance. When I receive nothing, I'm crumpling into a ball of anxiety and stress 'til it starts over again.

Nothing really has changed.

I'm in the same spot on the sofa when Logan returns hours later. He reeks of cigarette smoke and his beard looks like it's grown an inch thicker in the time he's been gone. He scrubs a hand over the wiry hairs and pretends he doesn't have a captive audience. That I'm not watching every step he takes .

He picks up the beer can he'd left hours ago.

"I told you not to wait up."

"I couldn't sleep…"

"It's not resting if you don't get any shuteye."

"I'm more interested in what you were out doing." I climb off the sofa with arms and legs that feel stiff from lack of use. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I've told you not to ask about club business."

"I'm trying to make conversation."

He drains the beer can, tossing it in the kitchen garbage. He hasn't looked at me once as he moves from the kitchen into the hall. I become his shadow, following after him.

"What do you do at the saloon?" I ask nosily. I turn into his bedroom like it's my space too. "Do you drink and watch sports?"

"You want to make conversation? Let's talk about our visit to the clerk's office."

My brows knit in confusion. "Why would we go to the clerk's office?"

"We need to get this undone." He shrugs off his leather vest and toes out of his boots. He crosses the room bare chested, more weight and muscle returning by the day. Captivity will leave even tough guys like Logan malnourished.

At the most random times, I'm transfixed by him. A deep-rooted longing pulls at me and warms my skin. I'm left feeling strong urges I've never made sense of before. It's like hunger but the craving for something other than food.

The craving to touch and be touched.

Only by him.

It started when we were still part of the Chosen Saints.

Logan and I were married and made to consummate our union. We were forced to do it so many times, it became a familiar part of my existence. I began to find a kernel of good in what was otherwise dark and ugly roots spreading through me.

I was Logan's wife, and he was my husband.

We didn't choose each other, but we would survive it together.

The vow had been made, and in the eyes of God, it was solidified.

But now that we've left the Chosen Saints, I've realized I might be wrong. While I'm transfixed by Logan, drifting after him, he won't even glance at me.

A habit of his that started during our captivity and continues today now that we've regained our freedom.

He steps into the ensuite bathroom and flicks on the light. His reflection in the mirror shows the inverse of every tattoo inking his chest. It does the same to the tight-lipped expression etched onto his face.

He's agitated.

"The annulment," I say.

"That's right. We agreed, didn't we? It'll be the quickest way for this to be over."

"This…?"

"This situation," he answers, his muscular back turned to me. He twists on the shower, pretending as if I'm not standing a few feet away.

"Our marriage," I say slowly.

"That's what the clerk is for. We've come full circle."

A sharp bout of nerves pricks at me. "Then what?"

"Then it's over." His fingers undo the button on his denim jeans, and he raises his brows at me before he continues undressing. "You mind?"

I'm rocked to my core as I step out of the way in time for the bathroom door to slam shut. There's so much to work through processing the annulment. What direction do I even go in?

The knowledge the vows I took meant nothing. My once-in-a-lifetime marriage has been reduced to a blemish on my record. My virginity has been stolen when I'd only ever saved myself for my future husband. I'm unwanted and used and lost in every way. How can I ever return to my old life when that version of myself is gone?

Everything is ruined.

Logan and my friend Sydney, who happens to be dating Logan's brother, have both asked me about my family. They've made it clear they'll reach out to them the moment I'm ready. Sydney seems lost about my reluctance while Logan's growing impatient by it.

Neither understand why I've stalled as long as I can.

The thought of being bombarded by Mama and Grandma Renae feels like it'll be its own traumatic experience. They'll have a thousand questions and a thousand more judgments. There'll be lectures and prayers and unsolicited advice. I'll be under their microscope and married off to the first man willing to wife up someone as damaged as I am.

Just so they can preserve my— their —reputation around town.

Whereas Logan's apartment has been quiet and lonely, being under my family's roof will be like standing in the middle of the spotlight. I'll be studied, analyzed, broken down a hundred times over. I'll be reprogrammed to be the born again, virtuous, perfectly clean woman.

It'll be like my time with the Chosen Saints never happened.

At least at face value .

They'll never understand the pain that's invisible on the outside but unbearable on the inside.

I return to the safety of the sofa in the living room and fall asleep to the white noise of Logan showering. It's well past four in the morning when I wake up. The TV's still on, lighting the dark room in a bluish white filter.

I move through the apartment on memory, cloaked in shadows. Logan's bedroom door squeaks as I nudge it open and pad gently into the room. He's offered me the spare bedroom as my space, but I've never slept in there. I've spent my time on the couch, unable to rest.

At least when I'm not seeking out my husband.

I peel back his bedsheet and slide in next to him. His body serves as an anchor on the bed, warm and heavy as I scoot closer. I'm drawn to his scent that invades my senses. The natural, clean smell of him after a hot shower. Pressing my face into the knotted muscle of his back, I take a slow inhale.

Logan stirs at once. He jerks awake and his hands fly out fast. They clench shut around my wrists as his eyes open to assess the threat.

…then he realizes it's just me.

He lets go as quickly as he'd grabbed hold. "I've fucking told you about doing that."

"I didn't want to sleep in the living room."

"That's what the other bedroom's for."

"I don't feel comfortable in there."

"Teysha," he says in warning. "You can't sleep in this bed. You sleep in this bed, I sleep somewhere else."

"You're my husband."

"We're getting it annulled."

I rack my brain to understand where his coldness is coming from. Why he's shut me out after he gave me comfort and affection all those times in the past. What have I done wrong to make him want to erase our marriage?

Why won't he even give it a chance?

I can't let this end. I can't let another thing be taken from me.

I've dreamt my whole life for a happy union. I've only got one chance…

"If you don't get out this bed, I will," he says after I stay put. "You make things more difficult than they have to be. You'll go your way. I'll go mine."

I slide out of the bed to give him the space he's demanded. I'm not sure what else to say even if I were stubborn enough to stay. He finds me difficult and wants our marriage to be over.

The vows meant nothing.

The day Logan brings me to the clerk's office, we haven't said a word to each other. Sydney's lent me a sundress that I put on to look presentable. My recent post-captive uniform of tank tops and shorts didn't seem appropriate. Logan's staunchly cold and uncompromising in dark flannel.

We'll get the marriage annulled and then go our separate ways.

That's the plan until we're turned away by the clerk. The dirty blonde glances at the form we've filled out, then arches a brow over her scarlet horn-rimmed glasses. "This doesn't fall under the provisions to qualify as an annulment."

Logan lets out a rare chuckle, then his brow creases when he realizes she's serious. "What d'you mean it doesn't qualify? It's a marriage that we were forced into. "

"You signed the license."

"Under extreme duress."

"And proceeded to stay married for five months?" she asks, arching a brow.

"Look, lady," he growls, "it was a forced marriage. We didn't consent to it."

"Your signature is your consent by law."

"Not when we were under duress, you fucking bitch!"

"Logan," I choke out.

The woman behind the glass gasps and eyes Logan like he's a beast about to pounce. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Aggressive behavior directed at staff is not tolerated. I will elevate this case to my supervisor and she will reach out to you in ten to fourteen business days if we're able to proceed."

"I'm not waiting fourteen fucking business days to annul a marriage!"

"Sir," she says, glaring at him behind her horn-rimmed frames. "Please leave or I will call security. I repeat, your temper will not be tolerated."

We're walking out of the clerk's office before I've even processed what's happened. Logan lets out an enraged howl and he kicks at the brass fountain in front of the clerk's building.

"Stop it… or was getting kicked out the office not enough for you? You want to get arrested for destruction of government property?"

"That bitch refused to help on purpose!"

"Maybe so. But getting loud and angry doesn't usually help things."

"We need to have this undone."

"I get it! You've said it a dozen times. You don't need to keep repeating yourself," I snap. "You can't stand being married to me another minute. You'll do anything to be rid of me!"

"Teysha sweetie? Is that you?"

Logan and I look up at the same time.

Mama and Grandma Renae have walked up clutching tissues. They rush toward me once they realize it's me.

"It's our Tey Tey! We've come to take you home."