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At the top, I pause beside the door and listen again. Muffled words drift through in a man’s voice. Frank’s voice.

I should turn around. That was the plan. But if Evelyn is in there with him, leaving her alone feels worse.

I ease the door open just wide enough to slip through.

The sanctuary is lit by candles and the red glow of the setting sun. I stay at the back, hidden behind a thick wooden column, instinctively making myself small.

My hand flies to my mouth when I see the altar.

I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Evelyn stands there naked, her wrists crossed behind her back and her legs spread. From here, she looks restrained. She stares at the floor like she’s meditating. Like she’s given up.

Frank stands next to her in a white clergy robe with a red stole draped over his shoulders. His presence fills the space the same way it does on Sundays, with his voice carrying confidently, warm enough to fool anyone who’s ever wanted to be comforted.

The first few rows of pews are filled with people wearing matching red garments that look like choir robes.

Evelyn seems to accept whatever is coming. She doesn’t put up any fight. How could she? Frank has controlled her and turned her into an obedient slave.

My chest hurts.

“Purity is not innocence,” Frank says, his voice ringing through the sanctuary. “It’s preservation. It’s discipline. The refusal to let the world take what belongs to you.”

He turns to Evelyn, his hand gripping her waist.

“The body is a vessel. Sacred not for what it desires, but for what it contains.” His palm begins to move, gliding up with clear intent. “And a vessel, when it is worthy, is not left to ruin.”

His fingers press into her flesh.

“A woman who understands this does not decay.” His hand continues its path, moving all over her. “Evelyn understands this. Every inch of her is preserved and tended to.” He grabs her breast. “Maintained as it should be.”

He lifts his gaze back to the room. “Beauty is not fleeting when it’s protected. And controlled.”

A sharp crack cuts the silence as his palm strikes her breast.

Evelyn flinches. Her teeth lock, jaw tightening as she forces herself back into stillness.

Frank doesn’t look at her.

“Even pain,” he says, “is a form of control.”

Then Frank lifts a small metal wheel studded with needles made for puncturing. It looks like a bigger, worse version of the tool Edwin used on me. The kind of tool that belongs in a clinic, not a church. He runs it over her breasts, even her nipples. Over her neck. Down to her thighs and between her legs. She cries out in pain from the hundreds of little punctures.

No, no, no.

I want to stop him. I want to rush the aisle. Grab Evelyn and drag her out of here. But my feet won’t obey. I’m alone. And I can’t let her end up like my brother did.

Frank reaches for a crystal decanter filled with dark red liquid. It catches the candlelight as he lifts it. In a sick way, it looks beautiful, like wine ready for communion.

He tips it. The red liquid spills over Evelyn’s chest and down her body. It runs in slow trails, glistening against her skin, too vivid to be symbolic.

“The blood of youth will heal and cleanse her body. Seep in through the openings and restore life.”

My stomach lurches.

It can’t be actual blood. I don’t want to believe it. But there’s so much of it that the scent in the air reaches me, metallic and unmistakable. I’m horrified, frozen in fear. My eyes are stuck on the altar, on Evelyn and the way she stands there taking it as if she’s been trained to believe this is love.

“Tonight begins something very special,” Frank continues. “A celebration that will culminate at sunrise. But for now…”