I came from a long line of Southern Baptists. Growing up, the church had been an important part of my life, and I had often relied on my faith to sustain me in times of trouble. Over the years I had backslid, as Mamma and Daddy would say. I couldn’t remember the last time I had attended church. In his arrogance Owen had denounced religion in general—and Southern Baptists in particular—as a crutch for the stupid and the weak.

Maybe I was weak, but weren’t we all at one point or another?

I found the Bible my parents had given me following my baptism when I was ten years old, tucked away in a box of childhood mementos, dusty and forgotten. Settling into a comfortable chair, I said a prayer to God, and started reading at the beginning.

Aria’s footsteps descended the stairwell, and I glanced over at her. So much had happened in the last three weeks that I wasn’t sure how she was even still standing. Everything with Ryan, her father’s death, and then the big decision on what to do about Ryan. In the end she chose not to press charges, although I’ll never understand why. Part of me wanted her to take up the fight, but she admitted that she loved Ryan and part of her had wanted that night to happen. In the end, it was a big enough part to accept what they did together.

My first thought turned to Owen—what he had done to me for years, which I endured simply because I loved him with a damnable loyalty. It was a stupid emotional form of logic, freedom to keep hurting me because his love was bigger than the bruises. He saw past my disfigured face and still wanted me, and back then that was enough. What a fool I was.

We’re trained from an early age to value beauty. What a handsome little boy, we say. Or What a pretty little princess. So we grow up believing that if we’re not beautiful enough, we won’t be loved. Then someone comes along and loves you anyway, and you make him God over you. Even when he is in fact the devil.