Chapter 8

The axe was heavy in Alonzo’s hand, but he lifted it high over his head. If he missed, he risked injuring Ben. Ben, who knelt before him in the most vulnerable, the most trusting position possible. He silently prayed to God to guide his hand. He prayed for the strength to break through the chains that bound Ben—the one he could see and the ones he couldn’t.

He felt a sudden surge of power up his spine and through his shoulders. With a grunt, he brought the axe down. The blade sliced through the links like they were made of cotton.

Ben had held his arms as tight as the chains. His fists did nothing but slide an inch when the tension binding them together was broken. His shoulders, however, slumped, and more than one of the rags covering his wounds slipped free.

“Thank you, Father,” he murmured. “You will not regret it.”

“I know I won’t. I’m sorry I can’t do anything about your wrists.”