Crossed (Never After Series), page 11
I’ve known of Archbishop Moreau—it’s almost impossible not to if you live in the area— but I never imagined he would seem so…normal. Although beyond scouting for people to steal from, I’ve never given much thought to the church in general, if I’m honest. Religion brings back memories of Sister Agnes. Of a time I try to forget.
He waves over one of the baristas and orders two sweet crepes and cups of hot chocolate, choosing to let us both sit in silence until the young man comes back with our order.
My mouth salivates at the buttery pastry in front of me, but I’m too nervous to pick it up.
He sits back in his chair, rubbing his scruffy chin as he watches me. His hair is graying at the temples, and his skin is pallid, a pasty white that makes me wonder if he might be ill. Then he asks my name. “Quel est ton nom, cher enfant?”
“Cade Frédéric,” I mutter.
I’m not sure why I don’t lie to him. Maybe it’s because he gives off a vibe of trustworthiness. Or maybe I’m just hoping if I cooperate, then I won’t feel like I owe him something once I take his offerings of food.
He nods and reaches forward, the tips of his fingers pushing the small, round white plate closer to me.
“I’m sure you’re hungry, no?” he says in English. “Eat.”
And I did. He didn’t ask any questions, just fed me and kept me warm with hot chocolate.
So when he asked me to come back again the next day, I did.
And the next.
Until my hopelessness was replaced with faith and my anger replaced with Him.
At least that’s what I assumed.
Foolishly, I even had the passing thought that Sister Agnes would be proud of how far my soul has come, of who I’ve become. The most broken part of me wanted her to see me now, to feel pride that I finally rid myself of sickness.
But monsters love to hide in the shadows, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And mine came rearing back after being subdued for too long, ravenous as ever.
Snapping out of the memory, I pound the candy bar harder than necessary, pieces of broken chocolate flying off the sides of the wood cutting board. Shaking my head, I grab the cocoa powder from the spice rack and move to the stove, sprinkling some into the milk, mixing it in with a wooden spoon.
As I stir, I ruminate.
Since the moment I’ve entered the church, I’ve never questioned God. Never questioned His path for me. And I’m still rigid in my beliefs. He tests His strongest soldiers, and this is no different. Amaya Paquette is a test to my chastity.
And I’m terrified I’ll fail.
She’s a wrecking ball, upheaving the clarity I’ve spent years etching into stone until it’s nothing but cracked marble.
This isn’t my first bout of balancing the temptation of evil with the path of righteousness, but it’s a new one. An untraveled road that I’m heading down blind. I’ve come to terms with coexisting with my monster and the sin that it begets, but this lust is all-consuming in a way that I’m not sure I can balance.
Gritting my teeth, I take the small mallet and smash it down on the dark chocolate, a shot of need breaking through the moment as I compare the feel of the cocoa breaking to something else.
Something more fragile.
Something that will scream out until it fades into nothingness.
Bones are harder to fracture than a simple candy bar, but the comparison sends a sick thrill through me anyway. I sink into the moment because at least the violence is familiar.
I’m dropping the smashed-up pieces into the pot of milk when a knock sounds on my door. My brow furrows, and I lower the heat to a simmer before heading to the front and opening it, coming face- to- face with Amaya Paquette.
Everything that I’ve just told myself, everything I’ve spent the past day convincing myself of— that I won’t follow her around, that I’ll kill her and be done with it— all of it falls away the moment I see her standing in the doorway to my cottage.
She looks ethereal in the night, surrounded by falling snow. Her hair dances slightly as it’s picked up by the icy wind, and her cheeks are as flushed as the tip of her nose from being kissed by the cold.
I lean against the doorframe as I take her in, the sight of her making it hard to breathe.
She smiles, her pouty lips parting as she shakes her head, white drops of snow melting into the strands of her hair until it looks as black as the sky.
“I wasn’t sure if this was where you lived,” she says, her eyes glancing behind me into the small living room.
I quirk a brow, sinking my shoulder farther into the door’s frame. “You were looking for me, petite pécheresse?”
Her hand raises to wrap around the ends of her hair before she pauses, blowing out a deep breath. “Yes, but I—” She shakes her head. “It’s late and I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
I smile because it’s always her keeping me awake, whether she’s here or not.
“Non,” I reply. “I’m always available for you, no matter the time.”
Moving to the side, I gesture for her to come in, although there’s something screaming deep in my gut to turn her away. That if I let her inside, there will be no going back. Her scent will be in my home, and the memory of how she fits here will be etched into the walls like scripture on stone.
She moves through the entry, and my stomach twists when she brushes by me.
I turn and close the door, flicking the lock in place and staring at her back as she stands in the center of the living room, looking around.
I could kill her now and be done with it.
My fingers twitch at the possibility, my mouth going dry at imagining her heartbeat growing faint beneath my hands. I move closer, my muscles tensing in anticipation.
She shakes her head again, spinning to face me, and when her eyes meet mine, my footsteps halt.
“I probably shouldn’t have come.” She smiles. “I just needed to think and kind of ended up here.”
The need inside me mutates into curiosity. “And what is it you have to think about that you can’t do at home?” I press, taking another step toward her. “Do you need to confess, Amaya?” She laughs and it makes my chest pull tight.
“According to you? Probably.” Now it’s her who moves closer. “Truthfully, I’ve been debating all day whether I should hunt you down and thank you.”
She continues toward me until she’s mere centimeters away, her neck craned and her green gaze peering at me through her lashes, like an innocent doe presenting herself at the feet of a predator.
My cock pulses, blood rushing to fill it until it presses uncomfortably against my slacks.
As usual, when she’s around, there’s a battle waging war inside me.
“So thank me then,” I demand.
She bites into her lower lip as she blinks at me, and the urge to reach out and replace her teeth with my own is so strong, my stomach flips.
“I know it was you who requested Quin be included in the festival,” she states.
“Oui.”
She moves in again, the smell of vanilla wrapping around my senses and tugging until my equilibrium feels off-center.
My cock is throbbing now, and I slip my hands into my pockets so I don’t grip her arms and haul her into me, just to feel how warm she is against my flesh. My jaw ticks when her mouth parts, her breasts moving in an uneven rhythm from her heavy breaths.
Merde.
“I’d do the same for any child,” I force out, although it’s far from the truth.
My words do the trick, and her gaze clears, widening slightly as she takes a giant step back.
“Right.” she says, running a hand through her wavy hair. “Anyway, I should go home. I just…”
I don’t reply, allowing her to move past me and make it all the way back to the front door.
“Amaya,” I call out right before she leaves.
Come back here. Let me taste you. Touch you. End you.
“Come to Mass on Sunday.”
The corner of her mouth tilts up, her eyes meeting mine for a split second before she’s gone.
Chapter 16
Amaya
I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M HERE AGAIN.
Last night, coming to Father Cade’s home was easy to reason away, because I couldn’t get my mind off what Principal Lee told me, about how it was Cade who ensured Quinten would be included. I thought about it for the rest of the night and all the next day. It was on my mind during every single performance at work until my brain felt so frazzled I knew I had to see him. I needed to thank him properly, let him know how grateful I am that he’s here. So I left the Chapel, and instead of taking the bus all the way home, I got off two stops early until I was standing at the base of the stone steps to Notre- Dame, indecision weighing me down. It was the stony eyes of the gargoyles lining the entrance that spooked me away until I walked around the perimeter and decided to try the first of two small cottages at the back.
Honestly, I hadn’t expected him to answer. It was three in the morning, and any normal person would be sleeping. Any normal person wouldn’t be knocking on someone’s door.
Tonight, I don’t have an excuse.
But here he is again, answering the door in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, looking nothing like a priest and everything like a statue made by the gods.
My heart races at the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets, and I curse myself for being weak enough to come here. He makes me feel, and I know better than to allow myself close to anything that threatens my control.
But it’s nice to have someone who doesn’t sneer at me when I walk past or think I’m the reason bad things happen.
“Salut, petite pécheresse. Back again so soon?”
My stomach flutters at the nickname. I almost looked it up, curiosity getting the best of me, but stopped myself. Not knowing is better, because what if it’s something sweet? Or worse, something that’s not.
His eyes scan the open space behind me before coming back to rest on me, and I wonder if he’s worried that someone might see us. I also wonder if he’s even allowed to have me back here or if it’s a rule I’m forcing him to break. Guilt starts to rear its head.
He gestures for me to move inside again, the same as he did before, and I shake the thought away.
I’m living in the moment. I can worry about everything again tomorrow.
We walk through the doorway, and I take in the small space. Last night, I was too shaken, so nervous from being here that while I saw everything, I didn’t get to soak it in.
Tonight, I take my time lapping up every detail. There’s a log fireplace crackling in the right-hand corner of the living room surrounded by bookshelves and a cozy oversize recliner next to it with an open book turned down on the end table. A large couch with worn plaid fabric takes up the majority of the space, and a small oval coffee table sits in the center, a vase of white flowers perched right in the middle. There’s a television fixed to the wall, but it’s turned off, reflecting the glow from the fire.
To the left is the kitchen, a small mobile island in the center, painted forest green with an oak cutting board for its top. A tea kettle sits on the gas stove, and a dark green hand towel is draped over the faucet in the sink.
It’s so…different from what I expected. So normal. I guess it’s never occurred to me to think about how priests live. That they have a life outside their job.
And that’s what it is at the end of the day, isn’t it? It’s a job just like any other.
“Cup of tea?” Cade asks, already moving through the small living room and into the kitchen.
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
Maybe I should be following him, but I stay in the living room instead, moving to the bookshelves that surround the fireplace, tilting my head to read the titles.
Frankenstein.
Middlegame.
The Art of Alchemy.
Suddenly, a tingle trickles down my spine, Cade’s breath on my neck.
“See something interesting?”
His voice is low and raspy, and it makes the hair on the tops of my arms stand to attention. “Alchemy is an interesting subject for a priest.”
He nods, jaw ticking. “I like to be aware of all practices. Helps my faith be well- rounded and secure.”
I turn around, allowing a small smile to grace my features as I take the cup of tea from his hand. “I didn’t expect your place to look like this, I guess.”
A piece of dark hair falls on his forehead as he grins, and when he pushes it back, I’m struck again by how attractive this man is without even trying.
Not for the first time tonight, I question what the hell I think I’m doing and then soothe my unease by reminding myself that there’s a boundary here that can’t be crossed. Despite how out of control he makes me feel, nothing can happen between us. Nothing will.
So it doesn’t matter if he makes my stomach tense and my heart pound. Because he’s a priest. He’s taken his vows. He’s married to the church. And I’m not even sure if I actually like him or if he’s safe. So out of bounds that my defenses lower, and I’m able to ignore the way he puts me on edge.
He’s taken a vow of chastity. And there’s a type of safety net in that.
“And what did you expect?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “When it comes to you, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t expect anything.”
That stray strand of hair falls in his face again, and I reach out before I can stop myself.
He jerks away almost violently and winces, a slight hiss leaving him as his entire body stiffens.
My hand flies back to my side. “Sorry. Are you okay?”
He chuckles, but the sound feels forced. “It’s better if we don’t touch.”
“Why?”
His eyes darken, and heat splits through my middle, striking between my legs.
“I think you know why.”
My mouth goes dry as I nod. Because he’s right. I do. A little piece of that safety net disintegrates with his words. I had assumed this was one- sided.
I must zone out or get lost in the moment, because next thing I know, he’s turned toward me fully, his other hand reaching out and smoothing away the furrow in my brows. Even though he just said we shouldn’t touch.
Even though I agreed.
“You’re much too beautiful to look so sad, Amaya.”
My chest squeezes tight. “You have to say things like that because you’re a priest.”
He shakes his head, stepping in closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek fully now, sending my heart careening off the cliff it’s been teetering on.
“Non,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t say that because I’m your priest.”
My breath hitches as I stare at his face, my eyes dropping to his lips and then back up again.
I want him to kiss me. I know it’s impossible and so, so wrong on a thousand different levels, but… I want him to kiss me.
Clearing his throat, he steps back, taking the still- full cup of tea from my hands and spinning around to set it on the coffee table.
“It’s late,” he says.
Disappointment sinks inside me like a rock, but it mixes with a heavy dose of relief. “Yeah, I’m…I’m really sorry I bothered you, Father.”
I use his title to remind myself of who he is. Of what he is. “Cade,” he replies sharply.
“What?”
He sighs, running a hand through his mussed-up hair. “When it’s just the two of us, you can call me Cade.”
Calling him Cade feels personal, and I don’t want us to be personal.
But I don’t listen to the warning sirens blasting through my mind, and I nod slowly. “Okay, Cade.”
“I’m surprised you even want Quin involved,” Dalia says the next evening, scrunching her nose.
I tilt my head as I drain the pot of macaroni shells, confused by her statement. “What? Why wouldn’t I want him included?”
Moving to the side of the sink, I cut open the foil packet of cheese and pour it in the bottom of the heated pot before grabbing the macaroni, dumping it back in, and mixing it.
“Quin!” I yell. “Dinnertime!”
The pitter- patter of footsteps comes down the hallway, Quinten appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Finish this first and then dinner,” he says.
“Deal.” I nod.
I don’t know what “this” is, but he loves to barter, and usually I allow the compromises, wanting him to have a sense of self- agency.
He smiles, and the sight of it makes my chest warm. When he goes to his bedroom to finish whatever task he was on, I put my attention back on Dalia.
“I mean, it’s called the Festival of Fools, Amaya,” she continues. “It’s ableist as fuck.”
“Well…yeah,” I reply slowly. “I’m not a fan of the title, but what can I do about it? You want me to keep Quin from being able to be part of something to make a statement?”
Guilt swims through me, but it’s irritating to have Dalia talk to me like I haven’t agonized over every aspect of anything involving Quinten.
I shake my head, mixing the shells and cheese to keep it warm. “That won’t do anything except keep us in solitude and ostracize us even more.”
“You don’t know unless you try.”
I slam down the wooden spoon, splatters of orange skating across the counter. “I have tried, dammit. You really think I sit by and do nothing? The first year after my mom left, I went to the county meeting, begging them to change it.” I spin around, crossing my arms over my chest. “And do you know what they said? ‘It’s tradition. It’s not about you. It’s about history.’ And then I went the next year. And the next. And the fucking next.”
“Oh,” Dalia says.
“Yeah, oh. And fuck you, Dal, for assuming.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just…” She sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “He’s my little dude, you know? I can’t stand the thought of anything hurting him.”
Empathy douses my anger. “Yeah.”
Dalia glances down the hall. “I just worry he’ll look back one day and think we were complacent, you know?”
