Page 25 of Crossed

“It’s not that,” she snaps. “I just…I don’t know what to say. Sinning is subjective.”

Her naivete makes my cock thicken. Shamefully, I reach down and press my palm against it, willing it back down. It only makes it stiffer.

“Then tell me about you,” I force out. “What do you do for a living, Amaya?”

I like the way her name feels rolling off my tongue, like a ripe berry that bursts on my taste buds, the perfect mixture of sugar and bite.

“I dance,” she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“How do you dance?” I press, wanting her to say it plainly.

“Pole. And I strip,” she rushes out. “But I don’t think that’s a sin.”

She’s wrong. Her dancing will create enough sin to overflow the city streets. I want to lash out, to say thatanyoneseeing her body other than me will only ensure their death. But that would be ridiculous, because the thought itself is ridiculous, so I push back the words.

“So do you believe your sexual immorality will inherit the kingdom of God?”

“I don’t know that Iwanthis kingdom,” she says. “Besides, I enjoy what I do.”

“Sin is often steeped in pleasure,” I note, the open wounds on my back stinging with the reminder of how true my words are.

“I pay off my mother’s debts. Andthatmakes me feel dirtier than any type of sex work ever could.”

My spine stiffens, my gaze snapping toward her, so laser focused I’m surprised it doesn’t singe through the barrier between us. “Pay off debtshow?”

“Are all priests so pushy?” she questions.

I chuckle, lifting slightly as I adjust my pant legs, trying to give my cock breathing room from where it’s being suffocated by the fabric.

There’s a rustling noise and then a faint, “I shouldn’t have come,” before she’s out of the confessional, her footsteps echoing through the dome ceiling and stone walls.

Everything inside me wants to chase after her, spin her around and force her to her knees as I drag her secrets from her lips, then taste her death as I steal her last breath, but I don’t. Instead, I grip the bench beneath me so tightly my fingernails feel like they might split.

Finally, I leave the booth, staring at the empty space where I foolishly hoped she’d still exist.

“What wasshedoing in here?”

I glance behind me, my mind trying to catch up to the present. Jeremiah’s holding an unlit white candle and glaring at the sanctuary’s entrance.

“You know her?” My stomach tightens.

His lips twist. “Everyone knows Amaya Paquette.”

“How so?” I press.

“Her mother used to date Mr. Errien.” My brows shoot to my hairline.

“I was gone to seminary when she lived here, but apparently they all used to come with him to Mass. One day, there was a fight out front in the main square.”

My brows rise. “A fight?”

He nods. “With her and her mother.”

“Where’s her mother now?”

“Gone.” He shakes his head, staring after where Amaya just was. “Her mom called her a witch. Said shehexedthe town.”

“Ridicule.”