Page 3 of Crossed

To my new home.

It will be a long night. I won’t be able to rest until I atone, both for the sinful act of taking the life and for my lack of remorse after doing it.

Guilt squeezes my middle fornotfeeling anything at all.

I’ll welcome the pain.

He is merciful.

I grit my teeth against the harsh air while I walk, trying to remember where I packed my discipline: the whip I keep for times like this.

It takes me twenty minutes to get back, the Notre-Dame Cathedral gleaming in the full moon, its two intricately designed bell towers looming over the main square like a promise. The outside architecture is very Gothic and a nearly exact replica of the cathedral with the same name in Paris, although on a much smaller scale.

This entire town is like a time capsule, history that doesn’ttrulybelong to these people or this country suffocating the air with its ill- placed potency. It draws tourism and money though, and if the United States excels in anything, it’s greed.

I quicken my steps and am just about to head beyond the doors and around to the back courtyard where the rectory is when movement at the base of the cathedral steps catches my eye.

There’s a man leaned against the stone, his eyes closed and his hair tangled as he tries to keep warm beneath a holey blanket and fingerless gloves.

My throat tightens. I know how unforgiving the cold nights can be when you’re sleeping on concrete streets.

I stride over and rest my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently when he jerks awake. My eyes flicker over where we touch, a few deep scratches marring my pale wrist, and a vivid memory of my fingers wrapping around that woman’s throat just a few moments earlier makes my blood heat and a burst of adrenaline rush through me.

“Come inside before you freeze.” I nod to the cathedral doors.

The man’s gaze widens, and he hesitates for only a moment before mumbling out a thanks and following me up the stairs. We head past the stone gargoyles that line the front and into the warmth of the narthex, which is the lobby just beyond the vaulted entrance.

“You can sleep here or in the nave if you wish.” I jerk my chin toward the pews of the sanctuary before spinning to move down the hall that will take me to the back exit, to the small cottage at the rear of the church property that I now call home.

“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice echoing off the high ceilings and stained glass. “I’ve never seen you before.” I pause but don’t turn to face him.

“I am Monsieur Frédéric. But you may call me Father Cade.”

Chapter1

Amaya

“FUCK.”

I suck in a breath, pulling my hand away from the gas stove, and rush to the sink, flipping the taps so water cascades over my singed skin. Tears prick behind my eyes from the sharp pain, but I clench my teeth, letting the lukewarm liquid soothe the burn.

I’d like to blame the shoddy appliances for my mishap, but it was just me getting lost in my thoughts. Even now, as I watch the water pour from the rusted nozzle of my kitchen sink, the small waterfall breaking apart as it meets my finger, I start to drift away, lost somewhere in the back of my mind. Somewhere I don’t feel the sting. Somewhere I don’t feel anything at all.

Shaking my head, I turn off the faucet, sighing as I glance around the three-bedroom apartment, looking for my little brother.

“Quin,” I call out when I don’t see him.

Noise from out front seeps through the paper- thin walls of the small living room, and my brows furrow. I make my way to the door, the cold air from the bitter Vermont fall bleeding through the cracks, making a shiver race down my spine. I glance up, noticing the lock I keep high on the door is unlatched, and a heavy feeling drops in my gut. Ialwayskeep it locked.

Quinten elopes, and it’s my job to make sure he stays safe when he’s self- regulating.

I can’t believe I didn’t lock it.

There’s a shawl I keep hanging on the coatrack, and I reach out quickly, ripping it down and wrapping it around my shoulders as I wrench open the door and step outside onto our front stoop. The icy breeze punches me in the face, but I ignore it, my eyes darting around the crumbling sidewalk and down the street.

As soon as I see the huddle of kids on the corner, my throat tightens and I race toward them, my long legs eating up the distance.

One of the boys laughs, his foot coming back like he’s about to kick something in front of him. “Cat got your tongue, you fuckingidiot?” My chest spasms.