Page 42 of Crossed

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 thislustis 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 ofneedbreaking 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 dayconvincingmyself 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?”