Page 69 of Crossed

He’s stood up at some point, and now he’s leaning against his desk, ankles crossed and his hands in his pockets. Watching me.

He’s always watching me.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Alone at last.” His voice is smooth as butter, and it pisses me off.

“Unfortunately for me,” I snark.

He smirks. “For us both, actually. But let’s not waste time pretending you don’t enjoy our alone time, Amaya, when we both remember just how much you do.”

I sit forward in my chair, pointing my finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand there and act like what we did was fine. Like what you said— ” I cut myself off, not wanting to finish the sentence, because it doesn’t matter, and me showing emotions like this make me feel out of control, and Ihateit.

It doesn’t matter.

He tilts his head. “You do realize there is no divorce in the Catholic church, yes?”

My stomach cramps because truthfully, I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not like it matters anyway.

I lift my chin defiantly. “And?”

“Do you often let other men touch you when you’re spoken for?” His words are soft- spoken, but I can feel the tension stringing them tight.

“Do you often touch women whenyouare?” I retort, pointedly looking at the clerical collar that’s wrapped around his neck.

He frowns, a tendril of his tousled black hair falling on his forehead. He reaches up to push it back. “A mistake I won’t be making again.”

I don’t know why that statement stings, but it does. It’s not like Iwantthings to happen again. I cross my arms, and his gaze flicks down to my chest.

“My eyes are up here,Father.”

His nostrils flare and he straightens, moving forward until he’s leaning over my seat, his hands gripping the arms of my chair. “I know every single inch of you, petite pécheresse, as if you were painted by my hands.”

My breathing falters, his words slapping against my heart and making it beat out of rhythm.

I sit forward until our bodies are almost touching, a buzzing sensation heating me from the inside out. Our noses brush, and I feel his exhale on my lips.

“And in your painting…” I murmur. “Am I a whore? Or am I a witch?”

The muscle at the side of his jaw twitches, and I just know he’s about to spit something hurtful in the air. Something that will tarnish my view of him even more and make mehatemyself for not being able to forget what it felt like when his thick fingers spread me wide.

I press my hand over his mouth, his lips burning my skin.

“Don’t,” I grit out. “Whatever you’re about to say, just…don’t.”

Something coasts across his face, and his fingers wrap around my wrist, his thumb pressing into my pulse point like he’s searching for the beat. Slowly, he brings my palm down until it’s resting in my lap, his hold never loosening.

“You should go,” he rasps. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He drops my arm like it’s on fire, spinning until I’m staring at his back. And I rise up and bolt from the room, my muscles tight and my mind screaming, wondering how the hell we’ll survive being alone.

Chapter26

Cade

THEY SAY THE FIRST SEVEN YEARS are the building blocks of a child’s life. Science points to the fact that during those formative years, our brain waves are in a different state, almost like hypnosis, letting the ideals settle into concrete foundations for what we’ll believe. For who we’ll be the rest of our lives.

Well, I was seven years old when I ran away from the orphanage and took to the streets of Paris, and now, twenty-nine years later, it’s still those first few years that haunt me the most.

“Little demons who don’t learn their lessons get the whip again.”