Crossed: Chapter 24

I HAD HOPED THAT AFTER LOSING control with Amaya and then beating myself for the mistake, things would get better. Foolishly, I assumed that small taste would be enough or that the regret over my actions would drown out everything else.

Instead, it’s only gotten worse. Now I imagine her smell invading my senses, her skin molding beneath my touch, her pink cunt gripping my fingers and how it would split apart around my cock.

Before, she was only in my head, a figment of my imagination, one I fantasized about turning into a reality although I knew I never would. But now, she’s tangible, real and raw and so delicious that even days after touching her, I still feel her in my hands.

Seeing her swoon over Parker in his office made my insides quake. I had my entire day planned out: meet with Parker about the Festival of Fools, then head back to the church to offer confession.

Instead, after being rudely dismissed from his office once Amaya arrived, I waited outside Errien Enterprises for two hours until she appeared, slipping into her roommate’s car and driving back to her apartment.

I followed her there of course, my duties to the parish completely forgotten, and I spent the evening in her bushes, watching the way her chest rose and fell with every breath. Wondering if I was part of the nightmares that made her toss and turn all night. Coming to terms with the simple truth that I won’t be able to kill her. I would have done it by now if I could, and every second spent in her presence, the urge mutates into something else. Something no less visceral but…softer somehow.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, I went back home to my small cottage, slipped out of my clothes, frigid from standing in the cold, and whipped myself until I blacked out, hating how weak she makes me.

It took everything in me to stay away the following night. But thoughts still overwhelmed me, until I couldn’t sleep and had to atone for the way my cock leaked with desire from remembering how she felt around my hand and moaned in my ear.

Today, the pain of my back is so sharp, I can barely stand.

Sister Genevieve’s green eyes widen when she opens the front door of the monastery and finds me there, leaning against the doorframe. I meet her gaze, and something pulls sharply in my stomach when I do, but I brush the feeling aside.

She has darkness in her just like me. That’s why I chose to come here.

I’m not used to having to depend on anyone else. I don’t like others knowing about the spiritual practices and failures I have to atone for, but ever since arriving in Festivalé, the lashings have become more common. More severe. And the pain in my back is becoming too much to bear. I know that if I don’t get some help with caring for the wounds, infection could easily set in. That’s what happens when rope rips open scabs that haven’t had time to fully form.

But going to a doctor or hospital is out of the question. I’m known in the community now, and loose lips sink ships, or in this case, take away the mystery that shrouds me. I don’t want people to know anything beyond what I decide for them to, and having multiple eyes on my self- inflicted lashings would be the opposite of controlling the narrative.

What would they think if they knew their priest was so weak that he needs to beat himself to repent? That I’m nothing more than a man disregarding my vows of chastity and being led blindly into lust? I suppose no worse than what they’d think if they knew the truth about what else I get up to in the dead of night.

But I’m much better at keeping that part of myself tucked away and out of sight.

The point is there would be no respect and far too many questions. And maybe there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want Amaya to become the center of any more hate. If there’s hatred at her doorstep, it will be doled out by me, not by anyone else. The very thought of someone disrespecting her sends me flying from calm to anger.

I won’t have it. Not until I figure out what to do with her now that I’ve accepted that I can’t go through with killing her.

The one thing I do know is that I need to keep my hands to myself. I cannot give in to temptation again. I won’t survive the lashings otherwise. But part of me fears I’m too weak to resist. My thoughts have only gotten worse since I’ve had her cum on my fingers and her heartbeat in my palm.

“Father Cade,” Sister Genevieve says, moving to the side of the open door so I have room to walk in.

“I need your discretion.” I don’t bother with pleasantries. It will only waste both our time.

Moving past her, I step briskly into the small living space. It looks the same as the last time I was here, a small log fireplace crackling in the corner and warm lighting that casts a cozy glow throughout the room.

“You have it.” Her eyes are curious as they take me in.

I stand taller and nod before stripping off my gloves and coat, folding it methodically and placing it on the back of the couch before reaching for the hem of my shirt and lifting.

Her eyes widen for a split second before she masks the look, and when I spin around, showing her my back, I hear her sharp intake of breath.

I haven’t looked in the mirror because I know what I’ll see. There’s barely an inch of unmarred flesh left. Some scars from years ago—starting when I was a young child— to the most recent ones that still trickle with blood when my skin pulls too tight.

There are several tense moments of quiet before Genevieve moves to my side, her warm hand gripping my forearm and squeezing in comfort. “Don’t sit down. Your bleeding will stain the furniture.”

I don’t move a muscle until she returns, holding a first aid kit and a small wooden stool that she plops down next to me before looking pointedly, clearly implying the seat is for me.

My back stings as I move to sit, and I wince as she perches behind me and starts to dab something cold and wet on the wounds. It stings, and the pain makes my eyelids flutter, a sick sense of satisfaction rushing through me, the way it always does when I can feel the atonement staining my skin.

We don’t speak while she works, but there’s a comfort in the air, and I know without a doubt that I can trust her. And I know that I’ll return. Part of me wishes that she wouldn’t stay here in solitude so I could have her at my side in the parish to tend to my secrets whenever I need.

She stitches a few of the deeper cuts closed and then spreads a thick, gooey substance that makes the sharp ache ebb away, and I sigh in relief, feeling better than I have in days. She dresses the wounds and then I’m done, being careful as I redress.

“You’ll need to take it easy for the next few weeks,” she says, her eyes sharp and sure. “You can stay here with me if you’d like.”

I pull my gloves back on and move toward the front door, suddenly desperate to leave. I know she’s right, but I’m not sure if I can take it easy. And I definitely don’t want to stay here with her. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Father.” She stops me with a hand on my arm, and I spin to face her, looking down at the top of her head. “It won’t do you any favors to hurt yourself until you can’t stand. Whatever it is you’re doing…stop. At least until your body can heal.”

Gritting my teeth until my jaw tenses, I give a sharp nod and then head outside to my car.

It’s Saturday, and after a morning of confession, I’m in my office, preparing the homily for tomorrow, when an email pings through on my computer. Sighing when I see the name of my superior, Bishop Lamont, on the screen, I drop the pen and click the mouse to open the message.

Father Cade,

Mr. Errien has kindly reached out to inform us that he has upcoming nuptials and would like them at the Catholic church. I’ve already briefed him on what that will entail, and he would like extra precautionary measures taken for his new bride, including one- on- one lessons to rehabilitate her image. I’ve assured him we’ll do everything in our power to accommodate his requests, including making sure she’s an upstanding woman of faith and honor. He has generously donated to the church in thanks.

Please do your best to accommodate any of his requests.

Bishop Lamont

Rolling my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated that I’m at the mercy of Parker. I’d love to put him in his place, but it would make things far too difficult now with how enmeshed in the church he is. And now he’s getting married. I smirk at the thought of the poor woman who’s subjected to Parker for the rest of her life.

No doubt it’s someone marrying him for his money; I can’t imagine his personality making women swoon and fall to their knees. But relief fills me knowing that soon he’ll be officially off the market. Hopefully that means I won’t need to watch Amaya in his orbit for too much longer, and all my questions regarding them will disappear.

I stare at Bishop Lamont’s name again.

Someone knocks on the door, and I tell them to enter, assuming it’s Jeremiah.

But then Parker walks in.

He fills the frame first, his hand wrapping around the small waist of the woman next to him.

Amaya.

My attention is suddenly rapt on her, narrowing into tunnel vision, the sight of her bright in Technicolor while everything else falls away in muted blobs of gray.

“Miss Paquette, what a surprise,” I say, reality crashing back in as I realize what it means to have her here with Parker.

His hand possessively around her waist as he leads her through the open door.

Her eyes meeting mine, hurt and anger swirling through their depths.

She’s upset with me. Of course she is.

I breathe slow, deep, even breaths, reminding myself that I hold no claim to her. Not truly. Not when I’m already claimed by God. But words don’t matter when it feels like my name should be branded on her soul, burned so deep the world can feel the letters.

Parker prods her forward like cattle, a haughty look on his face I’m suddenly desperate to disfigure, and when they sit down across from me, his hand slipping to the thick part of her inner thigh, the edges of my vision blur.

My eyes flick to hers.

Look at me, petite pécheresse.

She does. Immediately, as though she can hear my thoughts, and my heart stutters with the knowledge that our connection isn’t one- sided. She feels me just as surely as I feel her.

“Hope we’re not interrupting, Father,” Parker says, breaking the moment.

“Of course not. I’m never too busy for you.” I don’t take my gaze from Amaya.

She scoffs and then bites her lip like she didn’t mean to let the noise slip out.

I lift a brow, daring her to say something out loud.

“Amaya,” Parker chides, looking at her disapprovingly. “Don’t be rude.”

“Yes, Miss Paquette, is something the matter?”

She glares at me, and it makes dopamine flood my system, happy to have her attention when she’s here with someone else.

Parker’s hand moves higher up on her thigh, his fingers squeezing her supple flesh, and my blood pumps so violently my ears ring. My fingers grip the edge of my desk to keep me in place, my sickness surging up and salivating to take the reins.

Kill him. Snap his neck and watch the life drain from his pathetic, pompous eyes.

I swallow and force the voice back down. I can’t kill Parker. It would cause far too many problems for me, even though right now, nothing sounds as satisfying as tying him to his chair, breaking every one of his fingers, and then fucking Amaya in front of him and smearing her thighs with my cum just to make sure he knows who she belongs to.

My cock hardens at the visual and I shift in place, the sharp twinge of pain down my back making me bite the inside of my cheek, Sister Genevieve’s voice smacking me upside my head.

Let yourself heal.

“What can I do for you two?” I ask, forcing my eyes away from Amaya and skimming them over Parker instead.

He grins and I imagine slicing the lips from his face. “I’m sure Bishop Lamont’s already told you, but we’re here to plan a wedding.”

My heart stalls even though I had already deduced as much.

“Whose?” I ask, needing to hear it said.

I focus back on Amaya, staring her down, daring her to be the one to tell me. Do it, I think. Look at me and say the words.

She keeps her eyes on her hands.

Parker’s hand squeezes her leg until she winces, and my chest squeezes along with it.

“Ours.”