Crossed: Chapter 25

“WHAT WONDERFUL NEWS.” CADE’S VOICE IS LIKE ice, so smooth and cool it stings as it sprinkles across my skin.

My gaze is locked on my hands, afraid if I stare at him for too long, I’ll snap and do something crazy like reach across the desk and smack him in the face.

“You’re worse than a whore. You’re a witch. Just like your mother said.”

“When is the church available?” Parker asks.

Cade chuckles. “Non, you cannot have it here so soon.”

Now I do look at him, snapping my face up and meeting his gaze head- on.

Parker’s hand tightens on my thigh until I flinch.

“Bishop Lamont assured me it wouldn’t be an issue,” he hisses.

Cade clicks his tongue. “She is not ready for a Catholic marriage.”

My irritation at him intensifies, even as a tendril of unease winds its way around my middle.

“I’m Catholic,” Parker argues. “It wouldn’t be right to have it anywhere else. And Bishop Lamont said she could take courses.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re Catholic. She is not.” Cade waves his hand toward me dismissively.

“I was raised Catholic,” I defend.

Cade ignores me like I haven’t even spoken, although his next words are aimed toward me. “You haven’t been to a single service since my arrival, and I’m sure if I asked anyone in Festivalé, they’d say you hadn’t attended in years. You’re a sinner, Amaya.”

“Sinning is subjective,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“It is not,” he snaps back.

Asshole.

“Okay…” I draw out. “So I’ll start to attend with Parker then.”

Cade chuckles, low and dark, and then he finally looks back at me, his stare so intense I feel it deep in my core. “So easy to get you to attend Sunday Mass, is it, Miss Paquette?”

I swallow, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

“Tell me, Miss Paquette. When was your last confession?”

His head tilts, and I glare at him. He knows damn well when it was.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, moving his attention back to

Parker. “You’ll need baptism certificates.”

Parker nods. “Not a problem.”

My stomach tangles in knots. I’ve never been baptized. But I won’t say that right now, not to Cade. I’ll have Parker take care of it.

Blood presses beneath the surface of my skin, heating my cheeks.

“And as far as…everything else,” Parker continues, his thumb rubbing tight circles on my leg.

Cade zones in on the movement, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Slowly, his eyes move from where Parker’s touching me, up the length of my torso, blazing over my chest and settling on the hollow of my throat.

My heart bangs against my rib cage.

“I will not approve this marriage until I’m sure you’re both ready,” Cade says, his eyes locking with mine. “And yes, I’ll agree to the additional one-on- one sessions with your fiancée.”

My brows shoot to my hairline. “The what?”

Amusement flashes in Cade’s irises, like he knows he has the upper hand. “For someone who claims to be Catholic, you seem to know nothing about the religion, Miss Paquette. Every couple takes a course so we can determine that you’re ready for the sanctity of marriage.”

“And who decides that?”

He smiles so wide, dimples dent his cheeks. “Me.”

My heart catapults into my stomach. “And the one-on- one courses?”

Parker clears his throat, side- eyeing me. “I’ve asked Father Cade to ensure you’re well versed and…appropriate.”

“Well versed and appropriate,” I repeat slowly.

Parker turns in his chair to face me. “That’s right. Don’t pretend your image is anything other than trash.” He pauses. “Even Jason thinks it needs an overhaul.”

My jaw drops. I can read between the lines, and that’s the only reason I don’t put up more of a fight, despite the way my body shakes from the disrespect. His name-dropping my new defense attorney Jason means he wants me to seem a certain way in case I go to trial.

A woman who goes to church and is God- fearing is more endearing than one who’s called a witch and strips for cash.

Parker’s face hardens. “You need to trust me on this.”

His phone rings, and he finally removes his grip from my thigh as he pulls it out and looks at the screen before slipping it back in his pocket.

But I see the name on the screen.

Florence.

“Excellent, so it’s settled,” Parker says, not bothering to look up at Cade or me. “I need to get back to work. You two can start right now.”

I suck in a breath.

He’s leaving me here?

Before the thought can even form fully, Parker’s gone, leaving a tense and silent quiet in his wake.

Neither of us speak, and I’m almost certain Father Cade can hear my heart beating against my chest, my anger resurfacing now that we’re alone. Slowly, I spin back around from where I was staring at the door and look at him.

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 I hate it.

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 when you are?” 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 I want things 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 me hate myself 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.