IT WASN’T MY INTENTION TO RUN INTO AMAYA AT Louis Elementary, but even with the threat of other people around, I find her impossible to resist.
Worse than that is the sense of ownership that sparks through me like kerosene, lighting my veins on fire when I see her. When I so much as think of someone other than me touching her. It’s bothersome, and quite frankly, it makes me furious having to constantly balance on the tightrope between killing her quickly or keeping her alive so I can watch her every breath.
This obsession makes no sense, and I don’t like being so helpless to its pull.
But I refuse to be a victim any longer, which is why tonight, despite every fiber of my being aching to go and peer in her window, I don’t. Instead, I sit in my cozy little cottage and let my television drone on while I break apart a chocolate bar that’s the size of my forearm, preparing to drop it into the milk I have boiling on the gas stove.
It’s a treat, one that I don’t often indulge in, but tonight I’m feeling nostalgic, wanting to remind myself of where I come from and how far I still have to go, and hot chocolate brings back the memories of when I first got off the streets for good. When Father Moreau took me in and convinced me to come back by plying me with sugar cookies and warm drinks, not realizing I would have done it for a single night with a roof over my head.
My stomach grumbles, echoing off the large stone outside Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral. My face heats at the noise, but nobody turned my way, so I can only hope they didn’t notice.
Maybe my hunger isn’t as loud to everybody else as it is to me.
There are a lot of people here today on the Île de la Cité, traipsing around and taking photographs, but I don’t care about anybody other than the group of three American women who I’ve been tracking since they walked out of their ritzy hotel forty- five minutes ago. They don shawls around their shoulders, whispering about how archaic it is to have to cover their skin if they want to see inside, and their giggles ring off the high arches and intricate Gothic carved structures as though it’s appropriate to be so disrespectful in a place so full of beauty.
I move slowly behind them, keeping enough distance that I disappear into the scenery, because the last thing a pickpocket wants is to stand apart from the crowd. And I learned to blend in long before I ran away from the orphanage ten years ago.
Besides, blending in is easy enough to do here. Paris is teeming with tourism, full of people who are too busy looking up to see the hand sliding in their pockets and sneaking out their wallets.
As the group of women head closer to the door, I pick up my pace, cutting across the concrete- lined bushes and the open square to deliberately stand in their way right when they reach the entry to the church.
The short brunette slams into me, and I jerk back, gripping her around the waist to catch her.
Her purse sways at her side.
“Je suis désolé, belle. Est- ce que tu vas bien?”
The girl’s eyes widen, and she leans in closer. “What?”
I offer her my most devastating smile. I’ve been told that when I can keep myself at least moderately bathed and my anger in check, I have a certain type of charm. It usually seems to work in my favor when trying to woo a pretty girl, but I can’t be sure if it’s my face or my accent that does the trick here.
Tourists are terribly predictable.
My hand holds her side tightly, squeezing in comfort, but my other one has already slipped into the side of her bag and grabbed her wallet, moving it from her purse into my pocket. My heart slams against my rib cage, adrenaline flooding through my system like a drug, and I walk away, smiling and apologizing as I slink backward until I reach the door.
Then I’m spinning around and speeding off, wanting to leave the scene before she realizes what I took.
Hopefully, there’s cash in here. Tourists usually carry some around, but cards, while not impossible, are more difficult.
“Hey!” she yells behind me.
Merde.
I break into a sprint, pushing two bystanders out of the way as I cut across the open courtyard, garnering attention from the people standing by. A flock of pigeons is huddled by a lamppost, and I run straight for them, hoping the distraction of them flying and flapping will help me get away.
And I almost do. Get away with it, I mean.
But then a man steps in front of me, gripping my arm tightly and swinging me around, my heart pounding in my ears and my stomach tightening around the emptiness.
Disappointment rattles in my hollow bones as I look up at my captor, realizing Archbishop Moreau has me in his hold.
“Suivez- moi,” he says simply, telling me to follow him.
I expect him to take me back to the cathedral itself, but instead he walks to a small patisserie and sits us down at the front corner table, Notre-Dame towering over everything in the distance.
The smell of rich chocolate and freshly ground coffee fills the air, and my stomach cramps.
I’ve known of Archbishop Moreau—it’s almost impossible not to if you live in the area— but I never imagined he would seem so…normal. Although beyond scouting for people to steal from, I’ve never given much thought to the church in general, if I’m honest. Religion brings back memories of Sister Agnes. Of a time I try to forget.
He waves over one of the baristas and orders two sweet crepes and cups of hot chocolate, choosing to let us both sit in silence until the young man comes back with our order.
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 this lust is 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 of need breaking 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 day convincing myself 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?”
Her hand raises to wrap around the ends of her hair before she pauses, blowing out a deep breath. “Yes, but I—” She shakes her head. “It’s late and I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
I smile because it’s always her keeping me awake, whether she’s here or not.
“Non,” I reply. “I’m always available for you, no matter the time.”
Moving to the side, I gesture for her to come in, although there’s something screaming deep in my gut to turn her away. That if I let her inside, there will be no going back. Her scent will be in my home, and the memory of how she fits here will be etched into the walls like scripture on stone.
She moves through the entry, and my stomach twists when she brushes by me.
I turn and close the door, flicking the lock in place and staring at her back as she stands in the center of the living room, looking around.
I could kill her now and be done with it.
My fingers twitch at the possibility, my mouth going dry at imagining her heartbeat growing faint beneath my hands. I move closer, my muscles tensing in anticipation.
She shakes her head again, spinning to face me, and when her eyes meet mine, my footsteps halt.
“I probably shouldn’t have come.” She smiles. “I just needed to think and kind of ended up here.”
The need inside me mutates into curiosity. “And what is it you have to think about that you can’t do at home?” I press, taking another step toward her. “Do you need to confess, Amaya?” She laughs and it makes my chest pull tight.
“According to you? Probably.” Now it’s her who moves closer. “Truthfully, I’ve been debating all day whether I should hunt you down and thank you.”
She continues toward me until she’s mere centimeters away, her neck craned and her green gaze peering at me through her lashes, like an innocent doe presenting herself at the feet of a predator.
My cock pulses, blood rushing to fill it until it presses uncomfortably against my slacks.
As usual, when she’s around, there’s a battle waging war inside me.
“So thank me then,” I demand.
She bites into her lower lip as she blinks at me, and the urge to reach out and replace her teeth with my own is so strong, my stomach flips.
“I know it was you who requested Quin be included in the festival,” she states.
“Oui.”
She moves in again, the smell of vanilla wrapping around my senses and tugging until my equilibrium feels off-center.
My cock is throbbing now, and I slip my hands into my pockets so I don’t grip her arms and haul her into me, just to feel how warm she is against my flesh. My jaw ticks when her mouth parts, her breasts moving in an uneven rhythm from her heavy breaths.
Merde.
“I’d do the same for any child,” I force out, although it’s far from the truth.
My words do the trick, and her gaze clears, widening slightly as she takes a giant step back.
“Right.” she says, running a hand through her wavy hair. “Anyway, I should go home. I just…”
I don’t reply, allowing her to move past me and make it all the way back to the front door.
“Amaya,” I call out right before she leaves.
Come back here. Let me taste you. Touch you. End you.
“Come to Mass on Sunday.”
The corner of her mouth tilts up, her eyes meeting mine for a split second before she’s gone.
