AMAYA’S AT MASS TODAY. I SAW HER THE SECOND I walked up to the altar, before I uttered a single word of the homily.
I feel her as surely as I feel Him.
It makes me angry she’s here with Parker and not here for me. That I’ve asked her to show up for the past month, and all it took was another man for her to appear.
A sinner faking as a saint.
Just like me.
She’s sitting in a pew next to her fiancé, and I glance around, looking for Quinten but not seeing him.
When I read from the Old Testament, she slips her hand into Parker’s and I stumble over my words and rip my eyes away. I can’t afford the distraction. Not here. Not right now.
But not looking is like forcing two magnets apart.
I’m fairly successful at avoidance until it’s time to take Communion, and then my eyes flow back to her— always back to her— as she stands in the pew and repeats the words off my tongue.
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Her mouth caresses the vowels like silk, reminding me of how they parted in the perfect O, mouthing my name over and over again the past few nights while I watched her through her window.
My ire grows.
When it’s time for Communion, she moves with the rest to stand in line, Parker’s hand squeezing hers as he drags her along.
My envy blooms like a weed.
“This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper.” The words echo off the high arched walls of the cathedral.
“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”
She doesn’t repeat the phrase with everyone else.
By the time she and Parker reach me, my head throbs and my mind is in a daze, furious that she’s infected even the most sacred of ceremonies with her presence. Maybe her not showing up before now was a gift, keeping me from this endless cycle of torture.
Parker bows his head as he stands in front of me, but suddenly, it’s not enough.
“Kneel, child,” my voice booms.
He snaps his gaze up, glancing around when the silence lingers just long enough to be uncomfortable. I lift a brow, and slowly, he kneels.
Amaya fidgets behind him.
I lift the Host. “The body of Christ.”
“Amen,” he replies, opening his mouth.
My lips twitch at seeing him so submissive at my feet, and he finishes his Communion before jumping to his feet quickly, cutting me a vicious glare before returning to his pew.
And then it’s Amaya’s turn.
I hear the whispers, people obviously on edge from her being here, but I ignore them, focused only on her, wondering what she’ll do.
Our eyes lock, and my cock twitches, my chest twisting when she slowly lowers to her knees. My mouth dries, and my body physically trembles from the strength it takes not to reach out and touch her.
I repeat the same motion as before, holding up the Host. “The body of Christ.”
Amaya’s tongue swipes across her bottom lip, something dark and delicious flaring in her gaze, and my stomach flips with arousal.
“Amen,” she whispers. Her lips part until I can see the pink, wet surface of her tongue, and she cranes her neck, offering her mouth, like an invitation.
My fingers tremble as I reach out, laying the bread on her tongue, and I take just a second too long, allowing her lips to brush against my skin as she closes them. I breathe deeply through the want, anger mixing with lust, furious she’d dare tempt me this way in front of the parish. Furious she’s taking my attention away from Him. Turned on that she’d have the gall. The sickest part of me doesn’t care for the others here. I bet if I demanded it, she’d suck me down in front of everyone, lapping up my sins while I coat them on her tongue.
And then she’s gone, and I’m left behind, repeating the motion with a hundred other people while wishing I could focus on just one.
A terrifying thought, because it forces me to face the truth.
If she were to go up against God, she may come out the victor. My faith keeps me warm, but she burns like molten lead.
She will be my downfall, because I am just a man, and for her, I am weak.
I’M WAITING in my office for Amaya the next morning.
She’s ten minutes late, and every second that ticks by is another notch of irritation racking up inside me. I didn’t go to her window last night, too afraid that if I did, she’d be waiting, that I wouldn’t stay outside after the torture of Mass.
And if I’m completely honest, I was in too much pain.
The wounds on my back are worse than ever, and the second I’m done here, I’ll be heading into the Green Mountains to see Sister Genevieve. She’s the only one who knows and the only one who can help.
There’s a knock on the office door, the knob twisting as Amaya walks in.
My anger doesn’t cease though.
Immediately, I slip my hands in my pockets, the way I always do around her. At first it was to keep from strangling her in front of others, but now it’s to keep from touching her. From claiming her as mine when she’s not mine to claim.
She looks different. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but different. Her raven hair is pulled back in a slick bun, not a strand out of place, The black pencil skirt stops just below her knees but frames her curves in a way that has my body pulsing with want. Red- bottomed heels on her perfect feet and pearls around her delicate neck, with a green gem that reflects the color of her eyes. It reminds me of the large one she wore when she was Esmeralda, and I wonder if that’s on purpose.
She’s all fine lines and tailored edges. The priest in me approves.
It’s a perfectly respectable outfit to grace the halls of this church.
It infuriates me.
I want my wild and free Amaya.
“I see Parker wasted no time in dressing up his new doll,” I sneer.
She glares at me, closing the door and shaking her head. “You must be the worst priest in the history of the Catholic church.”
I move forward until I’m centimeters away, and she falls back, pressing her hands against the wall. I stop myself just before I touch her, lifting my arms on either side of her head, caging her in. Dipping down, my nose runs along the expanse of her neck, breathing in the warmth of her skin. “Oh, petite pécheresse. Who ever said I was good?”
She gasps, and I back up quickly, sharp pain bleeding down my back from the sudden movement.
“I think we need to set some boundaries,” she finally says. “You can start by apologizing.”
Chuckling, I run a hand down my face. “For? I’ve done nothing except be weak for you.”
Her mouth drops open. “So this is my fault?”
I lift my arms to the sides. “It’s surely not mine.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
Her body goes still, and she mutters something under her breath.
My heart slams against my chest, and I straighten. “What are you doing?”
She peeks out of her left eye before closing it again. “Shh. I’m working.”
The hairs raise on my arms, and the rumors of the town whisper in the back of my mind.
She’s a witch.
Hexing everyone she meets.
Panic makes my throat swell.
“Stop it,” I demand.
She opens her eyes and walks close, inspecting me from head to toe. “Did it work?”
“Did what work, you infuriating woman?” “Do you feel any different?” she presses.
I’m lurching forward and gripping her arms tightly before I can stop myself. “You cast a spell on me?”
She laughs, throwing her head back, molding her body to me from her chest to her hips.
“Jesus Christ,” she says. “You’re just as bad as the rest of the town. Word of advice, Father. Don’t let superstition rule your life. It might end up killing you.”
Scowling, I release her, stepping back and running a hand through my already disheveled hair. “Do not curse in my presence.” “I’ll do what I want,” she bites back.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes, the temper
I’ve dealt with my entire life bleating against my insides like a battering ram. When I open them again, I see hurt flash across Amaya’s face.
And seeing the pain there, even as fleeting as it is, drains away the anger until it’s barely there, whispering in the background.
My chest pulls and twists, my heart feeling as though it’s splitting right down the middle, and it throbs so intensely my hand reaches up to rub at the ache.
I don’t like hurting her.
My brows furrow as I come to terms with this new sensation. With this…power she has over me, stronger than what I had even known she possessed.
Running a hand through my hair, I blow out a breath, my eyes flicking between hers, searching for…something.
I reach out and grip the nape of her neck, pulling her even closer against me, her head tilting up and her mouth opening on a gasp. Fire burns from where we touch, my insides being incinerated by whatever this is between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Her gaze widens, and I rest my forehead against hers, my jaw clenching as I try— and fail— to keep my emotions in check.
“Do you hear me, Amaya Paquette? I am sorry for what I said. For hurting you.”
“Did you mean it?” she whispers, her eyes pinching shut.
“In the moment? I lashed out to cause you pain, to keep you away. To try and make sense of whatever this is that you make me feel.” I swallow heavily, my mouth going dry. “Because this? This is impossible. We are impossible.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks down, breaking away from my hold and pulling at the hem of her skirt.
I want to grab her again, to feel her under my hands, to tell her that watching her with Parker makes me sick, but instead, I find resolution within myself.
I’ve hurt her enough. The buck stops here. I cannot kill her, I’m more sure of that now than ever, but I can ease our suffering. I could leave Festivalé.
“If you’d like to bring normal clothes to change into once you’re here, I won’t tell,” I say, walking away until there’s ample space between us.
Her head snaps up, surprise clear on her face. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
I grit my teeth and nod.
“So what do we do now?” she asks, looking around.
“Well, I’m supposed to be teaching you, petite pécheresse. But I find that doesn’t interest me much. I’d rather learn about you instead. Tell me about your mother.”
