Crossed (Never After, #5)

by Emily McIntire

Our eyes meet and an unhinged possessiveness pounds through me. I don’t understand it, but I can’t control it, and although it doesn’t make sense, I have to bat away the voice blaring in my ears, telling me to mutilate every single person who has their beady eyes on her. They don’t deserve to look at her.

God forgive me, I can’t. I’m after her just as quickly as she left, unable to think past the pulsing need to be closer. I’m a simple man who’s been reduced to his base instincts to hunt, capture, keep. I want to hear her voice. Smell her skin. Paint my sickness on her soul.

It would be so easy to waltz over, drop her to her knees, and slide my thick cock down her tight little throat.

“Hello, petite pécheresse,”

“Eyes on me,”

I want to lash out, to say that anyone seeing her body other than me will only ensure their death. But that would be ridiculous, because the thought itself is ridiculous, so I push back the words.

He leans in and whispers something in her ear, and she grins before nodding, the fake red hair whispering against the small of her back, making me jealous of synthetic strands.

I expect a handshake, but he brings it up to his mouth, skimming his lips over the back.

“God surely has me in His favor.”

“Stalking me, Father?”

“What are you doing here anyway?”

“I thought you already knew?”

“I’m stalking you, petite pécheresse.”

I smile because it’s always her keeping me awake, whether she’s here or not.

“I’m always available for you, no matter the time.”

Come back here. Let me taste you. Touch you. End you.

“It’s better if we don’t touch.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

He shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as her, let alone touch her. And just because I can’t have her doesn’t mean anyone else can.

My other hand, still tangled in her hair, pulls sharply, making her back bow against me, and I swear I could die right now and burn in hell forever as long as I kept the memory of feeling her come undone beneath my hands.

My heart— the traitorous bitch— flutters when our eyes lock.

he smirks, the bastard, and stands up.

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 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.

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

“I know every single inch of you, petite pécheresse, as if you were painted by my hands.”

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.

It’s like he said…we’re impossible. Whatever this is will bring nothing but pain. Friends.

I got to replace the random man’s face with his, reveling in the satisfaction of broken bones while I snapped every finger for touching what should have been mine. For thinking he could have her. Hurt her. Touch her.

But the power behind my prayers is weak when she is near. She’s consumed me wholly. My sickness grows strong in her presence, until I never wish to feel well again.

Nothing good can come from this, but I’m so far beyond the point of holding myself back. And if this is our last moment together, I’m going down in flames. He is merciful.

I have never known greater torture than staying rooted in my place, knowing I could have her if only

“Good girl.”

“Eyes on me, mon trésor.”

“Tu es la mienne, au cours de toutes nos vies,”

“Si seulement tu savais quel est mon amour pour toi. You consume me, Amaya. Break apart my faith with the fire of a thousand suns and dominate every nightmare until all I dream is you.”

If she is a succubus, then seduce me. If she is my devil, then I will gladly burn.

“It wouldn’t be a lie. I’ve been everywhere you are. Watching you. Aching for you. Killing for you.”

“Tell me I can have you,” he murmurs against me. “Tell me that you’re mine.”

“Fuck me till it hurts, Cade. Please.”

“I’m not going to fuck you, Amaya.”

“I’m going to love you. Because loving you hurts so much more.”

“I would kill a thousand men if it made sure you were mine.”

Her body trembles and my lungs cramp as I wait for what she says, terrified that she’ll leave and condemn me to a life without her. Or ask me to repent, replacing His expectations with hers. I’d do it for her. I’d do anything for her.

“Every time you hurt yourself, you hurt me too,” I whisper. “Please stop hurting me.”

My own heart is pounding, and although it’s certainly not the appropriate time for it, I’m hard as a rock. She was a vision in her violence, a fallen angel seeking vengeance for being wronged. She is a masterpiece, and she is mine.

“Sister…” I add, right before I walk out of the door. “If something happens to her while I’m gone, I will make the devil look like a saint.”

“She may be your wife, but she is my soul,” I whisper against his ear. “And I will cut you up piece by piece and burn your empire until it’s soot, just so I can watch her be queen of the ashes.”

She is my Bible. My scripture. My religion.