Crossed (Never After, #5)

by Emily McIntire

When I had seen you twice, I wanted to see you a thousand times, I wanted to see you always. Then— how stop myself on that slope of hell?— then I no longer belonged to myself. — Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre- Dame

The man in me wants to step away, but the monster calls her closer.

“Le diable est à l’intérieur de toi,”

“Don’t worry, my child,” I continue. “I’ve come to help.” And then I press down, applying pressure to her delicate windpipe.

My fingertips touch her forehead, then her lower chest, before creeping across each shoulder in the sign of the cross. “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” I murmur.

“There’s a monster in you, child. And God wants me to beat it out.”

“I am Monsieur Frédéric. But you may call me Father Cade.”

“Do you speak English, Mr. Frédéric?” I quirk a brow. “Depends on if there’s anyone worth speaking to, Monsieur Errien.”

“Where did you say you were from again originally?” he finally asks. “I didn’t.” “And how long have you been a priest?” “Long enough.”

“No need for formalities, Parker.” I smile. “Please, call me Father.”

It’s time to transform from Amaya to Esmeralda

If being here is sinful, then this woman is sin, wrapped in a fiery bow.

Something scratches at the back of my brain while I watch her. A small, timid voice, screaming for me to look away. To remember everything I’ve promised.

But temptation is a devastating mistress. It’s not my fault, I remind myself. I’m only human. And she is…all- consuming. Like hellfire.

In those moments, I’m a god.

I don’t feel remorse for the murders. I feel guilt that God may not approve.

I’ve always prided myself on being a logical and steady man, but this is far from logic.

Because even now, she’s already creeping back in. This stranger. Ma petite pécheresse. My little sinner.

We moved around a lot, but no matter where we went, religion never seemed to change. Always the same stringent rules and regulations. Do this. Don’t do that. He is forgiving, yet He will smite you down.

I like the way her name feels rolling off my tongue, like a ripe berry that bursts on my taste buds, the perfect mixture of sugar and bite.

“Her mom called her a witch. Said she hexed the town.”

I just need to kill Amaya, that’s all. As long as she’s around, she’ll be a distraction, and I’ve never needed focus and clarity more than I do right now.

God, how embarrassing to react this way to a freaking priest.

“Amaya,” I bark. My voice is loud and gravelly, my eyes flickering between the two of them. “My door is always open if you need it.”

“Amaya, we meet again?” He grins. “God surely has me in His favor.”

“Stalking me, Father?” He chuckles, his gaze looking up and down the empty hallway of the school before he leans in and lowers his voice. “And what if I am?”

“It’s probably a waste of your time. I don’t live an interesting life.” “Non, ridicule.” His voice curls around the French ...

“What will it take to see you in my church?” I snort, shaking my head as a small smile plays on my face. “A miracle.”

But here he is again, answering the door in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, looking nothing like a priest and everything like a statue made by the gods.

“You’re much too beautiful to look so sad, Amaya.”

“You have to say things like that because you’re a priest.”

“I shouldn’t say that because I’m your priest.”

“Yeah, I’m…I’m really sorry I bothered you, Father.” I use his title to remind myself of who he is. Of what he is. “Cade,” he replies sharply. “What?” He sighs, running a hand through his mussed-up hair. “When it’s just the two of us, you can call me Cade.”

“Finish this first and then dinner,” he says. “Deal.” I nod. I don’t know what “this” is, but he loves to barter, and usually I allow the compromises, wanting him to have a sense of self- agency.

“Oh,” Dalia says. “Yeah, oh. And fuck you, Dal, for assuming.”

But now, I fear, I am the devil.

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.

“You”— I point my finger at her—“are nothing more than a temptress, a witch sent to lead me astray. Just like your mother said.”

And then she laughs. As though any of this is funny.

“You’re a curse. One that will destroy everything I’ve worked for.”

“I am not Cade. I am Father Cade Frédéric. The priest of Festivalé. And you, Amaya Paquette, are worse than a whore,”

“You are the devil, and I want you out of my sight.”

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.

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

You’re a sinner, Amaya.” “Sinning is subjective,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “It is not,” he snaps back.

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

“And in your painting…” I murmur. “Am I a whore? Or am I a witch?”

I move, the bush’s leaves jostling when I do. She snaps her head up, and my heart falters. Because she looks directly into my eyes.

The priest sent to save Festivalé, sinning just for me. The witch everybody loves to hate.