Crossed: Chapter 48

“CALM DOWN, PETITE PÉCHERESSE,” I WHISPER IN her ear.

I don’t even think she’s aware that she’s trembling in my arms.

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.

“Cade,” she murmurs, her eyes wide and unseeing. She’s covered in blood, and the only reason I haven’t peeled her fingers off the metal dispenser in her hands is because I don’t want her to leave any evidence. I was lucky to beat Parker into the bathrooms in the first place.

“Amaya,” I say, rushing us out the back entrance and into the parking lot.

She lets out a sob and curls farther into my arms, and while I want to sit down and rock her, soothe whatever is sitting so heavy on her soul, there isn’t time for that now.

There’s a very good chance she just murdered Florence Gammond, and I need to get her away so she doesn’t end up in jail.

“Amaya,” I repeat. “Tell me where Quin is.”

“Quin?” She shakes her head, sniffling. “He’s fine. He-he’s safe. With Dalia.”

“You’re sure?”

She hesitates but then nods. “Yes, I saw her with him.”

I nod because that’s all I need to know. Once I get her somewhere safe, I can come back for him.

We reach my car and I fling open the passenger door, shoving her inside and grabbing the seat belt before clicking it into place. I brush the hair from her face and cup her jaw. She stares down at the blood covering her hands, that piece of metal still gripped tight.

“Listen to me. I’m taking you away from here, do you understand? Do you trust me?”

She snaps her gaze up, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She nods, leaning forward and pressing her lips against mine.

I close my eyes and force myself to break away because as much as I want to sink into her kiss, there isn’t time.

Immediately I know where I plan to take her, and as soon as I make sure she’s safe and secure, I’m around to the driver’s side and peeling out of the parking lot to the one place I know she’ll be hidden.

Where she can be safe until I figure out what the hell is going on.

An hour later and we’re high in the Green Mountains. Amaya hasn’t said a single word on the drive up; she just sits and stares blankly at the empty trees, occasionally staring down at her hands and then sighing before looking back out the window.

I wish I could say I relate to what she’s feeling, but I’m not sure I can. The truth is I felt no remorse the first time I took a life. My guilt has always centered around the lack of what I should be feeling, and while I don’t know what’s going through her head, I can only assume she’s at least somewhat affected by what she’s done.

Then again, she is my other half, and I had never imagined her capable of smashing someone’s head in the way I just watched her do.

We pull up to the monastery and I throw the car in park, getting out and opening her door, cupping her cheek again to make sure she’s still with me.

She looks up, giving me a small smile. “I’m not sorry for hurting her,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “It felt good.”

“Then you are made for me in more ways than one, petite pécheresse.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s go clean up.”

She lets me unbuckle her from the seat and pull her from the car, and she takes in a deep breath once she’s standing, glancing around. “This is beautiful. Where are we?”

“Somewhere no one knows.” I grab her hand in mine and lead her to the front door, my stomach tangling in knots at the thought of leaving her here with Sister Genevieve, but I know that until I can grab Quinten and figure out a plan, this is where she’ll be the safest.

I don’t knock on the front door, choosing to walk right in, and when I don’t see Sister Genevieve in the front sanctuary or living room, I lead Amaya up the stairs and into one of the empty bedrooms on the left.

She looks around at the space but doesn’t say a word, just follows me into the bathroom suite. The blood has started to dry on her hands, but bits have flaked off onto mine from where we were touching, and I turn on the sink, then prop my hip on the corner and reach out to grasp the metal dispenser that’s still tucked away in her left hand. Slowly, I pry her fingers off one by one until it drops, clunking loudly when it hits the ground.

I lean forward, grabbing her hips and lifting her onto the edge of the counter, then I step between her legs, grabbing a washcloth that’s hanging from the wall and letting it dampen beneath the sink. Then I lean in and start washing away her sins.

Slowly. Methodically.

One finger clean and I bend down and press a kiss to the knuckle, then repeat it with every one after. Once her hands are done, I move up her arms, wiping away any remnants of red, marveling at the way she sits still and silent, letting me take care of her. The way I’ll always take care of her.

The water runs red, but her skin is soaked clean, and when I’m done, I grip her chin in my hand and drag her mouth to mine for a kiss. Her body relaxes and she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me farther into her. My cock hardens and I press myself to her center, grinding against her core.

Her body jerks, but not in pleasure, and she sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth.

I pull back, frowning.

She averts her eyes, twisting her head away.

I grab her cheek and bring her vision back. “Look at me.”

She lifts her gaze back to mine, and I see the world in her eyes. Her longing, her love, her suffering.

Her shame.

My chest burns, my monster snapping in its cage, desperate to be released. I exhale sharply through my nose, trying to control my reaction, knowing she needs me to be calm and controlled.

“Are you in pain, mon trésor?” I ask carefully.

“A little.” She sucks on her lips and looks away again. “It doesn’t matter.”

I slam my hand on the wall next to us and press against her, my hand gripping her face until her eyes are wide and open, staring directly into mine. “You are the only thing that matters, do you understand me?”

Her breathing stutters, like she’s trying to keep from crying out, and then she breaks, a sob ripping from her mouth as she collapses into my hold. “I didn’t want to do it, Cade. I— ”

I palm the back of her head and hug her against my chest, letting her tears stain my shirt. “Shh, it’s okay,” I soothe. “Everything will be okay.”

We stay like that for a long while, until her sobs quiet into whimpers and her stuttered explanations turn into long, grief- filled confessions. My rage pounds in my ears, but I get the gist of what she’s saying.

Parker. Virginity. Rape. Forced marriage. Rape.

I hold her until she falls asleep in my arms, and then I move her to the bed, tucking her in and pressing a kiss to her lips, whispering my assurances that I’ll be back.

Then I close the door behind me and head downstairs into the kitchen where Sister Genevieve is sitting at the table and sipping a cup of tea.

“I saw your car, figured you’d be down here eventually to explain.” She grins. “Is it weird I’ve missed you?”

The first aid kit is out and next to her, clearly having assumed I was here to be sutured up again.

I shake my head, uncomfortable with what she’s just said. “I have a friend here. She needs a safe space to stay. Can I trust you to take care of her?”

Sister Genevieve bobs her head, sipping from her cup. “Of course.”

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” I say. Unease tightens my stomach, not wanting to leave Amaya here at all. But I need to find Quinten.

And now I need to find Parker as well.

“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.”