Chapter 11 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Icome to in an unfamiliar room, swathed in thick blankets and laid before a crackling fire.
I am sweating yet somehow cold, and my gaze scrolls, slow and leaden, before it lands on flames burning in a large stone hearth. The fire crackles, casting the room in a soft, amber glow.
Where am I? And how did I get here?
I wiggle in the cocoon of blankets tucked around me, but I don't move, not really. I'm too heavy, and every breath presses more weight against my chest.
Burning wood mingles with the faint musk of aged paper, and it grounds me in the present as I turn my head and blink up at the ceiling. I comb through fragments of memories.
A phone call. A dark chamber. Class.
No, everything's turned around. I think I got it in the wrong order.
A dark chamber, class, and then a phone call.
A nagging feeling tells me that's not right, either.
Slowly, I look around the room again, trying to get my bearings.
It's not without effort. From my toes to the crown of my head, everything hurts.
Even lifting my gaze is a struggle as I cock my head and zero in on biblical works adorning the far wall.
An illustrated manuscript of the Lord's Prayer hangs beside oil paintings of liturgical scenes—Adam and Eve walking through the Garden of Eden, Abraham poised over his sacrificial son with the blade raised, and Moses in front of the Burning Bush.
The oil colors gleam beneath the firelight, alive and vibrant one moment and dark and dreary the next.
I look past them, spotting a massive mahogany desk dominating one corner of the room.
Its surface is littered with trinkets: a brass crucifix, an Orthodox prayer rope, black feathers bound with twine, and a collection of leather-bound tomes with spines cracking with age.
My gaze flits across the titles, landing on the Bhagavad Gita nestled beside the Torah.
"Avalynne," a voice murmurs behind me, and I startle toward the sound to find Father Ezra smiling kindly at me.
He sits in a winged leatherback chair, the flickering firelight caressing the high curve of his cheekbones and the soft waves of his dark hair. His caramel-colored eyes hold nothing but kindness as they lock onto mine, a smile tugging at his lips. He looks relieved.
"There you are," he says in that voice like warm honey.
My mind trips over itself, struggling to piece together what brought me here.
A phone call. A dark chamber. Class.
No, again, that's not right. There was class first, then calling Grandpapa, and then … oh God.
I stiffen and Father frowns as I remember the cold, dark water closing over my head and the weight of the nuns' hands pinning me down. I jolt upright, the movement wresting a startled gasp from my chest. Pain detonates in sharp throbs, and I cough violently, the tang of copper stinging my tongue.
"Why am I here?" I ask him, my voice threadbare.
"I'm told you fainted." His smile fades as he tips forward in his chair. "You were brought here to recover."
I cough again, more violently this time, and Father immediately rises to his feet. He crosses the room with deliberate steps to kneel beside me.
I double over, wheezing as jabs of pain spear my chest.
Father Ezra's hand comes to rest on my back as he gently massages between my shoulder blades.
I continue to cough.
"Easy." His tone is low and soothing as I struggle for breath. "Just breathe, Avalynne."
The rhythm of his hand gradually steadies me, and when my wheezing fit finally subsides, he rises again, walks to the small table beside his chair, and returns to me with a steaming mug. He kneels once again, holding it out to me.
"Drink," he instructs.
My cool fingers brush against his as I take hold of the mug. He doesn't release it, though. Instead, he keeps his hands against mine, helping me lift the cup to my lips.
Steam rises in thin wisps between us, carrying the scent of honey and herbs, and I inhale deeply before taking a cautious sip. The tea is warm, and heat blooms in my middle as the liquid slips down my throat, chasing away my lingering chill.
"Good," he tells me softly.
Only when he's satisfied that I can hold the mug on my own does he finally release it. I cradle the drink against my chest and let it warm me as I look at him.
I don't think we've ever been this close before. I spot the thin laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the fading creases lining his black dress pants, and the stark white of the collar against his throat.
I shouldn't stare, but I can't seem to stop myself.
Firelight dances across his face, highlighting the faint shadow of stubble that dusts his jaw.
The man is beautiful—there's no denying it, but it's more than just that. There's the promise of safety and warmth in the way he looks at me.
"Rest," he tells me, and for a moment, I think I see his gaze dip to my mouth. "No harm will come to you again, Avalynne."
There's something in his tone—a quiet conviction that makes me want to believe him.
My whole body aches. Yet here, swaddled in what must be his office, I feel untouchable. I shouldn't trust the feeling, and yet …
I hand him the mug and lie back down, pulling the blankets around me. Exhaustion tugs at the edges of my awareness, but as I begin to slip away, I think of the man beside me.
Of the warmth of his large hands.
And how his voice soothes and ignites at once.
"Avalynne," he whispers, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a prayer.
As sleep pulls me under, it isn't the warmth of the fire or the softness of the blankets that comfort me.
It's him.
And that, I can't help but think, is a dangerous thing.