Chapter 12 Xade
XADE
The girl is getting under my skin, and I don't like it. Two weeks have passed since Reverend Mother nearly drowned her in the basement, but my brain remembers that damned day like it was yesterday.
I need her … gone, away, beneath me.
What the fuck.
I glimpse her from across the room. Today, she's lost in some science experiment, surrounded by glass beakers and chemicals, part of a kit she required for her studies.
I should probably care that she might burn the entire goddamn convent to the ground with whatever she's doing, but on second thought, it might be best if she did.
For both of us.
Her hands move with precision, her delicate fingers gliding carefully across the instruments.
It doesn't matter what she's doing now, though.
When I look at her, all I can see is her in that basement, fucking drowning.
Memories of the damn girl lodge like splinters I can't remove in my brain, festering and digging deeper with every passing hour.
Ezra would say to give it time—that this too will pass—but he didn't see what they did to her. He only saw the aftermath—when I panicked, my heart thrashing against my ribs and brought her unconscious body to the rectory.
They should have never baptized her.
They could never cleanse something so pure.
If given the choice, I would eagerly choose to feel nothing for the girl. It would be easier, but her image is branded into my flesh. I reach for words, and one comes to mind.
Word—control.
Part of speech—noun.
Origin—late fourteenth century.
Derived from the medieval Latin contrarotulus, meaning counter-roll.
For what has to be the thousandth time today, I try to distract myself.
I grab my phone, my gaze finding a provocative text from Dean Grisham waiting for me.
She's actually dressed, probably afraid I'll leak the photo and get her fired, but she's holding a book close to her chest, the lace of her camisole just visible over the edge.
I leave her on read, and a minute later, my phone dings with a thinly veiled excuse about sending the picture to the wrong number.
It's almost laughable. To be fair, the dean is no doubt a beautiful woman, but right now, the head of Prodigum University might as well be a trash bag compared to the girl across from me.
I delete both text messages and return my gaze to Avalynne, immediately regretting it.
Images detonate, more memories I've tried to drown beneath the bottle.
The feel of the girl, limp and cold in my arms, her head drooping back like she was a broken doll.
The blue tinge of her lips as I laid her on the ground and silently begged her to breathe.
Water dripping from her wilted body and soaking my dress shirt.
I thought she'd wake when I dressed her on the first floor, but she just slept, her breathing attenuated and shallow.
By now, I should have moved on, returning my focus to all the shit I need to do at my real job a thousand miles away from here. Instead, I down a fifth of whiskey on most nights and tell myself I don't care about my little troublemaker currently biting the end of her pencil.
I thought I was over this … this infernal infatuation. I thought my dick had finally listened to my brain and figured out that she's off-limits, but every time I see her, it's like I'm back beneath the convent again, watching a girl I shouldn't give two fucks about die in the name of saving others.
Exhaling through my nose, I make myself check my email and send off a few replies.
I agree to co-author an etymology textbook, one of the requirements of maintaining my tenure, and look over syllabuses for the courses my colleagues have taken over for me.
I approve them, though they're much too easy.
Still, I'm in no position to complain. I'm not on campus, but they are, teaching my classes.
To my dismay, the girl interrupts my moment of respite and starts humming to herself.
The sound catches my attention, a soft melody that haunts me like a ghost. I'm not even sure she knows she's doing it, and when I finally look up at her, she's got her ankles crossed, revealing just a flash of skin that does unholy things to me.
I should be ex-fucking-communicated from every religion for the thoughts I'm having.
Her in the nun's get-up on her back, me above her.
Her in only the veil and me behind her on all fours.
Her … what am I doing? What is wrong with me?
The girl's getting harder to ignore, and my usual coping mechanisms aren't working.
Sex is off the table, being I am at a convent and all, so booze it is, but I can only have so much liquor delivered in the weekly shipment from the mainland without Ezra growing concerned.
I've definitely maxed that out, too.
He's already asking questions.
I shouldn't worry myself with the girl!
Sure, the basement was awful, and Georgina is a goddamned nightmare, but it's nothing worse than what happens back at Prodigum University on All Hallows' Eve when all the entitled psychopaths come out to play.
I've dealt with worse. Hell, I was finally making progress, and it had been a bitch to make any progress at Prodigum. The wealthy protect everything at all costs—literally, they spare no expense.
Even worse, I know where the girl's loyalties lie. She calls her grandfather "Grandpapa," like a child who thought her grandfather hung the heavens. Maybe he did, in her world, or used to, at least.
I saw the pain etched across her features when she stole my phone and called him, only for him to show a glimpse of the cruel man he truly is.
She's so much more dangerous to the plan than anyone at Prodigum ever was.
She could topple the house of cards and cause it all to come crashing down in an instant.
And that can't happen.
Not until we put an end to it.
So, once again, I resolve to not think about her, though the truth is, I'm already losing the battle. She is sewn into the fabric of my thoughts, a thread that, once pulled, could unravel everything.
FUCK!
I press my hands to my temples, feeling the steady throb of a burgeoning headache.
I close my eyes, and the memories surge once more.
The basement, cold and damp, the air laden with fear and mildew.
The nuns, obscured by the shadows.
The water, glistening like liquid night.
And her, almost translucent in the dim light.
I can't forget the moment I thought she was gone—when her body went limp, and the panic that had been sputtering at the edges of my mind exploded into chaos.
I wanted to kill them.
I would have done it if I hadn't been so terrified she was dead.
I've done what I do best. I've pushed the emotions down, locked them away, and pretended they don't exist.
But the truth is, the girl's already won.
She's under my skin, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of her.
And, maybe, part of me doesn't want to.