Chapter 16 Xade
XADE
It's been less than twenty-four hours since Avalynne blasted through every wall I've carefully constructed between us, leaving my office and my sanity in ruins. Her nightgown still hangs on my coat rack. Her cup of coffee sits cold and discarded on my desk. In one night, she destroyed everything.
I haven't eaten since Ezra sent her to her new chambers yesterday.
I haven't slept.
My every waking moment has been consumed with thoughts of her, the girl I can never have.
I enter the chapel, gulping down air laden with the stench of melted candle wax.
The aroma permeates everywhere. It latches onto my clothes and trails after me with every step.
Errant rays of sun pierce the towering stained-glass windows on either side of the pews, tinting the specks of dust that float lazily in the air in reds, greens, and blues.
My footsteps reverberate off the rough-hewn walls, and the sound ricochets around the open space, bouncing off high-vaulted ceilings and shooting back at me.
It's like God itself is mocking my torment.
I hate it here.
Always have. Always will.
This godforsaken place is a fucking tomb when it's empty, but I need to find Ezra, so here I am, suffering the Christian sacrosanct.
"Ezra?" I call, my voice rising to the ribbed ceiling and returning to my ears distorted and haunting.
I imagine God's laughing at me right about now. Of course, he would, though. I'm in his precious palace, seeking help from an idealistic priest like I'm not an adult fully in control of my own actions.
Probably because around her, I don't feel in control at all.
Not after yesterday in my office when I nearly claimed her lips and whatever else she'd give me.
I'm desperate for a distraction. Impatiently, I pace back and forth across the stone floor of the cathedral.
Each click of my boots taunts me in a persistent metronome.
My fingers rake through my hair, and I tug at the tangled strands as though if I yank hard enough, I'll free myself from the frustration fermenting inside of me, growing stronger by the second.
"This is ridiculous," I grumble to the emptiness.
I need to find a way to get the girl out of my head.
Even unspoken, though, the words are hollow.
Absent retrograde amnesia, I know I'm not going to forget Avalynne Immorier. She's a disease, turning my cells one-by-one against each other until I'm no longer me anymore. I'm just the corpse left behind after what she's done to me.
It's getting worse, my growing obsession. She haunts my dreams and consumes my waking thoughts. Whenever I close my eyes, her image is etched into the darkness, refusing to let me go.
Last night, I dreamt of her in her thin, white nightdress.
Her hair hung past her shoulders in strands of strawberries painted with gold.
Her pale skin flushed red, hiding her freckles.
And she just stood there, blinking at me with those guileless blue eyes.
She's not the scared little lamb I thought I met the night I arrived here. No, with each passing day, I realize that she's a wolf in lamb's clothing, instead. I don't want to be Little Red Riding Hood about to be gobbled up.
Fuck.
I hurry between the pews, past the altar, and around the massive organ with tall gold pipes that vanish into the dim recesses of the ceiling.
Then I open the door to the rectory and venture farther into the building, all the way to Ezra's private chambers at the back.
I call his name twice more as I look for him.
It does little good, though. I find his office as empty as the rest of the chapel.
I walk over to his desk and yank open the top drawer, the movement jerky with frustration.
The drawer sticks momentarily before giving way with a groan, and my fingers fumble through the sparse contents until I find a blank piece of stationery.
Slapping it onto his desk, I grab a pen from his pencil holder.
The motion is so quick that I topple the rest of the pens from the cup, sending them clattering unceremoniously to the floor.
I scrawl my words across the paper.
Ezra — We need to talk. It's important.
The words are legible, but barely. I leave the note dead center of his desk, ensuring it's impossible to miss.
Of course, the asshole would disappear when I need him most.
I leave the chapel quickly and stride outside and back into the convent, walking faster with each passing second.
The girl's not my problem, and there are a thousand reasons to not care about her.
She's too young for one. Her allegiance lies with her grandfather for another.
And, most importantly, she's the direct descendant of him, the man responsible for my misery.
So why do I care so much about her suffering?
Since when do I care about anything other than the mission and doing what is necessary to see it through?
"Fuck," I curse, my heart climbing into my throat as I stop walking and lean against an ancient wall.
My head throbs with the weight of my thoughts. It hits me like a blow, the realization of why I hate this feeling so much. It's my brother all over again. The helplessness, the rage, the desperate need to protect someone. It pisses me off even more.
Avalynne's words, her presence, everything about her consumes me. She's infuriatingly stubborn and quick with a retort. She says things that make me care, even when I don't want to, and she's a constant, festering pain in my ass.
I push away from the wall, my frustration boiling over.
I need to figure out a way to manage these feelings before they devour me whole or, worse yet, I do something stupid, like kiss her smartass mouth.
I adjust my jacket, the fabric heavy and constricting, and reach into the inner pocket to pull out my flask.
The cool metal starkly contrasts my scalding frustration.
I unscrew the cap with a quick, practiced twist and take a long swig.
The bourbon slides down my throat like liquid fire, but the burn is a welcome distraction, if only for a moment.
I keep walking toward the classroom. I take another swig and then another until oops … the flask is empty. When I arrive at the classroom, I walk inside, catching the faint scent of pure sugar, sweet and innocent.
Avalynne.
The smell sends a jolt of electric need through me, and I draw in a deep breath.
I cannot let her get to me like this. I need to keep my distance.
I repeat what I already know. She's too young, too innocent, too … forbidden.
As I walk to my desk, I catch a glimpse of her, all prim and proper, covered head-to-toe by the apostate's uniform, and I feel my resolve weakening like ice melting under the summer sun. I'm going to get struck down over my thoughts of her, but God knows there are worse things at Saint Margaret's.
Despite my better judgment, I glance over at her again, finding her studiously doing her work, writing in her notebook.
I can't even see her face, yet seeing her in a habit threatens to give me a complex. It doesn't help that she's gnawing away at my resolve like it's the pencil in her mouth.
I fall sloppily into my seat at the front of the room, trying to sober myself. It's no use, though. I probably shouldn't have just killed a pint of 110-proof liquor on an empty stomach.
Dumbass.
I need to focus on anything else, but I fail spectacularly.
I imagine what it would be like to run my fingers through her hair, to tug it backward and expose the delicate line of her throat to my lips.
I think about that glorious body they have hidden beneath her habit and remember how water clung to the fabric of her nightgown, pulling it across her breasts and exposing her dark nipples.
I remember how the glow of the fire in my office painted her porcelain skin in honeyed light.
I hid her body beneath a loose shirt and sweatpants, but she even made that look delicious.
Then she had the audacity to argue that ebooks are better than printed paper.
She fights me at every turn and called me an old man.
Twenty-nine years old and already called old.
All I could think in that moment was I'll show her old when I rip that habit off her and fuck her over my desk.
Goddammit.
I need more students in this class. I crave distractions like a starving man craves sustenance. I have reached for words and tried to find a coping mechanism. Nothing works. I feel like I'm trapped in quicksand, slowly sinking beneath the surface. I'm pining over a woman I can never have.
She's too young.
Too innocent.
Too forbidden.
Maybe if I remind myself of it enough, I'll drill it into my obstinate skull.
I don't get involved with students. And certainly not ones I'm stuck with for hours each day.
It's stupid and messy, and I am neither.
I look over at her again, finding her still biting her pencil.
I want to be that pencil.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I watch her openly, but she's so engrossed in whatever she's doing, she has no idea. She doesn't even look up as I stare. Bourbon fizzes through my veins. I'd hoped it would muddy my thoughts of her. It didn't, though. If anything, it made them worse.
I want to feel the give of her skin beneath me.
And watch the way her lips part when I'm inside her.
FUCK!
I stand and wordlessly leave the classroom. I feel her gaze lift to me, but I don't look back. If I do, I might do something stupid like finish yesterday's almost kiss. Instead, I keep walking until I reach my office and drown my sorrows in another glass.
I've downed two more and cursed my existence by the time Ezra arrives at my door. He strides inside the room, eyeing the decanter of bourbon and the nearly empty glass on my desk with a frown.
"I got your note," he says, his tone even as he takes the seat across from me. Even his priest's collar annoys me today, and I briefly wonder if I could strangle him with it.
"What's going on?" he asks.
My fingers run the rim of my glass, and I look down at it and then at him.
"The girl," I say, knocking back the remainder of my drink in one swallow. "She's infuriating, causing distractions, making it impossible to concentrate."
Ezra's honeyed eyes pierce through me, and I don't give a shit if he sees through my excuses.
"Causing distractions?" His gaze doesn't waver. "And how exactly is she doing that?"
"She's everywhere," I grumble. "Her presence, her scent, the way she looks at me. Find someone else, Ezra."
He raises an eyebrow, his expression perfectly empty. "You know I can't do that."
I groan. "Put me out of my misery then."
"Are you hearing yourself? She's just a girl, Xade. A student at that." He cocks his head at me. "You feel something toward her, don't you?" He curses in a very un-Ezra like manner. "She's Marcus Immorier's granddaughter. Need I remind you of why you are here?"
"Because God hates me," I snicker.
Ezra scoffs. "Because I need your help. Because we couldn't do what we do without you." He eyes the glass pointedly. "I think you've had enough, old friend."
I look away, unable to meet his eyes. "What am I supposed to do then? I can't keep going like this."
He sighs, his demeanor softening slightly.
"Look, I'll arrange for some of the sisters to join your class.
Give them something to occupy the time—they'd enjoy reading the Vulgate Bible in the traditional Latin form—but you need to get a grip, man.
Sleep it off. Clear your head. Then go to the mainland and find someone for a night or two.
This is, what, your longest period of abstinence in years? "
He chuckles at my misery.
"How do you do it?" I gripe.
"Well, it helps not being confined in a room with a beautiful girl every day," he answers before he presses his hands to his knees and stands. "You good?"
Fucking no.
"Sure," I say, disgusted with myself.
As he closes the door behind him, I take another swig, directly from the decanter this time. The burn does little to chase away the dread bubbling in my middle though.
I sit there, my mind returning to the girl I can never have. I feel like Tantalus, forever cursed to spend eternity in the underworld reaching for the unattainable. The comparison makes me scoff at my own sad fate.
I have to find a way to extinguish my ever-growing obsession with Avalynne Immorier before it consumes me entirely.
I must keep my distance from her, no matter the cost. This capricious infatuation has gone on far too long, and there's only one way it can end—with one of us in ruins.
Her destiny was stitched into the stars the moment she took her first breath, and mine was forged in the fire of death and grief.
Our fates don't just diverge. They repel.
Still, as my fingers find the rim of my empty glass once again, I can't help but think we are more than our fates. We are matter and antimatter, inexorably drawn together yet destined to annihilate each other.