Chapter 24 Xade
XADE
Early morning daylight needles my eyes as I approach the chapel, hoping to find Ezra alone.
My hopes are dashed, however, as I open the door and find him in between the pews, standing across from Reverend Mother Graves.
Their voices rise and fall with their argument, reverberating off the cathedral ceiling and crashing back to earth.
Of course, Georgina would be here. It's like she has a sixth sense for annoying the ever-living-fuck out of me lately, so yeah, why wouldn't she? I need to talk to my friend, and she's here. It's twisted fate.
I stride forward, trying to pick up their hushed conversation.
"Saint Margaret's is vital to our operations, Father!" she hisses as I continue closer before her gaze snaps to me. She gives me a tight-lipped smile that stretches across her teeth.
"I see you have company, Father Damienne. We will continue this later." She nods to me. "Mr. Thatcher."
"Georgina," I say, unamused.
She knows whatever she has to say in front of Ezra, she can say in front of me.
I won't be as polite, though, and she knows that, too.
Her subsequent departure is swift, her black robes sweeping the floor behind her as she leaves.
As the door closes on her exit, Ezra sighs deeply, pinching his eyes shut and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
I watch the door slowly shut behind her.
"What can I do for you, Xade?" he asks, his eyes opening again but his voice weary.
I will never forgive Georgina for taking decades off his life, even if she did save it.
"What was that about?" I ask, not taking his bait.
His expression darkens, and he sighs again. He's gone full-blown emo this morning. Well, for him, anyway. He's always so … calm.
I blink at him, waiting for his answer. We both know I'm not going to let it go.
"She's frustrated with our progress," he finally answers. "We are so close to having everything we need, but Immorier is breathing down her throat about his granddaughter, threatening to shut the doors. Everything is at stake if we lose …"
The harsh ring of my phone interrupts us, and I snatch it from my pocket to glance down at the screen. Marcus Immorier's dreadful name appears there as if Ezra had summoned him with his words. With a deep breath, I steel myself to talk to the piece of shit.
"Speaking of the devil," I grumble to Ezra before I answer the call, putting the elder Immorier on speakerphone. The guy huffs like a damn bull into the receiver, his impatience and dissatisfaction seeping through the speakers.
"What is this nonsense?" Immorier yells. It's so loud I have to pull the phone away even further. "A whole paper about language! What about business acuity? Accounting principles? Market expansion? Something useful!"
"Mr. Immorier," I say, grinding my teeth, "your granddaughter needs to be in an actual college, not trapped in a convent. You cannot expect …"
"I will expect whatever the hell I want!" he roars. "And Avalynne will stay at the convent my family paid for until I say so!"
Fuck.
"I'm doing my best with the framework I've been given," I state firmly. "You yourself approved the coursework."
I know it will never be enough, though. Avalynne's grandfather wants his version of perfection. Anything less is unacceptable, regardless of whether he always adjusts the goalposts.
"Push her harder!" he seethes. "This philosophical bullshit won't get her anywhere in the real world!
I want you with her every minute of every damn day!
I want you to know what she has for breakfast, what she is thinking, what she dreams about!
I want hourly fucking updates until you can show me you are competent to tutor my granddaughter. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Thatcher?"
"Crystal," I seethe.
He abruptly ends the call, and Ezra meets my eyes, frustration scoring his features.
"That sounded rough," he remarks with a frown. "We need to keep him happy."
"I know, I know," I placate. "I'll figure it out."
Nuns begin to enter the chapel, here for morning prayer or whatever they call it. I quickly make my exit. I'm in no mood for church this morning. Instead, I walk to my classroom, annoyed when I realize Reverend Mother has commandeered my other students today, leaving only Avalynne.
With me.
Alone.
Just like you want, you degenerate.
I bet Georgina would return my students if she knew all the things I wanted to do to Marcus Immorier's granddaughter.
I've tried to push her away.
I've literally put others between us.
Yet, she pervades my every thought.
I shouldn't care about her. I can't care. But I do.
Have I inversely Stockholmed myself?
Word—Stockholm.
Part of speech—who the hell cares.
Origin—a fucking psychiatrist.
Derived from why-in-the-fuck-can't-I-stop-thinking-about-her?!
I blink at my desk.
Fuck.
Today, our hours together pass slowly, and thankfully, Avalynne is silent for all of them, probably afraid I'll fail her again.
I'll never admit it—well, not to her—but I would have had her redo the paper anyway, with or without her asking.
I couldn't send that shit to her grandfather—though I guess I shouldn't have sent the new version either.
I only failed Avalynne because she didn't listen to instructions.
In fact, she literally did the opposite.
She made no argument whatsoever and just recited facts for fourteen fucking pages.
Fourteen well-written fucking pages, but still … I couldn't let that slide.
It was nice to crack her good girl shell yesterday, though, and see who she really is beneath the mask her grandfather makes her wear.
Underneath it, there's a girl with a sailor's mouth and a take-no-shit attitude.
I've seen her now. She called me an asshole and told me I needed to learn some manners.
My cock imprints against my zipper at the memory, and fuck me, if I don't want to unleash more of that girl and feel the way her claws carve my flesh when she's angry. Then I want to call her a good girl and make her insides purr.
Double fuck.
This is getting out of hand.
Still, I can't help myself. I surreptitiously glance across my desk at her, though I don't know why I bother. She's so engrossed in whatever she's doing that I'd have to shout her name to get her attention.
The room is filled with the muted glow of morning sunlight filtering through tall windows on the east wall. Flecks of dust dance lazily in the beams of light, drawing a spotlight around Avalynne. She chews on the end of her pencil, annoyingly oblivious to the effect she has on me.
Again, I want to be that pencil.
My cock swells even further as frustration bubbles up in my middle.
"Avalynne, can you please stop that?" The words come out harsher than I intend.
I immediately feel guilty.
Triple fuck.
She looks up, startled, her pencil clattering to her desk and her mouth dropping open.
"What?" she murmurs, blinking at me.
She looks back to her pencil, but the damage is done. I've interrupted her with my own turmoil.
I sigh, rubbing my temples and getting my shit together. "Let's talk. I need a distraction."
You need a brain transplant to get the girl out of your head.
She hesitates. "But I need to finish this—"
"Please, Avalynne," I interrupt, my voice softer now. "Humor me."
She nods, pushing her work aside. "All right. What do you want to talk about?"
"In your paper, you argued the English language had devolved, limiting its meaning," I say. "Now, make the alternate argument. Convince me that it has evolved positively."
Avalynne raises an eyebrow, intrigued by the challenge.
"Um, okay." She chews on her bottom lip this time.
Dammit. This is worse than the pencil.
"So, Old English was a Germanic-based language with a complex grammar structure, right?"
"Are you sure?" I raise an eyebrow. "Say it like you mean it."
"Yes, okay, well, um … Old English was a Germanic language with a complex grammar structure. It had multiple word forms to indicate gender, tense, and mood."
I stand, adjusting myself when she's looking down at her desk, and step closer.
"But Modern English is a natural progression," she continues. "Communication is more direct now. It's an evolution toward efficiency."
She leans forward in her seat, biting that damned bottom lip again.
"But what if it strips away our ability to express ourselves fully?" I challenge. "Simplification might make communication easier, but it also makes it shallower."
"What do you propose then?" she ponders softly as I arrive in front of her. "That we cling to the old ways, even as the world changes?"
"Old ways are for old men, right?" I say, raising an eyebrow.
"But some things are better left to old men," she answers, biting her damned lip again.
The world outside this room ceases to exist for a moment, and the weight of our words clogs the air. I see it easily. It's written all over her face. She wants me to kiss her, and God-be-damned, I want to fucking kiss her.
I step closer, peeking at her strawberry-blonde hair beneath her veil. I want to feel it slip between my fingers and tickle my palms.
"Avalynne—" I begin as the door opens, and one of the sisters enters the room.
I silently curse the intrusion.
"Ms. Immorier," the nun says, slightly bowing her head, "Reverend Mother has requested your presence at midday mass for All Saints Day."
At the nun's words, Avalynne stands abruptly. It's expected. Georgina, like God, waits for no one.
"I'll be right there." She turns to me, her gaze flicking to my face before she looks back at her desk, letting her good girl mask slip back into place. "Thank you for the discussion, Professor."
"Always." I step aside to let her leave. She walks by, poisoning the air with her sugary scent. As the door closes behind her, I inhale it deeply like a maniac, shutting my eyes as I do.
I nearly kissed her … again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I busy myself with bullshit until I return to my quarters.
I write two personal endorsements for my colleagues back at the university and respond to an email from the dean asking about my expected return from sabbatical.
No amount of paper pushing gets Avalynne out of my brain, though.
I'm just going through the motions, annoyed, half-hard, and hoping for a dreamless sleep away from the girl I can never have.
I choke down dinner, attempt to read a book, mindlessly scroll on my phone, and finally, step into the shower.
The hot water scalds my skin, but it's a welcome distraction from the blue-eyed girl engrossing every crease of my brain.
I close my eyes, letting the water cascade over me, trying to wash her away, but it's no use.
The hot shower water pummels against my skin, scalding and stinging as it hits. I sigh, the heat washing over my body as I lean forward, letting the water beat against my back. The more I try to push her away, the more she becomes an obsession.
My dick stiffens, ready to fuck at the thought of her, and I grasp my erection beneath the cascade of water, needing release from this damned torment. My cock throbs eagerly between my fist, demanding attention it doesn't deserve.
I imagine Avalynne standing before me, her hair painted dark to her naked form, as though she's just stepped out of the shower herself. In the fantasy, her eyes lock on mine, and there's a hint of mischief in them that makes my balls tighten.
She leans closer and kisses me—her lips soft—and I taste the sweetness of her breath. When she finally pulls away, her chest rises and falls rapidly as she stares at me, like the figment of my imagination is daring me to continue the forbidden fantasy.
To hell with it.
I reach for the soap bottle, squeezing it hard.
A warm lather coats my hand and slides easily across my dick as I dive head-first into the fantasy, imagining her dripping and begging beneath me.
My grip tightens around my shaft as my free hand scrapes across the slippery tile of the shower wall for support.
With every pump of my hips into my hand, dreams flash through my mind: those big blue eyes locked on mine as she begs for more; her sugary scent wafting from her hair as she arches back in ecstasy; the sound of slapping skin as our bodies collide.
With a moan, I move faster, my hips snapping with each upward thrust toward the spray of hot water. The sound of skin against skin fills the shower. Each stroke is faster, more desperate, and I can't get enough. My knees buckle ever so slightly as I climax, thick ropes of cum defacing the tiles.
I stand there for a long moment under the scalding water, watching as it washes away all traces of what just happened.
"Fuck," I curse because I am so royally screwed.