Chapter 25 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
There's a hammering outside my room, and I nearly kiss the floor as I shoot awake and clamber out of bed.
In the dark, I stumble across my room to the door, my fingers fumbling with the knob.
I swing it open to find Professor Thatcher leaning with one shoulder against the doorjamb, staring at me.
Grogginess clouds my brain, and I freeze, my stomach somersaulting at the sight of him.
What is going on?
What time is it?
Is this real?
The iron wall sconces cast eerie shadows across his features as I rub the last of my dreams from my eyes and blink at him again.
He looks back at me, one shoulder still against the doorjamb, his straight hair tucked behind his ears.
He blends into the shadows in a black, long-sleeve neoprene shirt that stretches tight against his pectorals and across the plank of his stomach.
My gaze flicks downward to his matching basketball shorts and running shoes, lingering on his toned legs.
My heart stutters. The sight is so … un-Professor-like.
I swallow, the sound loud in the silence, and fold my arms across my breasts, pressing the thin fabric of my nightshirt tight to my skin as air cools my bare thighs.
I feel … exposed.
Professor gifts me a half-tilt smile that makes him look unhinged in the faintly lit hall.
"Morning, sunshine. Time for PE," he says with a hefty dose of sarcasm.
"What?" I blink at him again.
Maybe if I look long enough, he'll fade into an unwanted mirage, and I can go back to sleep. It's too early for whatever this is.
"Physical. Education." He says the words thick and slow, turning them into molasses on his tongue.
"I know what PE is," I grumble, still trying to blink him away. "But why are you here?"
"Your grandfather has made his expectations very clear," he replies, his expression souring. "And if we are going to spend every waking minute together, then you're going with me on my run."
"What?" I rub my eyes again. "No. It's still dark out."
"Oh, goody, she thinks it's optional." The light from the hallway gleams across his teeth.
"A run?" I say with a yawn.
"Yes," he nods. "Remember, it's the thing you do on two legs and preferably not on all fours like you're in The Exorcist."
"I know what running is," I deadpan.
"Sure," he tilts his head at me. "Now, get ready ‘cause you've got six minutes to get your ass in gear or I'm failing you."
I look at him as another grin stretches across his lips and scares the rest of the sleep from me. Then I slam the door in his wicked, handsome face and scramble to get dressed, grabbing a fresh uniform from my wooden dresser.
I glare at the habit, cursing its cumbersome weight, before I throw it on, brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and rush out the door, finding Professor Thatcher now against the opposite wall.
"You're wearing that?" he asks, pushing off the wall and frowning at my habit. I realize I've forgotten my coif and veil, but he's already started down the hall. I rush after him.
"I don't exactly have an entire wardrobe here," I grumble, catching up.
He sighs before he frees a hairband from his wrist and offers it to me.
"Here," he says. "Take it."
"Don't you need it?" I ask him.
"Not as much as you."
"Thanks," I mutter, grabbing it and tying my hair up as he leads the way outside.
The sky is still dark as we start down the stone steps and arrive at the front of the convent. Dawn is barely a hint on the horizon, casting a soft amber glow across the grounds.
"What about morning prayer?" I ask Professor.
"What about it?" he remarks, his breath steaming in the cool air.
"Reverend Mother expects me there."
"I'll handle it," he tells me. "Georgina knows your grandfather's expectations come first."
He begins to stretch, grabbing one of his ankles and pulling his foot behind himself, toward his butt. I mirror his movements until, minutes later, we're finished.
"Let's start with sprints," he says.
"What?"
"Will you please stop saying that this morning?"
I frown at him as he pulls a stopwatch out of his pocket and points at a tree.
"Run to that. And go," he says, hitting a button on his stopwatch.
"What?"
The stopwatch beeps as he hits another button.
"I swear to God, Immorier, if you say what one more time, I'm going to make you speechless."
What does that mean, and why does it make me squirm beneath my habit?
Professor Thatcher points at the tree again.
"On three," he orders. "One, two, three."
I bolt forward, but my movements are clumsy, the fabric weighing me down and catching around my ankles, nearly tripping me. I'm barely to the tree when he orders me to go again, this time returning to where I was standing.
"Again," he says as I reach his side, already out of breath.
The fabric itches my arms, and it may be cool outside, but I'm burning up. I sprint back to the tree.
"Again," he calls, and I push off the ground, my arms pumping at my sides.
He orders me to sprint again … and again … and again until, many sprints later, he looks up from his stopwatch at me, unimpressed.
"What is your problem, Immorier?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow. "You run like a geriatric tortoise."
Sweat needles at my eyeballs, and I'm dying beneath my habit, each step feeling like I'm wading through quicksand. My lungs are heavy, and every breath burns my throat.
"Sorry, Professor," I wheeze as he watches me. "Can't," wheeze, "run," wheeze, "in a," extra-long wheeze, "habit."
Thatcher scoffs.
"Then take it off," he says.
"What?" I cough on the word.
He tsks. There's something dangerous in his gaze. "What did I tell you about that word?"
He looks off in the distance, clenching his fists at his sides, and then looks to me again.
"Take. It. Off." His dark gaze burrows into mine.
"Let me be clear." He steps forward, eating the space between us until his shadow darkens my skin.
"You could run around naked, waving at the sky, and screaming bloody murder about the Devil of Saint Margaret's, and I wouldn't care as long as you actually fucking run. "
"I've been running!"
"An octogenarian could run faster than you backward and blindfolded."
"I'd like to see you do better!"
He inches forward, even though a moment ago, I would have sworn he couldn't have gotten any closer. The hellfire in his eyes burns like black coal.
"Take it off, Immorier, before I take it off for you, and that wouldn't be good for either one of us."
The na?ve organ in my chest lurches into my throat before his fingers twitch. It's enough. I tear the hot, heavy shirt off me, the fabric catching on my skin before I ball it between my hands, leaving me only in my skirt and the ratty, sleeveless camisole I wear beneath it.
The morning air chills my bare arms, peppering them with goosebumps. His gaze scrolls over me, and something dark flitters in his eyes. I feel it as though it's a living, sentient being skittering across my flesh. He yanks the shirt out of my hands and tosses it onto a pile of dead leaves.
"Can you run in the rest of it?" he asks.
I begin raising the skirt, rolling the waistband over itself until it's no longer around my ankles.
"I think so," I say, when I'm finished.
"Good. Then sprint again. Now," he commands.
I take off, my feet punching into the hard ground, crunching gravel beneath my shoes.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhalation searing my lungs as the salt of the sea and morning dewdrops tickle my nose.
With my heart battering against my ribs, I reach the tree, and when I turn, Thatcher has joined me.
"Follow the path," he instructs, jogging ahead of me, his hands pumping at his sides and his back ramrod straight.
We run down a worn dirt trail that weaves around the convent as the rhythmic crashing of waves against rock grows louder. The pace Thatcher sets is tough but doable, and at least I can breathe now without the added weight of my habit shirt.
The trail takes us deeper into the forest, curving between tall, spindly trees.
Thatcher stays slightly ahead of me, slowing down when I slow and speeding up when I do as well.
A patchwork of shadows and dappled sunlight covers the forest floor as the trees rustle softly around us, whispering with the ocean's rumble.
I'm out of breath when we finally reach a crossroads in the path, where the trail veers left and right. Professor stops running, and I do, too. My legs quiver like jelly as sweat slides in thick drops down my back.
Professor looks over at me, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and a look of satisfaction on his face.
"Not bad, Immorier," he says with a hint of grudging respect. "Maybe you're not completely hopeless after all."
I eye him, too tired to muster a retort.
My clothes are plastered to my body, and the itchiness from the skirt rubbing against my skin is slowly driving me insane.
I peel my camisole away from my chest, but it recoils back, clinging to me again.
I look over, finding Thatcher already watching me.
He glances away quickly with a swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Come on," he says, his words soft. "Let's head back."
I follow him, taking the path to the left and starting toward the convent.
The morning sun has fully risen now, and it casts long shadows through the trees onto the leaves that litter the ground.
We're about halfway back when the first cold drop of rain lands on my skin.
I glance up at the sky, finding it completely clouded over.
Within seconds, a steady downpour begins.
"Shit," Thatcher curses beside me.
The rain is icy, quickly soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the core.
"Come on," he calls over the storm. "We need to find somewhere to ride it out."