Chapter 32 Xade
XADE
It's been a week since I last saw Avalynne, more than one hundred and sixty-eight hours since she sat in my classroom and wrote that damned list right under my nose. Her words confirmed everything I'd selfishly hoped.
She wanted me.
Or, at least, she did before Georgina humiliated her.
The memory of it still curdles my stomach. I said what I had to, what I knew Georgina expected to hear come out of my mouth, but I didn't anticipate her reaction when she fit Avalynne with a fucking heretic's fork.
Like we'd gone back in time to the 15th century.
The sight of the infernal device biting into her flesh, the sharp prongs digging into the delicate skin under her chin, nearly drove me mad. I stopped it—thank Christ—but when I tried to make it better, to speak with Avalynne after class, she wouldn't give me the time of day.
I can't blame her.
I said things—hateful lies—that I can't forgive myself for.
I called her a pathetic, na?ve little girl. My life would certainly be easier if it was true, but it's not.
I lied, a calculated move to protect her from what's brewing beneath the surface of this convent.
If her grandfather gets even the slightest whiff of an inappropriate relationship between us, he'll make sure Georgina does much worse than a medieval torture device. But those words—my poisonous words—cut deeper than any heretic's fork.
I could see it in Avalynne's eyes, the betrayal scarring her beautiful face. The spark behind her bluebell eyes broke like glass beneath its weight.
I hate myself for it.
I need to make it right—Georgina, her grandfather, and everything else be damned. I can't though. She should have been in class today, but yet again, she wasn't.
I've been pacing the halls for days, searching for the girl I shouldn't care about.
I've all but interrogated the sisters—when I can find an unlucky one—but they keep their lips sealed, no doubt afraid of Georgina's wrath. The more they stay silent, though, the more dread chews away at my gut.
Where the fuck is she?
I swear to Christ the corridors of this place are smothering.
They close in, squeezing tighter the longer I pace the hallowed halls.
My footsteps fall frantic against the smooth stone floor, but I can't just sit in an empty classroom and wait.
For what must be the hundredth damned time, I storm down the hall toward Georgina's office.
When I reach her door, I slam my fist against the wood, but there's no answer on the other side.
I hammer again, even louder this time, but the silence remains. My hand moves to the doorknob, but it doesn't budge. Of course, it's locked. Why wouldn't it be? Because Georgina still isn't here.
Fucking perfect.
I grit my teeth, my hand tightening around the cold metal until my knuckles blanch bloodless white. The old woman isn't going to make this easy on me.
With a low curse, I turn on my heel and leave, my frustration at a damn near breaking point. I need answers, and if I can't get them from Georgina, I'll find them elsewhere. I beeline to the chapel, hoping to find Ezra.
The wooden doors to the church groan as I open them, the sound loud in the vast, empty space. Light sifts through the stained-glass windows and casts colorful prisms across the pews as I scan the room for my so-called friend. Friends don't fucking disappear without a trace, though.
Ezra's not here. The altar is empty. The pews deserted.
My footfalls are the only sound as I walk through the chapel and continue forward to the rectory at the back. As I push open the door to the rectory, I'm met with more silence.
His office is dark with the curtains drawn. Desperation gnaws at me as I turn away from the rectory. As I leave the chapel, I pull out my phone and fire off yet another text to Ezra.
Call me!
It's a buckshot fired in a Cimmerian darkness, but it's all I can do. For what's probably the hundredth time this week, he doesn't respond. If I call, it'll be more of the same—silence. I'm grasping at straws and losing control of the situation, and I hate it.
Word—bereft.
Part of speech—adjective.
Origin—late fourteenth century.
Derived from the Old English bereafian, meaning to deprive by violence.
With no other options left, I retreat to my office, sitting back down at my desk. I try to focus, to do something—anything—to keep from spiraling.
I write two personal endorsements for my colleagues back at Prodigum University, my fingers striking the keyboard in hard, angry taps.
I respond to an email from the dean. I tell her that the sabbatical is going well.
She's prying again, no doubt wondering when I'll be back.
I want to write ‘after I've found and fucked Marcus Immorier's granddaughter out of my system.
' It's a testament to my good judgment that I don't.
No matter what I do, my thoughts drift back to Avalynne.
Work becomes impossible. I sit at my desk, stare at the screen, and read the same paragraph over and over again without comprehending a single word. My fingertips clench the wooden top of my desk, and I have to fight the urge to throw the laptop against the wall in frustration.
Hours drag on, the daylight fading into dusk, but there's no sign of her.
No sign of anyone.
The tension knots tighter in my chest until I feel like I might burst. I'm about to resort to pounding on doors … again. Because that went so well for me yesterday when I wasted hours going room to room and calling her name.
Dinner turns to ash in my mouth as I choke it down. The thought of Avalynne, alone somewhere in this godforsaken place, makes me sick. I know Georgina won't kill her. She'll have instructed the nuns to feed her and keep her safe.
Yet, the image of her with that heretic's fork spearing her flesh bolts through my brain, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.
I shouldn't care about her, but I do.
I shouldn't want her, but I do.
I shouldn't need her, but I do.
I search for anything to distract myself, but nothing works. She's there, in every corner of my thoughts, and I can't escape her. Frustration builds until I feel like I'm going to snap.
I push back from the desk, the chair scraping obnoxiously against the floor. The room feels too small, too constricting, like the walls are closing in on me. I snatch my phone from my desk and call Ezra again. It goes to voicemail.
"Ask Georgina where the fuck my student is," I snarl through the line.
I'm ready to throw my phone across the room when I stand, cross my office, and leave, slamming the door shut behind me.