Page 128 of Crossed
I pull the knife from his leg and jam it down right next to where the gun is pressed, hearing the fabric rip and the satisfying slice of soft flesh being split apart, muscle tearing and a tortured scream releasing from his throat.
I chuckle, the monster and the man inside me finally merging into one, having a singular goal in mind.
Vengeance for Amaya.
“Don’t scream yet,” I tsk, dragging the knife down until blood seeps through the fabric of his pants.
Parker’s eyes roll back, his face growing pallid and strength leaching from his bones like the angel of death is here to suck out his soul.
I jerk the knife back from his groin, smiling wide as I bring it up to my face and see the red blood coating the metal, and then I take my hands and grip his body, flipping him over until he’s prone on his stomach.
He groans, and I hurry my movements, knowing there’s quite likely only moments left until he loses consciousness entirely. I lean over his back, placing the knife in between his legs, gliding it from where he’s bleeding and broken and then up farther until it’s resting in another delicate place.
Hovering over him, I grip the back of his neck tightly, shoving his face into the floor.
He whimpers. “Stop,please.”
“Did she ask you to stop?” I ask. “When yourapedher…did she ask you to stop?”
My fingers tighten and I pull up his face only to smash it down on the floor again. He whimpers, but it’s muffled by how hard I have him pushed into the ground.
“Come again?” I ask.
“Please,God,” he cries.
Chuckling, I lean down. “I won’t tell you to seek absolution from mymythical figuretonight, Monsieur Errien. You see, I worship Her now…so it’s to Amaya that you should pray. May She have mercy on your soul.”
Chapter51
Amaya
I’M SITTING ACROSS FROM THIS ABSOLUTE stranger.
She has my mother’s face, but she isn’t the woman I know.
This isn’t Chantelle Paquette.
This isSister Genevieve.A woman of faith. Of renewed hope.
One who’s been granted forgiveness, though not from me.
The truth in that statement lights my insides on fire until there’s nothing but rage left in its place. That same ball of tension from earlier in the church percolates in the center of my gut, coiling tighter and tighter until it pinches my chest and makes my lungs fill with smoke.
She’s a fake. A phony. A narcissist wearing a habit and preaching words she’s never lived.
“Do you have any— ” My voice catches on the knot in my throat, and I try again. “Anyidea what you’ve done? The mess you left behind?”
She shakes her head, taking a sip of her tea. “I won’t talk about this with you. I’ve paid my penance. I’ve lived through my guilt.”
“Same old Mom, brand-new packaging, huh?” I eye her outfit with disgust. “Oh my God, do you know Cade?”
Her mouth drops open, something sinister entering her gaze. “Of course. We’re…close.”
“Really?” I say dryly, although her words make jealousy spear through my middle and wrap around my throat.
“That’s right,” she continues, a haughty gaze slipping into her eyes. “Hetrustsme. More than anyone else, I’d imagine.”
My blood heats with a possessive rage and I lean forward, something dark and wicked spinning through my mind like a spiderweb. “You’re not special, Mother. Not like me.” Her face drops.
