Page 66 of Crossed
Bishop Lamont
Rolling my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated that I’m at the mercy of Parker. I’d love to put him in his place, but it would make things far too difficult now with how enmeshed in the church he is. And now he’s getting married. I smirk at the thought of the poor woman who’s subjected to Parker for the rest of her life.
No doubt it’s someone marrying him for his money; I can’t imagine hispersonalitymaking women swoon and fall to their knees. But relief fills me knowing that soon he’ll be officially off the market. Hopefully that means I won’t need to watch Amaya in his orbit for too much longer, and all my questions regarding them will disappear.
I stare at Bishop Lamont’s name again.
Someone knocks on the door, and I tell them to enter, assuming it’s Jeremiah.
But then Parker walks in.
He fills the frame first, his hand wrapping around the small waist of the woman next to him.
Amaya.
My attention is suddenly rapt on her, narrowing into tunnel vision, the sight of her bright in Technicolor while everything else falls away in muted blobs of gray.
“Miss Paquette, what a surprise,” I say, reality crashing back in as I realize what it means to have her here with Parker.
His hand possessively around her waist as he leads her through the open door.
Her eyes meeting mine, hurt and anger swirling through their depths.
She’s upset with me. Of course she is.
I breathe slow, deep, even breaths, reminding myself that I hold no claim to her. Not truly. Not when I’m already claimed by God. But words don’t matter when itfeelslike my name should be branded on her soul, burned so deep the world can feel the letters.
Parker prods her forward like cattle, a haughty look on his face I’m suddenly desperate to disfigure, and when they sit down across from me, his hand slipping to the thick part of her inner thigh, the edges of my vision blur.
My eyes flick to hers.
Look at me, petite pécheresse.
She does. Immediately, as though she can hear my thoughts, and my heart stutters with the knowledge that our connection isn’t one- sided. She feels me just as surely as I feel her.
“Hope we’re not interrupting, Father,” Parker says, breaking the moment.
“Of course not. I’m never too busy for you.” I don’t take my gaze from Amaya.
She scoffs and then bites her lip like she didn’t mean to let the noise slip out.
I lift a brow, daring her to say something out loud.
“Amaya,” Parker chides, looking at her disapprovingly. “Don’t be rude.”
“Yes, Miss Paquette, is something the matter?”
She glares at me, and it makes dopamine flood my system, happy to have her attention when she’s here with someone else.
Parker’s hand moves higher up on her thigh, his fingers squeezing her supple flesh, and my blood pumps so violently my ears ring. My fingers grip the edge of my desk to keep me in place, my sickness surging up and salivating to take the reins.
Kill him. Snap his neck and watch the life drain from his pathetic, pompous eyes.
I swallow and force the voice back down. I can’tkillParker. It would cause far too many problems for me, even though right now, nothing sounds as satisfying as tying him to his chair, breaking every one of his fingers, and then fucking Amaya in front of him and smearing her thighs withmycum just to make sure he knows who she belongs to.
My cock hardens at the visual and I shift in place, the sharp twinge of pain down my back making me bite the inside of my cheek, Sister Genevieve’s voice smacking me upside my head.
Let yourself heal.
