Crossed (Never After Series)

I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A RATHER VIOLENT MAN. IT’S something that has existed inside me since I was a small child.

It was the reason Sister Agnes took to beating me with the belt.

Back then, of course, I didn’t know how to utilize the feeling. I hadn’t yet learned to funnel it into a useful resource. Instead, it would build and build and build inside me until it exploded like fire from a dragon’s mouth.

At first, I would tear up stuffed animals or break a dish just to feel it shatter. Sister Agnes didn’t like that much, but it wasn’t something I could control.

It was only through time, age, and patience that I was able to separate who I was as a man— and then eventually as a priest— from the monster.

Right now, as I swing my car into an empty space outside what used to be Amaya’s apartment, the snow crunching beneath the tires, I feel like that little boy again, the fury in me unable to find a source or direction, so instead, it’s just marinating in my veins.

Building.

And building.

And building.

It’s been snowing since I left the monastery, a thin layer of white making everything glow a little brighter now that the sun has set. I burrow deeper into my peacoat, rushing up onto the small, cracked front porch, a sense of nostalgia hitting me when I glance over and see the edge of what used to be Amaya’s bedroom window peeking at me from the corner of the alley.

I maneuver up the icy steps and knock on the front door, my stomach tense from both the need to make sure Quinten is safe and the need to hunt Parker down and get back to Amaya quickly.

Nobody answers, so I knock again, something heavy pressing on my shoulders, pushing down until the weight makes it hard to stand.

Come on, Dalia. Answer the door.

I knock one more time, then hop off the stoop and peer into the front window through the open blinds, but there’s nobody inside. At least not from what I can see. I move back to the door again, my breathing growing choppy as I reach out and twist the knob, part of me hoping it’s locked, because at least then, I can fool myself into thinking that most likely, they’re just not home. That Dalia was smart enough to recognize danger before it happened.

The door unlatches easily, as though it was just barely resting in place to begin with. A lead weight drops in my gut.

It’s eerily quiet when I move inside, and a heavy sense of foreboding washes over my skin.

“Quinten!” I call out. “Dalia?”

Nobody answers, and the silence has never screamed so loud.

Moving down the small hallway off the kitchen, I peer in the first room on the right, but it’s empty. Nothing but a few shelves and a made- up bed with Buzz Lightyear on the quilt. Then I head back more to where I know Dalia’s bedroom sits, the door already ajar. Light filters into the dark hallway, and I push the door fully open with my toe, the creak of the wood sounding like a cannon in my ears.

My hand flies up to cover my nose.

The smell is…strong.

Merde.

Dalia is here, but I wish with everything in me, for Amaya’s sake, that she wasn’t. Her stomach is sliced open from beneath her chest to just under her navel, the bottom half of her body naked and severely abused.

I am a violent man. But even this makes bile rise in the back of my throat until I’m forced to swallow down the vomit.

My heart stalls as I move farther into the room, knowing this is going to break Amaya apart and already trying to come up with ways to make sure she survives the pain. The guilt that I know she’ll feel, blaming herself for something that was out of her control.

Breathing through my mouth, I walk over to where Dalia’s dead body lies broken and bruised, reaching out and covering her eyes with my gloved hand until they close. “I commend you, my dear sister, to Almighty God and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to Him who formed you from the dust of the earth.” I place my fingertips on her forehead and say, “In the name of the Father,” then on her chest right above where her body splits and the smell of death emanates from her flayed skin, “the Son,” and then both shoulders, “and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

The words feel empty as they roll off my tongue. Simple words that before held so much truth, so much blind faith in every syllable, but now they fall from my mouth and drop onto Dalia’s corpse, disintegrating into ash. Meaningless.

I stand rigid at Dalia’s side, my hands in fists and my jaw clenching so tightly, pain radiates up my jaw. I spoke His words as though they were my own, the same way I have for years, but instead of finding peace in Him, I can only feel the rage for her. For Amaya. Because I know this will break her heart.

And I’ve realized that having my faith means nothing if she isn’t at the center of it all.

The fury inside me grows, rolling from a small ball into a blazing inferno, the need to make Parker hurt as much as he’s hurt Amaya pounding through my veins until I feel it prick against my fingertips.

Spinning around, I take in the scene, debating on whether leaving her here or calling it in is the best course of action.

But then something catches my eye, in the corner of the room next to an overturned table and a smashed- up lamp.

Clearly, she put up a fight.

I walk over to the glimmering object, seeing a small gold cuff link with the initials PE across the front.

Messy, messy, Parker.

My mind buzzes as I come up with a plan.

I need to find Quinten as quickly as possible, but it would be silly of me to not make sure there are no other stops needed after I do. I’m not sure what’s coming, but I know when I leave Festivalé, hopefully with Quinten in tow, Parker Errien will be dead and gone. And if things go badly, I need us to be able to escape quickly. So I stop by my cottage first because if I need to flee, I can without worry of what I won’t have.

The urge to drop everything and hunt Parker down like a madman is burning through my veins, but I pause when I reach the threshold and see the door is already ajar.

My stomach flips, hackles raising as I push it open, glancing from side to side.

It’s dark, not a single light on in the place, but the air is heavy and tense.

There’s someone here.

The door closes behind me, but it doesn’t latch, and I finger the knob, noticing it’s slightly off its center, as though someone broke in and tried to cover it up.

My monster stretches his arms, rumbling in my chest.

“You made it.”

The corner of my mouth tilts as I raise my head slowly, flipping around and coming face- to- face with the man I’m on a mission to find.

“Hello, Parker.”

He’s sitting in the darkened kitchen, his leg crossed over his knee as he leans back in a chair at the dining room table, a gun perched in front of him, next to the white china settings like he’s just waiting to shoot me.

I shake my head slightly at his confidence.

“Dinos!”

My body swings to the side, relief filling up my chest like helium balloons when I see Quinten unharmed and at least moderately unfazed, sitting in the corner on the floor, his rainbow light- up headphones flashing blue to green to red on his head.

Apparently Parker has a soft spot for children that he lacks for women. Or he’s holding him as bait and knows if he’s damaged goods, he won’t be as valuable. Either way, I’m thankful.

“Bonjour, mon petit,” I coo, flashing Quinten a smile, my eyes scanning his body to ensure he’s in one piece. “Parker.” I keep my eyes on Quinten. “Let me take the boy away.”

Parker chuckles. “I think it will build his character.”

I smile. “Undoubtedly.” I take a step toward him, my fingers flexing against the leather of my gloves. “But he’ll also have nightmares from what he sees you do.”

Parker’s eyes darken, and I side- eye Quinten, noting the way his eyes are down on his iPad, ignoring us completely again. I’ve never been more thankful for his propensity for learning apps and headphones as I am at this moment.

“Have you come to kill me, Parker?” I ask, nodding to the gun in front of him.

He shrugs, leaning back in the chair, relaxed, as though he thinks he’s already won.

“That depends on what you’ve done with my wife.”

I grin. “Which time?”

He jerks forward, his palm slamming against the table until the dishes shake. “You motherfucker,” he spits. “I want you gone. You will tell Bishop Lamont you’re leaving, or I swear to that mythical figure you pray to that I’ll blow your brains out all over this kitchen floor.”

Nodding, I place my hands out in front of me, trying to appear as though he’s frightened me. “Calm down, Parker.” I glance toward the gun. “You’re the one with power here. Just let me take the boy away, and I’ll do whatever you wish.” I look back to Quinten. “At least to the bedroom.”

Parker’s jaw tenses as he glances back and forth between us.

“You’ve already won,” I state, sighing and hanging my head in shame. “What more could I possibly do?”

He hesitates for just a moment, and then he jerks to a stand, reaching for his gun.

But I am much larger and leaner than him, my arms eating up the space before he can, grabbing the weapon out from under him with one hand and gripping his throat with the other, hauling his body across the table and slamming him down in the middle until the wood cracks and the china shakes.

He starts flailing like a dog on his back, and my eyes flit to Quinten again, who is staring at us with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth.

I tighten my grip on Parker’s throat.

“It’s all right, mon petit. I promise.”

Slowly, Quinten nods, looking back and forth between us, his body slightly rocking in place like he can’t control the motion and needs to let his energy escape.

Parker’s palm flies up and slams into the skin of my wrist, and with my free hand, I take my fingers and dig the tips down into the hollow of his throat, just above his collarbone, until he stops moving entirely, screaming out in pain instead.

“Oui, I know it hurts.”

I look back to Quinten, keeping Parker incapacitated by my fingers on his pressure point. He tries to fight, but my body is much larger than his, and he’s unsuccessful. Besides, I enjoy it when they squirm.

“Mon petit, I know you’re scared,” I say to Quinten. “But I’m going to take you to your sister. Would you like that?”

His eyes flash between us again, and now he’s fully rocking, his body swaying violently until I’m worried he’ll make himself fly into the wall. He bobs his head.

“Good. Can you do me a favor then?”

Parker jerks his hand, swiping out and punching into my gut, making me lose my breath. I grit my teeth and tighten my grip around his throat until his airway is completely cut off, lifting my knee and digging it into his torso to pin him better in place.

“I need you to walk down the hall, and at the end of it is my bedroom. I have a nice set of nativity scene figurines in the top drawer. Can you go find them and line them up for me?”

Quinten’s eyes grow larger, but he doesn’t make a move.

“Come on, mon petit,” I urge with a grin. “After we’re done, I’ll take you to the store and buy you a new dinosaur. Maybe we can finger paint again.”

This gets his attention, his eyes lighting up at my bribe, and he nods, walking slowly, his hands splayed on the wall behind him like he’s creeping up on someone until he hits the hallway, and then he darts off, his little footsteps rushing away. I don’t make a move until I hear the latch of my bedroom door.

Relief floods my chest, and I look back down at Parker with a smile. “Now, where were we?” I release the pressure point, reaching out to grab a butter knife from the place mat at my side, the weight of us both on the table making it creak. He flails again, his eyes bulging and lips turning blue from how long he’s been without oxygen, and I flip the knife around in my hand, adrenaline pumping through my system like kerosene. “I cannot tell you how long I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

I slam the butter knife right into his inner thigh. His mouth opens on a silent gasp, but no sound comes out because the pressure of my hand around his throat restricts his vocal cords as much as it restricts his air. I twist the knife so it rotates ninety degrees in his leg.

“Sorry about that,” I wince. “I know it must be incredibly painful. I’m certain I’ve nicked a major artery.”

His body shakes, his eyes fluttering like he’s about to lose consciousness.

I release his throat and bring my hand up, smacking him across the face. “Oh no, no. You’re not allowed to disappear. Stay a while. I want you to really experience what I have planned.”

His eyes are hazy as he stares up at me and wheezes out. “Fuck. You.”

My knee presses farther into his sternum, my hand rotating the dull knife more. “You know, if you play nice, I can take this out, and you’ll bleed to death in minutes.” I lean down, making sure his eyes lock on mine so I can see the demons that plague his soul and make sure they hear me. “But since you can’t find respect, I think I’ll make it hurt.”

I release the handle of the knife and reach out to grab his gun. His movements are still jerky but have much less strength behind them, the blood seeping out from around his open leg wound surely making him light- headed on top of him having been choked within an inch of his life.

Taking my knee from his stomach, I stand up straight, gripping him by the neck again and dragging him up until I toss him on the floor.

He falls like a limp rag doll, rolling onto his hands and knees, that knife still poking from his thigh.

“Surely, you knew it would come to this.” I hover over him and kick him in the side, the same way Amaya told me he did to her. He falls and I move, stepping onto his hand, pressing the entirety of my weight against him until I feel the crunch of his bones as they shatter beneath my feet. “After all, you hurt the woman I love. The woman I would do anything for.”

“She is my…my wife, you piece of shit,” he yells out, pain and rage infecting every syllable. “She signed the papers, and they’re filed with the state. She was mine to do with as I pleased.”

Chuckling, I twist my heel and revel in the high-pitched cry that escapes his mouth. I release his hand from under my foot and use the toe of my shoe to flip him over until he’s prone on his back, a small puddle of blood forming beneath him from what’s bleeding out around the knife.

“And did you also have her sign a prenup?” I ask, staring down at him, clicking off the gun’s safety and crouching down beside him, resting the cool metal against his neck. His eyes widen, and I tsk, shaking my head. “Of course you didn’t. You’re Catholic. Marriage is for life.” I lean in, hovering over his broken and bleeding body as realization blazes through his eyes. “Now, what was it you told her?” I move the gun down his frame, resting it on top of his groin. “That you would cut off my cock and make me choke on it?”

He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his body frozen in place, most likely from fear.

This is always my favorite part of the kill: when they realize their life is in my hands and there’s no way out.

“She may be your wife, but she is my soul,” I whisper against his ear. “And I will cut you up piece by piece and burn your empire until it’s soot, just so I can watch her be queen of the ashes.”

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 you raped her…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 my mythical figure tonight, Monsieur Errien. You see, I worship Her now…so it’s to Amaya that you should pray. May She have mercy on your soul.”