The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,122

my hips against him as hard as I can.

I taste blood in my mouth a second before he falls away from me. Staggering to the side, I barely find my feet before his hand is around my throat again.

Lights dance across my vision as he slams me against the wall.

“I like it when you fight. Playing with dead things isn’t any fun.”

He laughs at me.

And then he kisses me.

Blood and mint-sweet saliva mix in my mouth. He shoves his hand up my dress. Before I can slam my legs shut, he strokes me through my underwear with his knuckles.

That feather-light caress is so at odds with his kiss that for a long moment I’m lost.

His kiss slows, but becomes harder. Somehow more urgent. He strokes me again, sending a deep ache through me.

Instead of pushing him away, I claw my fingers into his chest.

His breath hitches.

He rakes his nails against my inner thigh, leaving a trail of fire behind. I gasp and rear back, and whatever had been keeping me at bay snaps.

Zach steps back, dragging a hand over his mouth. There’s a cut on his bottom lip, smears of blood around his mouth, but it doesn’t look like he’s bleeding anymore. He gives me a quick, condescending scan with his forest-green eyes, and then points to the classroom door.

“Clean up before someone sees you,” he grates.

And I move to comply without a thought. With my back turned, I stop.

“No.” I don’t turn back. I don’t look at him. If I see him, I’ll falter. “I’m not your puppet anymore. I’m not scared anymore.” I hear movement behind me, but I simply curl my hands into fists and refuse to let fear take root.

“Things have changed. I can’t go back there again. Not tonight. Not ever. And if you contact me again…if you threaten me again…”

I swallow hard and force myself to turn around.

Zachary’s watching me with a cocked head, face unreadable, body slack. As if his mind became disconnected from his body. It’s the most terrifying sight I’ve ever seen but somehow, I push through.

“If you or any of your brothers come near me again, I’m calling the police. Or the church, or something. Someone.”

Fuck it, Trinity, stay strong.

“Stay away from me. And stay away from Gabriel.”

The last is as much a surprise to me as it is to Zachary. He straightens his head with a snap, eyes boring into me like a physical force.

“Or I’ll tell him everything.”

I should have led with that. Zachary’s face slowly pales, but I know it isn’t with fear.

It’s anger, or rage, or a dirty-bomb of the two. I back up, and feel behind me for the door.

I turn the lock.

Then the handle.

I keep my eyes on him like I would a wild animal, just in case he decides to pounce on me before I’m in the clear.

The last thing I see before I close the door is Zachary’s face.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost…and he’s planning to murder it.

I barely make it to the downstairs restroom. I puke into the basin, my stomach contracting so painfully, I’m shocked there aren’t chunks of blood in the sink when I rinse it out.

It takes a few seconds before I can convince myself to look in the mirror.

My hair is mussed and my dress isn’t sitting right. But it’s the blood on my chin and around my mouth that makes me force down a dry retch.

Trust me girl, we’ll make you scream.

I have to get the hell out of this school.

Chapter Thirty-One

Zach

Reuben doesn’t bother to knock. It’s not that he doesn’t respect my privacy or any of that shit. The four of us never need permission to speak to each other, or even just to be in the same room. If we’d had to put up with pleasantries like that back in the basement, we’d all have gone stark raving mad.

“I came as soon as—” he begins.

“Sit.”

He takes the foot of the bed, perching picture perfect like always. Straight spine, chest out, chin up.

I watch him for a second, and then reach over to my drawer and take out a joint I’d rolled just for this occasion.

“It’s the middle of the day,” Reuben says. “Someone could—”

“What?” I snap. “Ex-communicate me?” I glare at him from the bed where I’m sprawled on my back.

As part of my pious disguise, I took a room more befitting a first-year student than a teacher. That’s Zachary fucking Rutherford for you. Groveling would-be priest who couldn’t swat a fly.

I’m