The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,16

class schedule typed out on a typewriter.

TUESDAY

7:00am - Prayer

7:30am - Breakfast

9:00am - English

10:00am - AP Psychology

11:00am - Free

12:00pm - Lunch

On and on it goes, spelling out every minute of my day till the last bell—lights out. I’d literally been lights out when that one rang last night.

I haven’t had much time to consider how different things would be. I loved being homeschooled, but I’d never known anything else. Mother was an excellent teacher, but she’d also get into a mood sometimes and give me the day off to do what I wanted. Days like that I’d usually end up at the local library, reading whatever I could get my hands on.

Maybe structure is exactly what I need. I can just follow my schedule day after day until it becomes my new norm. No need to think.

Hopefully, by then, I’d have fooled myself into believing there could be such a thing as normal again.

I toss the towel on the foot of my bed, snatch up my notebook, and head down the hall.

I’m halfway down when the school bell tolls.

Shit! It’s already nine?

I glance through one of the windows I pass, but it’s impossible to make out where the sun is through the stained glass.

Who would I rather not piss off: Zachary, or Sister Miriam?

Since I have no idea where Sister Miriam is—does she have an office or something?—I choose Zachary.

With my dress flapping around my knees and my hair dripping water down my neck, I sprint over the grounds and hurtle into the classroom hallway.

I remember to push the door and not pull on it this time.

One point for Miss Malone, nine-hundred ninety-seven for the universe.

Brother Zachary glances at me from the blackboard. Forest green eyes narrow. His dark hair is long but carefully brushed back from his diamond-shaped face and dimpled chin.

Oh Lord, he’s just as intense as I remember. And, like yesterday, my body reacts in the strangest way. Everything inside me goes tight and then, when I think I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen, my lungs fill with air.

That breath calms me a little, despite how Zachary’s face hardens when he sees me.

But it does nothing for the tingle dancing between my legs.

“Late again, Miss Malone.”

My heart thumps in time with his words, as if he’s controlling my organs.

If he is, then he’s one cruel bastard.

Because as I force myself to walk across his classroom, it’s as if he slides inside me and starts toying with my guts.

I should hate him for having such an effect on me.

Instead, all I can think about is him touching me. Not with his eyes, but with his hands.

I know I’ve missed out on a lot in my sheltered life.

Playdates, sleepovers, movies at the mall.

Kissing.

Sex.

I’ve always been intrigued by the concept. What would it feel like? Who would be the one to finally deflower me?

Against all logic, I’d resisted the thought it would be with the scrawny, pimple-faced kid from our church Mom kept trying to set me up with.

My dreams had centered around someone a lot more like Zachary. Tall and handsome and charismatic in his own way.

Maybe that’s why I’m reacting like this. Since I’d started here, I’ve been bombarded with good looking boys.

Well, four, anyway.

I doubt I’d have felt the same way about anyone in this class. But it’s not just the way they look. There’s something else. At least with Brother Zachary, it’s a little more obvious. He exudes a dark aura. His steely eyes, and the way he walks like he owns the room and every stick of furniture inside it.

Even the students.

Especially me.

Every time I step into this class, it’s blatant I’m entering his domain, and I’m only here because he allows it.

Chapter Eight

Trinity

Yesterday I spent my entire Psych lesson trying to ignore the fact I was apparently head over heels in love with my teacher. Today isn’t going much better but at least I’m taking some notes.

Every time he happens to glance at me, I blush.

“…next stage, which is postnatal. Those can include neglect and what?”

It’s the quiet that drags me from my thoughts. I’ve resorted to staring at my notebook and doodling circles in the margins so I won’t catch on fire.

I look up.

Yup—everyone’s staring at me.

What now?

Reluctantly, I look over Zachary.

He’s holding a piece of chalk against the board, poised to write.

“Neglect and what?” He taps the chalk, dipping his head a little.

Dear Lord—he wants me to answer? My mouth opens as my eyes take in the diagram he’s drawn.