The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,17

This stuff all sounds very familiar. I’m sure Mom already went through this part of the curriculum, but for the life of me I can’t remember anything.

“I don’t know.”

My heart turns to lead when disappointment darkens his eyes.

He turns and points to one of the boys. “Eric?”

“Abuse?”

Zachary says nothing, but the tap-squeak of his chalk speaks volumes as he writes down the answer.

“Thank you, Eric. Abuse and neglect can affect genetic change during the postnatal stage of an individual’s life.”

I keep my head down for the rest of the lesson, not even daring to look up when I hear silence. Unless he calls on me directly, I’m not fuck risking it.

Thankfully, he ignores me for the rest of the lesson. By the time the bell sounds, I’m such a bundle of nerves I drop my pencil twice before I can shove it into my dress pocket. It sticks out halfway, but at least it’s got a better chance of staying in there than in my hand.

I try and merge with the boys leaving class, ridiculously assuming they’d provide camouflage.

Instead, I cause chaos.

Some of them step back to let me through the door first. Others, as if sensing Armageddon is seconds away, speed up so they can exit first. I end up getting bounced around like a pinball.

Zachary watches impassively, not even bothering to catch me when I stagger. For my own safety, I wait to the side until everyone’s left.

“A moment, Miss Malone,” Zachary says, like I knew he would.

I try and keep the door open—it’s set on a hydraulic hinge like the lunchroom—but Zachary puts his head to the side and that’s somehow a command for me to approach.

The door hisses closed.

I creep closer and try to disappear behind my notebook.

“I’m not like the others,” Zachary says.

A downright hysterical laugh escapes me before I can press my lips closed.

Zachary’s eyes darken to the green of tree shadows as he perches on the edge of his desk. “Which part of this amuses you, Miss Malone?”

I bite the inside of my lip and hope it will be enough to stop me from losing my shit. But he waits me out, so I shake my head and try to look meek.

“Is it the part where you receive penance for continuously showing up late to my class?”

Continuously? Dude, it’s the second day of my miserable stay at Saint Amos. Have a little—

“Or is it the part where you fail this class because you can’t be bothered to apply yourself?”

My face heats up. I wish I could say something, but I don’t trust myself to speak, especially since I still feel like laughing.

Who does he think he is? He’s treating me like a ten-year-old. I can’t believe I liked this guy. He’s horrible.

“I only got my schedule this morning.” The words are out before I can stop them.

Zachary tilts his head. My guts worm around in my belly at the intensity of his stare. “And your voice? Did that also just arrive?”

I just shake my head.

His eyes flicker away, as if he’s suddenly lost his patience. He stands, steps closer. “I’ll tell you again. I’m not like the others.” He bends and reaches down.

He’s going to touch my bare leg. Is that why he kept me back? He’s so close I can make out the patterns in his irises.

His perfect skin, his expressive mouth, the tendons in his neck that tense as he stretches out his hand.

Oh, Lord, how badly I want him to touch me.

But not on my leg.

I squeeze my thighs together.

There.

That’s where I want him to touch me.

Right between my—

Zachary holds up my pencil. “I don’t give second chances,” he says before tucking it back into my pocket. It must have fallen out when that guy bumped me. “I’m writing you up for this, and I suggest you do whatever it takes to be on time for my next class.”

His words mean nothing to me. I’m hypnotized by the way his mouth moves.

“Do I make myself clear, Miss Malone?”

He’s still a foot away, but I want him closer. I want to know if his touch will be gentle or firm. I imagine his large hands will demand from my body what he demands from my mind.

“Miss Malone.” It’s not a shout, but the snap in his voice goes right through me like he yelled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I babble. “I promise I won’t be late again.”

The door whooshes open. Sister Miriam steps inside, ruddy face framed by her habit. “There you are!”