Page 7 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“His celibacy is going to drive me to madness,” says the girl called Annabel, startling me from my anguished thoughts. “And like half the student population. I bet his confession schedule is already full for the entire semester.”

“Why would you want to confess to someone hot?” Ronique asks. “That would be so embarrassing.”

“Um, hello. Every girl on campus is going to want to tell him her most salacious tales and try to tempt him to break his vows for her.”

“Not every girl,” Ronique mutters.

A boy slips into the empty seat next to the girls just as the lecture begins. I take notes, my thoughts slipping through the cracks to what they said. I try not to dwell on my own confession, on the man behind the screen.

Voice like smoke and velvet.

The scent of sandalwood.

The ominous ache between my thighs when he called me his lamb.

In my next class, I arrive on time and slide into my seat, my heart pounding erratically. The moment the priest strides into the room, every breath catches. He’s commanding, his presence emanating power and domination. He doesn’t have to tell the class to be quiet. Everyone stills, watching the perfect specimen of masculinity take control of the students with a single glance.

His dark chocolate hair is combed back, forming a slight widow’s peak on his finely sculpted brow. Thick, masculine eyebrows draw low over his dark eyes as they survey the class with gentle detachment from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Olive skin, a Roman nose, an unsmiling mouth, and a jawline that could cut glass complete the image.

When his eyes meet mine, a warm, melting sensation swims up my limbs, heating my skin. I drop my gaze, only to be confronted with a body every inch as perfect as his face. His suit fits like it was tailored specifically for his broad shoulders, tapered hips, and muscular thighs. He wears the collar instead of a tie, and I return my focus to that, reminding myself he’s a priest.

He isn’t lusting after any of us. He’s just here to teach.

So why couldn’t he teach me to get rid of these impure thoughts?

*

When I step out of class, I’m immediately greeted by a hush in the hall. I turn the same direction as everyone else and see a group coming through. My pulse stutters, and I’m sure this must be the dark and mysterious Sinners. There are seven members, enough to fill quarter of a classroom, like the girl said earlier. They move as one, almost like they’re psychically connected.

They’re all gorgeous, with black hair, fair skin, and grey eyes that range from the color of a stormy sky to flinty steel to the soft grey of a kitten. They all wear black shirts, black ties, black pants, and black blazers. Six are male. The one girl in the group looks just as tough as the guys. She has thick eyeliner, pouty blood red lips, and wears a black shirt and blazer with a black-and-white tartan skirt. Her socks are bunched around her ankles, and I spot a tattoo on her calf. Sweeping my gaze back over the men, I note more than one visible tattoo on them as well.

They look more like a biker gang than a Catholic school clique.

They slow when they reach the congested area outside the classroom. The guy in the center, who’s got to be close to seven feet tall, stops and turns slowly on his heel, surveying the crowd like he’s looking for something. My breath catches, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep from hyperventilating and drawing attention. Still, his steely grey eyes settle on me, as if the merest movement of my teeth cutting into my lip was all the reason he needed to choose a target.

He points one long, thin finger at the floor.

“Bow,” he orders, his voice like a physical force pressing onto my shoulders, almost forcing me to obey. My knobby knees threaten to buckle, but I force them to lock so I don’t collapse under the weight of the attention he’s drawn to me.

“What?” I blurt out.

“Bow,” he thunders.

Everyone around me edges away, and I stand there gaping in disbelief at the giant currently ordering me to my knees like he’s a king and I’m a peasant.

“We don’t live in Tudor England,” I point out in my most logical tone. “I’m not bowing to you. I don’t even know who you are.”

The silence in the hall is deafening, and I replay my very justified and rational refusal with rising panic. Maybe I should have bowed. Would that have made them lose interest faster?

The guy stares at me with those cold eyes like a blade raking over every inch of my concealed skin.

“We’re the Sinners,” he says, his voice as hard as his gaze. “And you will get on your knees now and every time you see us for the rest of your time at Thorncrown.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I say, glancing around nervously, curling my toes inside my clogs.

“Do you know the consequences of refusal?” the giant asks, his voice almost curious.

Before I can answer, there’s a slight commotion further down the hall as some new students arrive, probably heading for the classroom I just left. “Ohshit,” crows a voice that sends a spear of white-hot dread directly down my spinal column. “The Sinners are breaking in the freshmen!”

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