Chapter Twelve

Ihave a secret.

A secret I've been keeping from Priest.

A secret I plan to use at just the right time.

I first noticed it when he was strangling me.

When I felt my body going limp and the world going gray, I thought I was going to die. It did something in the very center of me, like a key fit into a lock and unleashed something that might save my life.

Something that would help me fight back.

I felt my teeth come in.

My jaw felt like it was cracking open, and I could feel the sharp teeth growing over my human ones in rows, like a shark's mouth.

I was prepared to bite his goddamned hand in half again.

But then, he let go. I don't think he noticed the change in me, and my teeth quickly retreated once the danger passed.

They weren't needed when he took his cock out and fucked between my breasts like a madman, like an unfettered animal, and came all over my face. I'm still finding it dried in my hair.

Now, however, now that he's tied me up and left me to my own devices, they might be needed. My hands are behind my back, and I wonder if they, too, might transform at some point, if there is something that will make them into my old claws. Is it anger? Is it self-preservation? Hunger?

I'm sure I'll find out either way.

So now that I have this secret, I must figure out how to use it.

And when.

"Will you show me how to pray?" I ask, willing my voice to sound innocent, but not too much, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Priest looks at me in surprise, lowering his glass of wine.

"You want to know how to pray?"

We're at his desk, me on the chair, him sitting on the edge of the table. It's been a few days since our last intimate interaction—our only kiss—and until now, he's been distant. Not cruel, but not kind either. I suppose I shouldn't expect much more than that from him. Perhaps I should be grateful, as he said.

Yesterday was mass. Through the walls, I listened to him talk again, preaching things I know he doesn't believe in—or at least, he doesn't believe in most of it. The rules, the guilt, the damnation. It seems to be that no matter what those poor people do, they are going to hell one way or another. I've been around humans enough to know that no one is that good at heart. Everyone is a sinner and will stay a sinner because that's the world we live in.

At least Syrens come by it honestly. We accept that we aren't all light, but we aren't all shadow. We're those muddy shades in the middle, trying to do our best to stay alive. Life is too hard as it is to worry about what's going to happen to us after we leave it.

"I'm curious," I tell him, gesturing for the glass of wine. "After hearing your sermon yesterday, I wanted to know what it's like in there. What it's like to pray."

He rubs his lips together, and the memory of his mouth makes my own lips tingle.

That kiss scared him. Everything to do with me scares him, I can tell.

He hesitates before he offers the chalice, and I take it in my hands, tied together in front of me this time. How nice of him to give me some variety. He's also dressed me up in the general's wife's gown, a satiny green with a low bodice that makes my breasts look like they want to escape. I felt like a proper pet when he put all the layers on me, one by one. Any desire he may have felt while dressing me, he managed to keep hidden.

This morning, he brought in two of the pews from the church and pushed them together so they resemble a bed. I haven't slept on it yet, but so far, it seems the mound of clothes on the floor might be the more comfortable option.

I tilt the chalice back and swallow the rest of the contents in one gulp.

His dark brows rise appreciatively. "Alright. I can show you how to pray."

He gets to his feet and plucks the chalice from my hands, placing it on the table before pulling me up by my elbow. "Come on. Do you think you can hobble out there, or shall I carry you?"

"Why don't you see if I can learn how to walk?" I point out. I start tipping over, and he keeps me up by placing his warm palms on my shoulders. "I can't learn if you keep me hobbled. It's as if I still have a tail."

He stares at me for a moment and then nods. "Fair point. Promise you won't kick me?"

"I make no such promises."

He chuckles to himself and then bends down, breaking the rope apart with his bare hands as if it was just a strand of hair.

I feel like he did that on purpose, a reminder of his strength and what he could do to me.

How easy I am to break.

But I won't be broken without a fight.

He puts his hand at my elbow to steady me. Standing beside him like this, I'm also aware of how much bigger and taller he is too. Every inch of him is taut and hard and powerful, more beast than man, more animal than priest. It's strange that I've had his fingers inside me, that he's had his cock between my breasts, that we've both come in each other's presence, seen each other at our most raw and vulnerable, and yet it's in moments like this that I feel the difference in our statures.

He, the captor.

Me, the captive.

But when he asks, "Are you alright to walk? Here, lean on me and take it one step at a time," and his voice is gentle, his eyes full of concern, I wonder if the man inside him will ever win for good. If he can shuck away the monster one day, alongside this religion, free himself from both. If he can become the man he was once, the one with the name he no longer remembers.

I give him a reassuring smile. "I'll try."

I've had my feet bound this whole time, hobbling and hopping around the room when he's not here, working my muscles and testing my feet, making sure they're ready for the big escape. But now that I actually have to walk with one foot in front of the other, it's not as easy as I let myself believe.

I wobble, a lot, but Priest keeps his grip on me steady, leading me toward the door, toward the place where the salvation happens. My feet feel tight and thin, my toes continuously gripping the floor like they're claws. My calves are quick to ache, but I manage to put one foot in front of another until we're at the door.

He lets go of me long enough to unlock it, and I manage to stay upright.

Then, he opens the door and leads me through to a whole new world.

This place feels holy. The air is thick with reverence—there is no other way to explain it. Sometimes, back in Limonos, you would come across these sea caves where the sun would pierce the surface just so, shining light on the coral and the shimmering scales of the fish, and you could feel that it was a place of importance. Other times, there were caverns in the rock where the dead were buried, piles of Syren bones, and you could sense all the lives that came before you.

This church is like that. Perhaps not as natural, not as pure, but I can tell it's a place where people come to bring their hopes and dreams and fears and sorrows and lay them down, offer them up.

"What?" Priest asks me.

I've come to a stop, taking it all in.

"You don't feel it?" I whisper, looking up at the rafters. I suppose the place is simple—I've seen fancier in underwater kingdoms—but even in its simplicity, there is something palpable in the air.

"Feel what?" His gaze is curious as it rakes over me.

I shrug, feeling a little foolish. If a priest doesn't even know…

"I can tell it's a place of worship."

"Ah," he says slowly, running his fingers over his jaw. "I suppose you're right. I'm just so close to it that I've never noticed. Don't tell me you're about to become a woman of faith."

"I'm not a woman of anything," I say stiffly. "Just of free mind and free will."

"And yet the other day, you were judging the very people who come here to worship."

"I'm not saying I agree with what they are worshipping," I explain. "It's only that I can feel that they do. It's not about God. It's about desperation."

Silence stretches between us, and I worry I've offended him, even though I want to offend him.

"I see," he says carefully, rubbing his lips as he ponders my words. "You ought to be careful; your thoughts are bordering on blasphemous."

"And why would I care?"

"Because you're the one who just asked me how to pray." He takes my arm again and leads me over to the front of the church, a raised area in front of the aisle. There are a few steps leading up to it and then a long table lit with candles, draped with white lace. Behind that, a large silver cross is mounted on the wall, various other crosses and portraits of people on either side with windows made from colorful glass.

"Here," he says in a low voice, dropping down to his knees on the step and gesturing for me to do the same.

I pull up the hem of my skirt and attempt to kneel beside him, my movements awkward as I bend my knees in such a way, the green satin pooling around me like water. I watch everything he does—the way he places his hands together, palm-to-palm, fingers up, how he looks to the cross, the way he bows his head and rests the tips of his fingers on his forehead, closing his eyes.

"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name," he says in a low, rich voice, a quieter version of the one I've heard booming during mass. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven."

He then falls silent, and I can't help but hold my breath.

Finally, he opens his eyes and shoots me a shy glance. "You're supposed to repeat after me."

"Oh!" I exclaim softly. "My apologies. Can you repeat it?"

He shoots me a patient smile and then repeats the prayer over again, pausing at the end of each sentence for me to say it back.

"What happens after?" I ask.

"You can pray for specific things," he says, glancing up at the cross. "Or you can leave it as it is, as long as there is meaning in each word, as long as you are seeking to make this prayer a bridge between you and God. You don't just recite the words and not think about what they mean. That's pointless. Might as be elsewhere."

"So this is how you pray?"

He gives me a curious look. "Me in particular? No. It's just how most people pray."

"But I want to know how you pray."

His blue eyes study me carefully, and I know I have to rein it in. "Curious thing, aren't you? Wanting to know so much about the human world you despise."

"I never said I despised it!"

"I believe you said you killed men not because they were tasty but because they deserved it. In your words, one less man is doing this world a favor. Now, perhaps I'm reading into this, but that doesn't sound like you care all that much for mankind."

My eyes narrow. "You're a man—of course you wouldn't understand what I mean. I can think men are the most dangerous creatures of all and not want to condemn all of humanity for their crimes."

"Fair enough," he says, splaying his palms in a show of acceptance.

"So what do you ask for when you pray?" I ask.

His chin jerks inward. "You can't ask me that."

"Why not?"

His mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words. "It's personal."

"Is it like a wish? If you tell someone, it doesn't come true? We have that with the spinefish. Break off one of the spikes on their back and make a wish, but if you tell a soul, it will all be for naught."

He lets out a soft laugh. "No, not like that. It's just…it's between you and God."

"The very God you don't believe in?"

"I didn't say the man on the cross is listening to me," he says, nodding at the giant silver cross on the wall. "But someone is. They might not act on it, but they listen, and that's enough for me."

I wait a moment, strategizing my best approach. I feel like I'm back in the water again, in the murky depths, approaching my prey.

"So this God, this being, only listens to your prayers…and yet you feel you must uphold all your vows? For what?"

He gives me a steady look, his brows pulling together. In the flickering candlelight of the church, his handsome features seem sharper, more dangerous. He reaches into his shirt, and I see him grasp the beaded necklace around his neck like it might save him.

A thrill runs through my body.

Am I actually about to do this? Make my escape?

Will I make it out of this alive?

Or the better question is…will he?