Chapter Sixteen

Priest was on edge for a few days following our slaying of the soldier. Even though no others followed, he was paranoid that either the soldier had told others about his suspicions, or someone would have seen the soldier come by the church that fateful night.

But no one came to question him.

In fact, it has been nearly a week since it happened, and he says there hasn't been any word at all that the soldier even went missing. Priest thinks they desert their posts often enough that it isn't questioned. Being stationed in these parts isn't for the faint of heart, apparently.

Naturally, he made sure there was no evidence left of our feast. After Priest drained the soldier of his blood and I ate a few tasty, nutritious organs, he took the body outside and buried him. He said wolves would probably dig him out in a few days before the frost became permanent. When they were done with him, there would be nothing left.

"I won't be staying long. I have mass this morning," Priest says to me. He has just joined me in the back room, delivering my breakfast. This time, it seems to be bread, butter, and some sort of fish that doesn't smell quite right. I wrinkle my nose at it as he sets it on the desk where I've been sitting, dressed in just my shift, flipping through a bible. I've been trying to teach myself how to read to no avail.

"What?" he asks with a frown, noting my expression. "I finally got you fish like you asked. You don't approve?"

I pick up the end of it and lick it tentatively.

He groans as he watches me. "Please refrain from giving me lewd thoughts before my sermon."

I can't help but smile, even though the fish itself tastes like pure salt.

"I don't think humans know what good fish taste like," I remark, making a face.

Priest chuckles. "I think I do, little fish."

"But you're not quite human," I point out. "Besides, I don't taste like fish."

"No. You taste like a goddess of the sea," he says, his hands going to tug on the white cloth around his collar. "You taste like heaven on my tongue." Heat envelopes his gaze, turning it smoldering, and he suddenly swears. "Christ."

He comes around the desk and puts his hands on my hips, lifting me so I'm perched on the edge of it. I giggle, pushing my plate of breakfast away and running my fingers through his long, silky hair as he shoves up the hem of my shift and spreads my legs.

"Just a snack to get me through my preaching," he murmurs, ducking his head and assaulting me with his mouth until I gasp. "The taste of you will remind me what's worth sinning for," he rasps against my skin.

Heavens.

"As long as I'm on your mind," I tell him through a moan, my neck arching back. We've grown closer this last week, at least as close as a captor and captive can get. Every now and then, Priest will get this look in his eyes, like he's been reprimanded, and he'll put some distance between us. His gaze becomes glacial, and he smiles and talks less, treating me like something he tolerates—no longer cruel, but stiff and polite.

But it doesn't take long for him to thaw. Our bodies are quick to warm each other, constantly drawn into each other's grasp. I don't have to beg anymore for attention, don't have to ask to be touched. I'll still do it because he likes to hear it, but he's oh so quick to offer.

And I am enthralled with every minute of being in his company.

Especially when he's feasting on me. The sight of him between my thighs—dark hair, wide shoulders—only adds to the tightness in my chest.

I shouldn't want such a man, such a wolf in sheep's clothing, but I do.

I shouldn't want a man at all.

Fuck, how I do.

Priest moans against me, the vibrations making my bones feel like jelly. A pulse of thick arousal swells my clit, making my cunt spread, and his tongue penetrates me further, digging in and lapping up everything, hot and wet.

I will never get tired of the way he eats me, like he's abandoned every moral, every vow, every rope that kept him tethered. He feasts like he'll never taste anything again, his throat thick with ravenous grunts and rough cries of worship—not for his God, or the God of others, but for me. This priest is worshipping me with every suck, lick, and lap of his tongue.

I don't take long to come. I go off like a gunshot, writhing against the desk, squeezing his head between my legs, and he's merciless with his mouth until the bittersweet end. I'm left panting, feeling out of my body.

He straightens up and brushes the hair off my sweat-damp forehead, tucking it behind my ears with a tenderness that sobers me. His lips shine with my desire. I gesture to the mess, and he slowly brings out his tongue, licking his mouth clean.

"Can I trust you to behave if I leave you untied?" he asks, look at me more closely. Ever since we devoured the soldier, he hasn't put the chain back in my mouth, and he only remembers to bind my wrists when he feels like it— usually with his necklace, which he calls a rosary.

"You're still worried I might leave?" I ask, trying not to feel hurt. "Who else would give me such pleasure as you?"

He reaches up to his ear and grimaces as he touches it lightly. "I still don't think I can hear as well. Is it me, or did it grow back bigger?"

He has a point. Not that his ear looks any different.

"I'll be back," he says, reaching over and tapping his fingers on the bible. "If you're really interested, I can teach you how to read."

My heart flips in my chest. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "We can start this evening."

Then, he opens the door to the church and closes it behind him.

I hold my breath, wondering how much freedom he'll actually give me.

Then, I hear the lock turning.

Priest's sermon seemed to go longer than usual. Perhaps he felt guilty for what we did to the soldier, even though it was self-defense and the soldier deserved it. From what I heard through the walls, he spent an awful lot of time talking about guilt, more so than usual.

But when he finally ventured back to see me, he didn't seem burdened by any of the words he had spoken. Instead, he seemed lighter than I'd ever seen him, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He brought me some food and then came back again in the evening so our lessons could begin.

I have to admit, it was nice to see that side of him. I figured he would be a good teacher because of his deep, booming voice and engaging cadence when he's giving his sermons. I can't see how the villagers react, but I assume they hang on his every word. I know I do, even when I'm listening through the walls.

But when it comes to teaching me how to read, he's patient, compassionate, kind.

He seems to have limitless energy for it. He must have been trying to teach me for hours before it felt like my eyes were starting to cross.

"Alright, I'm afraid I'm going to need a break," I tell him. "My brain can only take so much."

He gives me a sheepish grin, and it somehow makes him look younger.

"Sorry," he says, closing the book. "I can get carried away."

"I've noticed. Where did you learn how to read? You must have had a good instructor."

He traces the gold letters stamped on the book's leather cover. "I learned in the monastery. I couldn't read when I was a human. I'd wanted to learn, but there was no use for it in my line of work."

"What about remembering spells?"

He shrugs. "They were all passed down verbally."

"Did your friend Abe teach you in the monastery?" I ask.

He looks at me in surprise, as if he didn't expect me to remember his name. "No. As methodical as he is, he doesn't have patience for those who aren't as bright as he," he says with a chuckle. "There were others who taught me there."

"Were they Vampyres too?"

"Most of them," he says. "A few humans."

"And they weren't worried they'd become your next meal?"

He lifts a shoulder. "If they were, they never told me."

"And so what did you learn on? I'm assuming the Bible."

"Yes. Some other books too. Ever heard of William Shakespeare? John Milton? Miguel de Cervantes?"

I give him a tepid smile. "You know I have not. I have only heard of Father Aragon, and that is it."

That brings another grin to his face. "Well, I know the Holy Book front and back, but perhaps my teachings are better spent on something a little more entertaining."

He gets to his feet, pushing his chair back and holding out his hand for me.

"Come with me," he says. "I have things to show you."

I stare at his hand for a moment, a fluttering in my heart. I'm almost scared, but it's a different kind of fear.

I swallow hard and put my hand in his as he grasps it with warm, strong, slender fingers. I can't help but narrow my focus on this moment—it's the first time he's treated me as more than a captive or a prisoner or even company, like someone he desires to be around.

He pulls me to my feet, and, as always when he's standing beside me, I feel so dainty and small next to his broad shoulders and height. As a Syren, being considered small or dainty was never a good thing—the bigger you were, the better the killer. The less likely that you would bend or break in an unforgiving sea world, the longer you would survive.

But somehow, as a woman, in his presence, I like the idea that he can toss me around, that I weigh nothing to him, that he can protect me against the dangers of this world, one that I know I'm not well-versed in.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we go to the door and he unlocks it with his key. "To pray?"

He smirks at me. "The way we pray is quite different from how others do it."

The question still stands as he leads me past the altar and down the aisle.

To the doors that lead outside.

I almost remind him that I'm not bound, but he knows that. It's why his grip on my hand is overly tight.

With his other hand, he pushes the heavy doors with ease, and they open with a loud creak.

I am met with the cold wind of a night sky, frigid, stark air that makes my nostrils flare, a breeze that blows back my hair. I inhale as if I've never breathed before, taking in everything that is bracing and clarifying. I stop where I am, the church doors closing behind me as I tilt my head back to look at the sky. There's a moon, a million stars, and, beyond them, a darkness like the deepest ink. It spreads and stretches into infinity, and at once, I'm overwhelmed by how beautiful it is, how small I feel.

"You're crying," Priest says in a low voice.

I reach up and touch under my eyes, feeling wetness.

I look at him in bewilderment. "We Syrens don't cry," I say, my throat and nose now feeling thick.

"You don't feel sorrow?" he asks curiously.

"We don't have tears underwater," I explain, wiping the tears away. "This is the first time I've ever cried."

"I see," he says quietly. He tilts his head back. "God can do that sometimes."

I blink at the stars. "What do you mean?"

"This is where I find God," he says. "Not in there." He nods at the church, then looks back to the sky. "There."

"In heaven?"

"In the universe, in nature," he says, gesturing around him.

My gaze follows, the moonlight illuminating the nearby cottage, the stunted, crooked trees that are perpetually wind-bent, the pebbled shore, the crashing waves of home.

"In you," he adds.

He says it so simply, I almost think I don't hear him right at first.

I look over at him, my brows raised.

"I find God in you," he repeats, his eyes shining like starlight.

If I ever had any resolve against this man's powers, I know I'm losing them all with those words. Here is the priest who finds his God in me.

Me.

Another tear rolls down my cheek, and I let out a strained laugh, swatting at it angrily. "Enough already."

Priest continues to stare at me, his gaze solemn. Then, he tugs at my hand. "Come on. Let me show you where I spend the days."

He leads me along a stone path lined with frosted grass. I marvel at everything as we walk, so thrilled and relieved to be out of the church. I feel closer to my true self now, the wildness of the landscape and the crashing waves, like it's unwinding my soul. Part of me wants to rip myself from his hands and run—not away from him or from anything, but just to feel my legs move in this clear, cold night.

Yet I'm curious to see where Priest sleeps. When he brings me into the cold, dark cottage, I guess I shouldn't have been expecting much. It isn't until he throws some logs on the fire and lights a few thick candles—candles I will never look at the same way again—that I see it has more personality than at first glance.

It's bare, with a bed in the corner, a desk and chair, thin windows, a small hearth for cooking and heat, two cushioned chairs beside it. There are a few boxes and chests where I assume his belongings are stored, as well as the washtub that he's moved back in here. But the walls are covered in crosses and paintings, giving life and flavor to the cottage that the back of the church never had.

"Take a seat," he says, sitting me down in one of the chairs. I sink into it—like sitting on a pillow. One would think the church pews would offer this same kind of comfort. "Would you like some tea?"

"Do you drink tea?" I ask him.

He gives me a wan smile and gives his head a shake.

"Then I'll forgo it," I say. I haven't had tea before, and I'm not about to start now. Besides, I'm not his guest, even though I feel like one at the moment.

He nods and then heads over to a shelf, plucking a few books off it before sitting down in the chair across from me. "Shall we start with Don Quixote?"

"You're going to teach me how to read now?"

"No," he says. "The lesson is over for the day. I'm going to read to you."

He studiously flips open the book and starts reading. He does so in the way he gives his sermons, and I am enraptured, hanging on each word about this man from La Mancha and his squire, even when I find myself getting tired, the room getting fuzzy. My eyes flutter closed for a moment.

Priest snaps the book shut and then comes over to me, reaching down to pick me up into his arms, bringing me over to his bed.

"I want you to sleep with me tonight," he says as he lowers me to the straw mattress. He isn't asking, but I don't want to say no anyway.

I just nod, rubbing my lips together in quiet anticipation.

Then, to my surprise, he takes my wrists in one hand, takes off his rosary with the other, and wraps it around my wrists. I expect him to attach them to the iron posts that line the bed, but he doesn't. I think he just likes the way it looks on me, bound by what he worships.

Though I know he's about to worship me.

He takes off his shirt, then his pants, and I absorb the sight of him, my gaze greedy and hungry. His cock is thick, hard as stone. I don't care if it's considered rude; I take my time to study the sight of him. I've slept with other Syrens before, males, females, the ones in between, but I'd never seen a human cock until I saw Priest's. I don't have much to compare it to, other than the soldier—I took a peek in his pants when Priest was preoccupied—but I know that this cock is magnificent: not as long as a male Syren's, but thick and wide and sculpted, with veins and hard ridges and velvety soft skin.

I'm already salivating. I want it in my mouth.

He gives me a lopsided smile as he prowls over me, his cock bobbing stiffly as he moves. I stare at the ridges of his abdomen as they flex, the sharp curve of his hips. I try to reach for his cock with my bound hand, desperate to feel its heavy weight in my palm, but he grabs my wrists and holds them above my head.

My blood is already simmering as he keeps my hands together and reaches down, steering his cock into my entrance. I'm wet and ready, legs splayed open, my blood simmering, the pulse of my heart rapid in my veins. I watch the ropey muscles of his forearms as he positions himself, teasing me with the glistening tip.

I gasp, jerking my hips upward, animalistic and instinctual, wanting all of him.

"Patience," he murmurs to me, his blue eyes heavy-lidded as he continues this torturous dance, the head of his cock just kissing my cunt, a wet sound filling the room.

"I don't have patience," I tell him, trying to lift my hips again. "I want you inside me. If not there, then let my lips have you."

He growls and grabs my face, putting his thumb in my mouth.

"I know you would rather suck on my cock," he says with a groan. "But I'm only willing to lose the tip of my thumb to you." He gives me a lazy, lopsided grin and pushes the rest of his thumb into my mouth. I suck on it, watching his eyes flutter closed for a moment.

Then, he slams his hips forward against mine, his cock penetrating deep, and I'm breathless, gasping, all air pushed from my lungs, my heart hammering in my chest.

He grunts loudly, his lower teeth bared as if he's snarling, and he starts fucking me harder, enough that the bed moves, thrusting in and out as if he wants to impale me. Then, he suddenly slows down, pulling out halfway, running his mouth all over my body, his teeth grazing me, drawing blood.

My priest is a contradiction as he moves. His hands roam my body with desperation; they grip my hips, my stomach, my breasts, mean and bruising. His teeth are sharp, his bite hard. And yet, every now and then when he looks up to meet my eyes, there is softness there, something deep and wild but tender enough to undo the hooks around my heart.

Sometimes, the way he looks at me, intense and unblinking, like he's searing a path to my soul, is too much, and I have to look away, and right now is no exception. The vulnerability is unnerving, so I stare at where his cock disappears inside me, shiny with my desire.

We are joined, connected, even when he's being so rough that the pain briefly outshines the pleasure.

"Do you like what you see?" he rasps. "Do you like how I worship at your altar? You're mine. This cunt, this arse, this mouth. All of it is mine, Larimar. Every single inch I can penetrate is mine, and if I could penetrate your soul, then that would belong to me too."

But he can penetrate my soul.

I feel him there, loosening it until it has no choice but to belong to him. He's not just holding my body captive—he's holding my heart. And if he ever lets me go, I think my heart will be the last to leave.

"Look at me," he says through a rough groan. "Look at me, little fish."

I meet his eyes, and he holds them there with the pure intensity of his gaze.

"Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I say, but the words are raw and whispered.

His lip curls, and he thrusts in harder, punishing me. "Tell me you're mine and mean it, damn it. Tell me, or I won't let you come."

Now he's being unfair.

"I'm yours," I tell him.

The funny thing is, I mean it. It's not because I said I would be bound to him—it's because I want to be bound to him. And when he's that deep inside me, I'm not sure how I can think otherwise.

"Fuck," he says gruffly. "Here I come, Goddess." His fingers reach down, giving my clit a few rough strokes. "And so will you."

He knows all that I need. His fingers give me bliss in seconds. I come hard, crying out as he keeps my hands pinned above my head, biting and sucking at my breasts, licking my mouth as I squeeze his cock until his orgasm is torn out of him.

"Yes," he begs into my open mouth. "Please. God."

He comes with hard jerks of his hips, his hot seed spurting inside me, filling me up until I think there can't possibly be more.

And then, finally, he collapses, buries his face in my neck, his skin damp, the room smelling of our sex.

He's still inside me when he falls asleep.