Chapter Thirty-One

It's an eerily calm night and the moon is full, reflecting off the water so the whole ocean seems to glow. Every now and then, Nill's fin will break the surface, reminding us he's there.

Sometimes, I jump right into the ocean to test if the spell works. Each time, my legs turn back into a tail with only some discomfort, and I swim alongside Nill. Sometimes, Maren joins me, and we swim like we used to when we were children and didn't know any better, riding the waves at the bow of the ship, pretending the humans couldn't hurt us.

But tonight, the ocean isn't as inviting.

I've ignored Priest for too long.

According to him, I've already broken one bargain, and now, I'm breaking another.

He gave me legs on the condition that I would talk to him alone, and he's been in the jail cell for days, waiting for me to finally gather the courage to hear what he has to say. Though perhaps it's not courage I'm waiting for. Perhaps I'm waiting for armor to form around my heart.

But that will never happen. I'll never be able to protect myself from him, even if he's chained up. I'll never not hurt at whatever he has to say. Our interactions always revolved around pain—why should that be any different now?

The sea might be calm, but inside, I am not. I never will be until I face him, face what we once had—or what I believed we had.

I glance back at the helm to where Thane stands with a man called Matisse. They nod at me but say nothing more. Everyone on this ship has been giving me great distance. I thought they would be leering at me, like the way those men on the other ship did. At the very least, I thought they would smell my blood and act like Vampyres, but either they all have manners, or Maren has scared them off, because they treat me like a lady, with respect, if not a little caution.

Truthfully, I feel like anything but a lady. I'm wearing Maren's fine gowns, but I feel like an impostor, like I'm only pretending to be human when inside, I'm a nervous, delusional wreck. I walk on two legs now, but they might as well be a tail.

I go to my chambers, strip out of the layers of clothing, and don my shift. I get into my bed, all the while trying not to think about him.

But I can only think about him.

In chains, waiting for me.

The imagery makes me throb.

I reach between my legs, touching myself, letting myself explore my new body for the first time again.

But I can't stop picturing Priest.

The way he touched me, like his hands did the worshipping and every prayer was on his tongue. He used my body as if it would lead him to heaven, and I used his as if he was leading me to hell. Sometimes, in the throes of our passion, we went to both places, both heathens and saints, lost and loving every minute of it.

I nearly bring myself to an orgasm, but I stop before I reach that peak.

I can pretend all I want that I don't still want him, but I'm tired of lying to myself.

I leave my chambers, padding barefoot down the stairs and down another until I'm where Priest is being held. It's quiet here, only the occasional creak of the wood and laughter far away in the crew's shared quarters, one last drink before they go to sleep.

I pause outside the door to the jail. I know he can hear me, smell me, knows I'm here. I'm giving him time to prepare his speech, the tiniest courtesy I can afford.

I hear the chains rattling.

My fingers curl around the handle, briefly turning into claws as I test myself, then back to normal as I open the door.

The jail cell is completely dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

I hear Priest's sharp inhale as he breathes me in.

I sniff the air myself. I was prepared for the cell to smell badly, but Vampyres themselves are extraordinarily clean, I've found.

I do smell him, though.

The scent of herbs and ocean and salt and pine and everything that makes my chest feel tight spin me back in time to Nombre de Jesus.

"Larimar," he whispers, rough, reverent. My skin washes with heat while an imaginary finger coasts down my spine.

I close the door behind me, casting everything in dark shadow. My eyesight is still as good as a Syren's, though I am unsure if it's as good as a Vampyre's.

"There is a lantern by the door," he says.

I fumble for it and find the matches, lighting it.

He comes into view, and I try not to gasp.

He's completely naked. Shackles around his wrists attach to the ceiling with chains, shackles around his ankles are soldered to the wall. The chains are long enough for him to move about a little but not enough to explore the whole room. There's a bucket tucked away in the furthest corner that he can reach—I don't have to wonder what that is. There's another larger one filled with water with several bars of soap and washcloths piled next to it. Then, by the wall, sits an empty jar with red residue, which I assume is blood.

"Why are you naked?" I ask.

"Why not?" he replies. "Clothes are a hindrance if you can't wash them. Our sense of smell means we have to bathe frequently and often. No different than if you're here as a prisoner."

"You're not a prisoner," I tell him.

"I sure look like one."

He does. A very naked prisoner. My eyes coast up and down his body, relishing in the sight of him, not knowing if I'll see it again. It's his body that makes me think that if God or some kind of deity exists, he certainly favors some of his subjects. Priest would have been his prized creation from the very beginning, starting with his perfect face—the straight, noble nose above full lips and square jaw, the intense blue of his haunted eyes, his arched dark brows and long, shiny black hair that hangs to his collarbones. Then there's his body, the wide expanse of his shoulders, the rounded muscle that showcases all his power, the strong, ropey lines down his arms. His chest is firm and thick, with just a dusting of dark hair that peppers the line between his rigid abdomen to his flat stomach. His hips curve sharply down to muscular legs, and I know from experience that his rear is just as sculpted and taut. His sun-browned skin practically glows in the lantern light. If I am silver, then he is gold.

I know I shouldn't stare at him like this—I came here to hear what he had to say, not to ogle him.

But my cunt still pulses with need, my arousal picking up where I left off, and I have to admit, it feels good to be on the receiving end of this for once.

"You like what you see," he comments, his voice thicker now, throaty. He can smell my lust, and I can hear it in him, see it in him, even. His cock is no longer hanging heavily between his thighs—now, it's darkened with blood and standing at full attention, twitching with the movement of his breath, which is getting more labored by the minute. There's already arousal gathered on his tip, glistening in the flickering light.

"I do like what I see," I say, slowly walking over to him until I'm just out of reach. "I like being on this side of the game."

"Game?" he says, frowning. "None of this is a game, Larimar."

"You treated it like a game," I tell him, willing myself not to stare at his cock for a second longer. I keep focused on his eyes, although they are just as hypnotic. "You let me loose to see if I would run, and when I did, you tried to hunt me down."

"That wasn't me," he growls, moving for me, but the shackles pull on his wrists, keeping him in place.

"You say that," I say. "And I know. I saw the monster with my own eyes. But how do I know you didn't invite him in? How do I know you didn't enjoy the transformation?"

"Because the monster is a killer, and I am not!"

I stare at him for a moment. "Is that what happened to your family? You killed them?"

He swallows hard and gives a solemn nod, his eyes burning with shame, enough that it loosens a thread around my fractured heart. "I did. I killed them. I don't remember it all, but…I did."

I feel the weight of his confession, the air thickening with his regret. I suspected that's what happened to his wife and children, since he wouldn't talk about it, but it's still a lot to hear.

And yet, I'm not looking at him any differently. I don't think he's more of a monster. I just know now what drove him to this constant struggle for salvation, what has driven him to make up for the man he lost.

"But you are a killer," I say quietly. "It's your nature. You have to kill others to survive. We all do."

"You and I do," he says, straining against the chains. "The rest of the world seems to do just fine."

"Do they?" I ask, raising my brow. "We're the monsters but the humans aren't? You know that's not true. You heard what happened to me on that ship, what happened to my friend. Do you think they aren't part beast as well?"

He doesn't say anything to that. Finally, he sighs. "I killed my family. I've killed countless others since, hundreds. I suppose it doesn't really matter why I did it in the end."

"Were you going to kill me?" I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper, my heart high in my chest.

He stares at me, searching my face before he blinks. "I don't know."

"Oh," I say, looking down. I had really wanted to hear a definite no.

"But I didn't want to," he says. "And I wasn't in control. You have to believe me. If I was…I never would have hurt you." His gaze drops to my legs.

I turn around, looking at the backs of my calves. The reminder is there; the scarring where he sliced off my skin transferred to my Syren's tail and back to my human body, leaving ugly marks behind.

A reminder I'll always have.

"Larimar," he says.

I look back at him.

A muscle ticks at his jaw as he blinks at me, like he's trying not to say something. Emotions swirl in his eyes, tugging another thread loose.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low, rough voice. "I'm sorry for what I did, for all of it. From the moment I found you in the ocean, I'm sorry I ever subjected you to a heathen like myself, a sinner masquerading as a saint, a killer in sheep's clothing. I am a monster, little fish, in every meaning of the word, and I never should have brought you into my world. I should have been a safe harbor, but instead, I brought you the storm. My church was a sanctuary to everyone but you."

I want to tell him that it was only a nightmare at the end, that even when he tortured me, I found some perverse pleasure in it, a sick thrill at his possession, at how he desired and coveted me, so much so that he had to keep me by any means necessary. Perhaps a human wouldn't find such solace in his wanton and deranged desires, but my monster side only wanted more.

But I don't tell him that. No, I want him to suffer. I want him to grovel. I want him to know that even though I loved being his prisoner, loved being the object of his every thought and affection from sunup to sundown and all the dark hours in-between, he scarred me, both body and soul.

"I gave you my heart," I tell him, walking over to the bucket of water. "I fell in love with you, Priest. Fast and all at once, I was in love. And that night, I wanted to tell you. I woke up in the night to tell you. Ran into that church to tell you. Then I saw what my love turned you in to."

He shakes his head, his eyes welling with tears. Damnit, he shouldn't be breaking me all over again. "I am sorry," he whispers hoarsely. "Please. I didn't know."

"Would it have made a difference?" I ask, picking up a bar of oily soap that smells of lemons. "If I told you I loved you, would the monster have stayed away? Or would I have made it hungrier?"

He stares at me, a tear spilling over. I know what he's going to say: he doesn't know.

"It doesn't matter," I say, sighing heavily, though no matter how hard I exhale, I can't shake the weight of this, the weight of us. "What's done is done. I loved you. You tried to kill me. Story of our lives, is it not?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "One chapter of our lives. The story isn't over. The story doesn't even need to have an end."

"Not for you," I tell him. "You'll be alive until the end of time. My story will end eventually, and our story will be done."

"Please," he whispers, trying to move against the chains, but they rattle as they hold him back.

"Please what?" I ask, hating how good it sounds to hear him beg for a change.

"Please…just please. Please don't go. Please don't give up on me. Please just…"

"Just what?"

His gaze is a loaded pistol. "Give me your heart again and I promise not to break it."

I nearly laugh. "Give you my heart? Priest, I don't love you. I might even hate you." I'm spitting out the words now, trying to hurt him.

"I can handle your hate," he says after a moment, adjusting his stance. It's enough for my gaze to drop down to his cock again. Of course; I think hate only arouses him further. "I might even crave your hate sometimes."

"And you still want my heart?"

"I want every part of you," he admits. "I need every part of you. You're mine, Larimar. No matter what you say or think or do, whether you cast me off in a boat, never to see me again, or if you put your heart behind a locked box for safekeeping. You're still mine. You'll always be mine. You have no say in the matter."

This sounds more like the Priest I knew, and I hate how much I love to hear it.

Hate how much my body answers his call.

"You treat me like I'm your possession," I say, putting the soap in the clean, cold water and crouching down to submerge a washcloth. "Like I'm something you own. Something you keep. Something you control." I straighten up, wringing the excess water from the cloth. "Yet, here you are, the one in chains. Seems like I'm the one keeping you at the moment."

"I guess our roles have reversed," he says darkly, desire blazing in his eyes.

I take a chance and step to the side of him, as far away from his hungry cock as possible. The heat of his body nearly overwhelms me, and I raise the washcloth. "You bathed me so many times," I tell him. "It's only fair I get to do the same."

A low noise rattles in his chest as I bring the wet cloth down over his chest, slowly running it down to his hips. He starts to jerk at the chains, but he doesn't try to move away from me.

"But when I bathed you, it wasn't torture," he says through a groan as I bring the cloth down over his thighs, down the taut muscles of his calves.

"How do you know?" I ask, straightening up to bring it down over his back.

His head arches back. "You enjoyed it?"

"Of course I did," I admit. "I would never tell you that, though. You'd probably have stopped if you found out I liked it."

"I would have made you come is what would have happened," he says.

I smirk at that, wetting the cloth again and doing the rest of his back, enjoying the feel of his lean muscles beneath my hand. "Such a contradiction. No problems in sticking nails through my wrists, as if I was your personal Jesus, but you didn't dare give me pleasure without my permission."

"I'm sorry I happen to have some morals," he rasps, his back arching, his firm rear pushing against my hands.

I bite my lip, resisting the urge to bite his cheeks instead.

"Or was it just about humiliation?" I ask. "Was that your goal?"

"You don't wear humility well," he says.

"Do you? Can I humiliate you instead? Or will that only excite you?"

"Everything you do excites me," he says gruffly.

I wet the cloth again and come around the front, touching everywhere except his cock, which is practically begging for attention. "And if I don't let you come from that excitement, what then?" I tease.

He growls, practically snarling at me. He's so painfully aroused that it seems cruel to leave him like this.

So, I decide to torture him some more, in my own way.

I reach down and run the cloth over his cock from root to tip, feeling the heat in my hand, the heavy weight of it. He lets out a rough yelp, one choked with need.

"Just making sure you're clean enough for my mouth," I tell him.

He whimpers with frustration, and it makes me squeeze my legs together. I need to stay focused on denying him, not giving into my own needs.

I grab the oily soap, running it all over his body, leaving his cock and his rear for last. I wipe my palm over the fatty bar until my skin is slick, and then make a fist over his cock, give it two hard, firm shakes.

"God!" Priest cries out, bucking against my hand.

I quickly let go before he has a chance to come.

"Demon woman," he growls at me.

I can only grin, relishing in the power rolling through me. I love submitting to this man, but it does feel good to have him submit to me for once.

Then, I rub the washcloth over it and bend down. Without touching his cock, I run the tip of my tongue over the rigid underside before dipping into the slit at his tip, tasting the salt of the ocean.

Priest is swearing again, a string of curses that would make any pirate blush, and his whole body is strained, muscles bulging, veins standing out from his flushed skin.

"Had enough?" I say.

"Yes," he groans.

"Beg for me."

But he doesn't. Not for this.

"Very well."

I soak the cloth in the water and go around to his rear, wet between his cheeks with the cloth so that he's clean enough to eat from, though he already seemed sparkling clean before. Then I take the bar of soap and slide it up and down through the crack. His muscles tense, and he lets out a sharp hiss.

"Do you like that?"

"No," he says but somehow, I don't believe him.

"Are you telling me to stop?" I ask, concentrating the tip of the bar on his entrance, making it slick and slippery.

He swallows audibly, practically panting now. "No."

That's what I thought.

I rub my fingers along the bar and then slowly penetrate the ring of muscle.

"Oh God," he calls out, head going back. "Oh, fuck."

I smile to myself and start working my fingers inside, pumping them in and out like they're a cock. I watch as they disappear between the cheeks of his rear, watch as his muscles bunch, how he's standing on his toes, splayed and straining, his calves corded.

I don't think I'll ever be in such a position of power again.

I take it for all I've got.

I keep working him, and he's crying out, breathing hard, rough, inaudible sounds falling from his open mouth. I peer around him to see his cock bobbing with the movement, swollen and angry-looking, dying to be touched.

I know I'm torturing him now.

I won't let him come.

But then he surprises me.

He shouts out my name like a desperate prayer, and he comes anyway. He grunts as his cock jerks, and long ropes of his cum spurt out of the tip, arcing into the air and slashing across the wooden floor. I didn't think it was possible for a man to come without anything touching his cock, but Priest has always been full of surprises.

"Fuck," he groans, hanging his head, his entire body going limp in the chains. "What did you just do to me?"

I pick up the wet washcloth again and go back to cleaning him, his body jolting at my touch, still sensitive. "Believe you me, my intention was not to let you come."

"I know it was," he rasps. "There's a lot about me you don't know."

"Apparently," I comment, making sure all the soap is thoroughly washed away.

Then, I step back and stare into his eyes. I expect to see them heavy and sated, but instead, they are as wild as ever.

"Now that you've done the courtesy of defiling me," he says, "perhaps you'll let me out of these chains." He pauses. "So I can do the same to you."