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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.”