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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.