Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“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.