Page 90 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“No!” She slams the cane down, splashing a puddle of water onto her black robes. “You two return to the archives and the gospel. We need that second verse translated.” She glares at Mercy. Flattens her lips. “I’m assuming this display means that you no longer deem Team Saint a threat to us?”

She shakes her head. Mumbles, “Technically, the sparring match was a way to prove to Jasmine she has no reason to fear them.”

“How?” The Reverend Mother scoffs. “By beating each other to a pulp?”

“The winner receives a prize. He wins, I go to confession. I win, he lets us screen his phone calls with the Vatican, and we get their unwavering allegiance⁠—”

“You have it anyway,” I groan out.

Cazzo, am I sweaty? I feel sweaty.

“You didn’t let me finish, Father.” Mercy’s voice turns sweet.

She rarely calls me by that title, and I snap to attention.

“I was going to say,” she continues, “since your allegiance and phone were offered anyway, that you’ll be doing my laundry for the next week.”

“Who won?” The Reverend Mother asks.

Mercy snorts. “Of course I won.”

“Um.” Wesley sticks his pointer finger in the air. “I beg to differ, love.”

She glowers at him. “I did.”

“Um.” Thea adds her hesitation. “Babe … I think it’s a draw.”

“What?”

“Then it’s settled.” The Reverend Mother stamps her cane like a judge’s gavel. “It’s a draw. You both will follow through on your debts to each other, and I’ll hear nothing more of it again. Understood?”

She doesn’t wait for our reply and orders Mercy, “See to Father Angelotti’s injuries and then join us in the archives. You’d better hope you haven’t added to the orphans’ trauma.”

I should feel offended that she assumes I am the only one injured, but it’s true. Mercy isn’t even breathless from the fight. The Reverent Mother casts a final, withering glance my way and then spins in a whirl of black robes, her cane slamming extra loudly.

Thirty-One

Cisco

It feels like an eternity since the Reverent Mother left, but it’s only seconds, and then the pool hall empties and fills with silence.

Then it’s just Mercy, me, and the gentle lapping of water against our skin.

“Come on.” She lets go of my hand and climbs out of the pool with the ease of an acrobat.

I can’t move. I’m still locked in position, hand round my cock, back against the pool wall, feet planted, torn black fabric floating around my shoulders.

“Cisco,” she hisses from the deck. “Let’s go.”

With a groan, I pry my fingers from my cock, wincing more from the ache there than the one in my body.

Mercy helps me climb onto the deck. Once I’m free of the water, fumbling to my feet, it feels like I swallowed a sack of stone. Gravity pulls me down, and I stumble. Mercy quickly stabilizes me with an ease belying her femininity. Again, I marvel at her strength. Her fortitude. Her sheer, stunning confidence and composure while she is virtually naked.

I accept her arm around my waist and lean on her shoulders for support. Why am I so lethargic? Surely, she didn’t injure me that badly. I held my own. This must be a side effect of the curse being activated and then stifled so quickly afterward. Usually, I have a chance to satisfy my hunger, and when I do, drowsiness follows. Perhaps my body is confused.

She helps me stagger across the deck, obstinate in her pace toward the changeroom. I punch the swinging door open for us to enter, and it echoes like thunder.

The storm.