The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,32
masters and mistresses with tribute—gifts of worship, adoration, and gratitude—as they should.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s so. This house is not the gift of a man who sees a crying child and buys him an ice cream to cheer the kid up. This is the gift of a devoted submissive trying to show—in any way he can—that he worships the very ground you walk on. You turn down the gift of this house, you will be throwing Kingsley’s love and devotion and submission to you in his face.”
S?ren said nothing. Then he smiled.
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“The way you handle it is this—he gives you the house, you look at it, nod, and say ‘I suppose it’ll do.’ Then you pat him on the head, fuck him blind, and never mention that he gave you the house again. He’ll secretly hope for a feast of gratitude. Meanwhile, you’ll dole out mere crumbs. And he will eat those crumbs off your fingertips.”
S?ren reached out and patted her on the top of the head.
Nora laughed, a laugh that bounced down the hall. She grabbed his hand and held it tight.
“Now I just have to figure out a housewarming gift for you,” she said.
They locked the house up and walked back to the hotel. As they laid down in bed together, S?ren wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.
“I’m still your priest, aren’t I, Little One?” he asked.
She kissed his chest over his heart. She knew if she could cut his chest open and look at his heart, she’d see her name tattooed across it, right next to Kingsley’s and Fionn’s and God’s. “You’ll always be my priest.”
Chapter Eleven
Sunday morning, when all God’s children ought to be in church, Cyrus was trying to hunt down a dominatrix.
He’d stopped by Edge’s Garden District house/palace again, and while Nora Sutherlin’s black German Shepherd came to the gate and glared at him, his owner didn’t come with him. When he buzzed the intercom, no one answered.
Cyrus considered any time after 8:30 in the morning safe for making phone calls. At 8:31, he’d called Nora’s cell phone number that had been on the card she’d given him. The call went straight to voicemail. He’d asked her to call him back, but after waiting over two hours, he decided to try again.
She picked up this time. It was 10:30.
“Ah, Ms. Sutherlin,” he began. “This is Cyrus Tremont.”
“Good morning,” she said. “Isn’t it? I think it’s good.” Then she laughed.
“It is for somebody,” he said.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I have kind of a weird favor to ask.”
“That sounds interesting. Ask it.”
“If I bring you something, can you tell me what it is?”
“What is it?”
“If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t have to bring it to you, would I?”
“True. But can you give me a hint? Animal? Vegetable? Criminal?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Send me a pic?” she said.
“I’d rather not have a record of this.”
“Come over then. I’m in the French Quarter. Le Richelieu Hotel. Suite 301.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“If a well-groomed Viking opens the door, don’t worry. He’s with me.”
She hung up before Cyrus could ask about the Viking. He had a feeling she was trying to freak him out.
It was working.
Turned out she hadn’t been kidding about the Viking. When Cyrus knocked at the door to room 301, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man with a neatly-trimmed beard answered the door. He looked like he’d pillaged his share of villages.
“Mr. Tremont, I presume?”
“The Viking, I presume?”
The Viking smiled and Cyrus knew he’d seen this man somewhere before… It came to him—this was the guy arm-wrestling Kingsley Edge in the photograph on Edge’s mantel. Didn’t have the beard in the picture, though.
The blond held out his hand to shake. Cyrus took it, a little apprehensively, worried this was the sort of big guy who had to prove how tough he was by crushing fingers. But no. While firm and confident, the handshake didn’t hurt.
Cyrus stepped into the room. He figured the Viking explained Nora’s good mood. He saw an unmade bed in the other room, clothes on the floor, his and hers. Cyrus felt a pang of jealousy. Two more months, he told himself. He just had to make it two more months until the wedding.
“Is that Cyrus?” Nora’s voice came from behind a half-closed bathroom door.
“I assume so,” the Viking said, raising his voice so she could hear him through the door.
“Nora?” Cyrus called to her. “I just need to show you this thing really