I haven't been on Tapas as a creator for very long, but I can't express how it makes my heart flutter to see Prince's Priest hit 25 subscribers. This novel has had me stretched and wondering if it was something readers would like. I suppose as I continue to release chapters once a week, we'll see if I can keep them coming back, following along, and hopefully see a comment or two in the near future.
The Prince of Bloodeaters is in love with a human priest. Living in a kingdom haunted by civil war & a plague called the Madness, two men will find their own way to fix their world. Viceroy Falco stands in their way, the Prince’s power hungry ex-lover.
TEASER - from latest Chapter Rite of Priesthood
Never will I forget he became a priest worthy of carrying the symbol of the Church burnt into his back.
“Did you hurt yourself?” John’s brow furrowed, but behind him the branding iron was glowing red hot. “Do you need–”
“No, I’m fine.” Forcing my eyes back to his, I redirected him. “I made sure the water was cold.”
John gave a half-hearted smile. “Then let’s get this over quickly.”
He had moved the table and chairs closer to the fire already. Standing, John began to unbutton the black overcoat only worn by priest. Tossing it over the back of his chair, he pushed it to the table. Next, he pulled the white blouse off. I held my breath, taking in his athletic build for the first time. Like my own skin, he had signs of sword practice which meant he had befriended Valiente to learn what his grandfather hadn’t been willing to teach him. John then unbuckled his belt and I swallowed.
“It helps to bite on leather, I’m told.” John’s voice pulled my eyes off his hands and back to his face. “Some have bitten their tongues off. A farewell tip from Bishop Montgomery.”
I paled, John handing his belt to me, “What am I to do for you?”
“Hold my arms.” John straddled the chair, reaching his arms across the table, hands balled. “As long as you hold me firm and still, this should be over quickly.”
“You won’t feel the hot iron but smell the burning flesh first.” Bishop Marquis carried a grave look, it hadn’t been his first time performing the rite. “The pain comes when air hits the mark when we lift the iron.”
Jonas grimaced, “This is so barbaric. I cut my braid and devoted myself to the Bishop rather than endure the rite to be a priest . It’s cruel.”
“Enough,” Barked John, taking charge of the room. “It is my rite and I am ready.”
I stood watching Jonas and the Bishop struggling to pull the cross from the hearth.
“Dante.”
The old man had made it large enough to double as a blacksmith’s fire, never know when you’ll have to go to war again.
“Dante.”
PING! Bishop Marquis’ hand slips, the corner of the cross hitting against the stone slap of the hearth. Jonas curses under his breath, shoving it back into the flames to regain lost heat.
“Dante!” John’s fingers grip my shirt, tugging me closer. “Pay no mind to them.”
“But, shouldn’t I go help them?” Panic written all over my face, I protested, “If they can’t lift the wretched thing, what point is there?”
“Look at me, not them.” I did as he commanded, my eyes locking with his. “Gimme the belt and hold my arms. I don’t even know how strong my will is for something like this.”
I gave a disapproving tilt of my head, shoving the leather into his mouth. Grabbing his forearms, they were slick with a cold sweat. He was nervous, scared even despite the powerful composure he put on for the Bishop. My eyes began to wonder back to the bumbling fools, but John flexed his arm muscles and furrowed as if saying, stop it. The glow and heat of the cross approached. I refused to look, though they seemed to be holding it steady this time. Without any warning red hot metal hit flesh. John’s muscles stiffened, his teeth digging into the belt, but he kept silent.
Stubborn as a mule, that one… the old man would have laughed over it.
