The Prince

Søren cradled the left side of Kingsley’s face and Kingsley closed his eyes, relishing the touch of Søren’s skin on his. How long would it be before he felt it again?

“Do you even have to ask?” Søren whispered.

“Yes.”

Søren spoke no more, but Kingsley felt the touch of lips on his. And he understood the truth then. Søren hadn’t married Marie-Laure because he loved her. Søren had married Marie-Laure because he loved him.

Kingsley sensed Søren’s reluctance when he pulled away. Such a kiss as that had always been a precursor to a night of passion. Passion…Kingsley never understood passion until he’d come to a Catholic school and learned of Christ’s passion. Passion…before Søren it had been merely a synonym for lust, for sexual hunger and pleasure. Now it took on new meaning, true meaning. Now passion meant what he felt for Søren. And passion meant what Søren did to him.

“I have to go,” Søren said as Kingsley opened his eyes.

“I understand.”

“I knew you would. And she will, too…eventually.”

“Will you tell her what you are?” Kingsley asked.

“She is your sister. What do you think? Tell her? Or no?”

Marie-Laure would be devastated to learn what kind of man she’d married, but more devastated if he didn’t touch her with no explanation why.

A choice lay before Kingsley. And he knew the right answer.

“Don’t tell her,” he said. “Not yet.”

“If you think that’s what is best.”

“I do,” he lied without meeting Søren’s eyes.

He looked up and found Søren staring at the door to the chapel, staring at it like an enemy that must be defeated.

“You don’t want to go to her.”

“No,” Søren said. “I want to stay with you.”

“Then stay with me. Stay forever.”

Søren found his mouth again and kissed him…a deep kiss, a slow kiss, a kiss of utter ownership. He ended the kiss and stood tall and straight. Kingsley had never seen him look more handsome or more miserable.

“That’s why I married her, Kingsley. So I could.”

The kiss still burned on Kingsley’s lips, the moment still hovered in the air like the final note of a piano sonata.

Søren looked away and took one step, but paused, turned around and shoved Kingsley hard into the wall of the chapel. This first kiss had been an apology of sorts from Søren, the second kiss an explanation. But this kiss, the third and final, it was an attack. Kingsley let Søren bite his lips, his tongue, dig his fingers into his throat...

“Mercy…” Kingsley whispered against Søren’s teeth.

Søren stopped immediately.

“Mercy? Or merci?” he asked.

Kingsley raised his hand and wiped the blood from his mouth.

“Does it matter?”

Søren shook his head.

“No.”

Søren wrenched himself away from Kingsley and stepped out into the longest night of the year. Of course, Marie-Laure would understand eventually, even if Søren didn’t tell her what he was. It was for the best for all of them. The money meant freedom—freedom for them all to do whatever they desired. For Kingsley and Søren it meant they could be together always without fearing what anyone thought. For Marie-Laure...Kingsley didn’t know what it would mean for Marie-Laure, but surely between something as tenuous as love and as tangible as money, she would choose the latter.

Yes…of course she would understand...

Bien sûr.

But she didn’t understand.

* * *

Kingsley stood with Marie-Laure in the tiny kitchen of the guest quarters she now occupied with Søren. The Fathers at Saint Ignatius had promised she could stay for the rest of the school year, while Søren finished his first year of teaching. As much as the students feared Søren, the priests loved him. Kingsley knew Father Henry would have done anything to keep Søren at Saint Ignatius, even adopting him as a son if it came to that. And Marie-Laure had made herself useful. She tutored the younger boys in French, helped Father Aldo cook for them all. She worked every day in the school library, reshelving the books and encouraging the boys to keep working, keep studying, keep reading. In short, she became the perfect teacher’s wife. And yet…

“I don’t understand. I thought he loved me,” Marie-Laure said to Kingsley as she put the teacups carefully away in the cabinet.

Kingsley heard the distress in her voice, the sorrow.

“What is it? Did you two fight?” He kept his voice light and curious. He hated himself for being relieved at her pain. But the thought of Marie-Laure sleeping in the same bed as Søren every night sent Kingsley into paroxysms of jealousy. It should be him in bed with Søren, not her. He ached for their nights at the hermitage, and falling asleep and waking up with Søren’s body next to his.

“Non, we don’t fight. I fight. He listens. I could claw his eyes out, and he would simply sit there and listen.” She shook her head as tears started to flow from her eyes. Kingsley stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. He said nothing, only waited. “Kingsley…he doesn’t touch me. Ever. Not once. Not on our wedding night…not before, not after. Never.”

Kingsley could have cried from relief. He had feared that Søren, like every other man who’d met Marie-Laure, would succumb to her beauty.