The Prince

Søren freed his wrists and Kingsley extended his arms as blood rushed through his cool fingers. He flinched when he felt Søren’s hand on his face again—this time not a slap, but a light touch.

“You do,” he said, tapping Kingsley under the chin before leaving the bed.

Kingsley rolled up into a sitting position and pulled a blanket over him. During the hour of torture, he’d been nearly sweating from desire. Now he felt cool, almost cold, and so calm he knew that if left alone and undisturbed, he could sleep for the next ten hours.

“I do?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Why would you think you don’t please me?” Søren had brought a small trunk from storage, and they used it to conceal their makeshift bonds and the belts he used to beat Kingsley.

Kingsley shrugged.

“Je ne sais pas. Mais…you ask so much of me. I can’t believe I’m giving you what you want.”

“Kingsley, you put your life in my hands. There’s nothing you haven’t let me do to you that I’ve wanted to. You please me more than I can say.”

Heat warmed Kingsley’s face as he flushed from the compliment. While they were in the moment, Søren said the most awful things to Kingsley—that he was nothing, a slave, a servant, mere property to be used for Søren’s pleasure. Did he not really mean those things? Or did he mean them at the time and not after? Or perhaps…perhaps he did mean them, and it pleased Søren that Kingsley didn’t argue?

“I’m…” Kingsley nodded as he pulled the blanket tighter around him. “I’m glad I please you. It’s the most important thing.”

Søren came back over to the bed and touched a strand of Kingsley’s hair. Kingsley willed himself not to move. He wanted to turn his face and kiss the palm of Søren’s open hand, but he stayed strong. He’d debased himself enough tonight.

“It should be.” Søren smiled at him before lightly flicking Kingsley’s swollen lips with his fingertips. Kingsley winced and Søren laughed as he walked back to the trunk.

“Asshole,” Kingsley said, employing his favorite American curse.

“Just for that, you’ll get an extra beating next time we come here.”

Kingsley rolled onto his side and nestled down deep into the blankets.

“When will that be? Soon?” He always asked that, and prayed the answer would be yes.

“Ça dépende.” Søren came back to the bed and stood at the head. Kingsley rolled his eyes dramatically as he sat back up and started to unbutton Søren’s vest. Of all the tasks Søren imposed on him, this one—undressing him for bed—was Kingsley’s favorite. The last thing he wanted was for Søren to know how much he loved tending to Søren’s clothes—carefully removing them piece by piece, folding them and setting them neatly aside even as Kingsley’s own clothes lay in heaps on the floor. Søren never missed an opportunity to step on Kingsley’s clothes when he walked through the hermitage.

“On what?” Kingsley slid the vest off Søren’s shoulders and rebuttoned it before folding it in half and laying it on the bed. Søren had taken off his tie earlier to use as a gag. Kingsley opened Søren’s pants and pulled his shirt free. With every button he unfastened, he placed a kiss onto Søren’s bare chest. Søren never commented when Kingsley did this, never sighed with pleasure or elicited any disdain. He ignored it. Simply ignored it. “Is something happening at the school? I know it’s almost midterms. I’m sure you’ll be too busy for me.”

“I am always too busy for you,” Søren said as Kingsley removed his shirt. He said this often—that he had no time for Kingsley. But they came back to the hermitage again and again. Once, when Kingsley had been brave enough to ask why Søren made time for him, he had responded, “I don’t make time for you, Kingsley. I make it for myself.”

“So it is midterms?”

Søren smiled slightly to himself as Kingsley drew his pants down. Søren stepped out of them and stood naked before him. Kingsley sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head on Søren’s stomach. He didn’t dare take any more liberties. If he was good, Søren would let him sleep all night in the cot with him. If he displeased him in any way, he’d be sent with one blanket to sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“No. The school will have a visitor soon. I’m afraid we will have less time together because of her.”

“Her? Who is it? Another sister?” Two weeks ago, a Benedictine nun had visited the school for three days. Sister Scholastica had come as a special guest lecturer in Father Patrick’s theology class. She’d been sixty and swathed in her habit from head to toe. But the very presence of a woman at Saint Ignatius had caused even placid Father Henry to blush and stammer.

“Yes,” Søren said, placing a hand on Kingsley’s chin and turning his face up. “Yours.”

NORTH

The Present

Kingsley stood at his bedroom window and stared out onto the city. Ever since coming to Manhattan and laying siege to the Underground, making it his own playground, he’d felt a sense of responsibility for his adopted home. France had spit him out onto the shores of Manhattan, and he’d crawled into the borough and decided to buy it. These people in his world—they were freaks. Damaged, broken, discarded, disdained…they had money, most of them, but they lacked pride, lacked dignity. The world had told them they didn’t belong, and they had believed the lie. Or perhaps it wasn’t a lie. Perhaps people like him—the men who felt that rush of power when bringing a woman to the edge of terror…or who, also like him, felt that rush of bliss when brought to their knees—really didn’t belong in the world. Not the daylight world, anyway, the downstairs world, the world that made itself presentable for company. He and his kind belonged in darkness, in the night, in the upstairs rooms where no one was allowed to go. A woman like Nora Sutherlin…what would the world do with her? Too strong and smart to surrender to domesticity, she was doomed to spinsterhood in the world’s eyes. She’d have a thousand lovers and no husband. And Søren, le prêtre, only half of him belonged in the world. The world saw a good priest and the world was right. But the other side of Søren few saw and few could speak of.