Author: Tiffany Reisz

“Yes, Mistress,” he finally said, and Nora nearly sagged with relief. But she didn’t relax, not yet.

“Good boy. Oh, one more thing.”

“What?”

Nora slapped Søren so hard across the face that he gasped from the pain of it. Søren looked at her in pure unadulterated shock.

“I have wanted to do that for nineteen years, you pretentious, overbearing, self-important hypocrite. You made me water a goddamn stick for six fucking months.”

The last words she almost shouted as years of pent-up rage rose up in her like an army with banners aloft ready to die and ready to kill.

“Kingsley,” she said, looking past Søren, “I’m leaving. If he tries anything before Wes and Laila come up for air, shoot him.”

She couldn’t remember the last time Kingsley looked so delighted.

“With pleasure, Maîtresse.”

Nora turned on her heel, leaving everyone—Søren, Kingsley, Grace, Wes, Laila and all the bad memories of the past few days—behind her.

“Nora, are you all right? Where are you going?” Grace called out after her.

“Thirty-six hours is about my upper limit for wallowing. I’ve got places to go, people to beat.”

Nora slammed the front door behind her and the sound jarred her back to reality. She had no car, no keys, no money on her. Nothing. That’s okay. Never stopped her before.

Wesley’s Mustang was parked out front and Kingsley’s Jag. She was rather fond of Wes and King today. Only one option remained.

Nora found the keys waiting in the ignition of Søren’s motorcycle.

“Arrogant prick. Maybe you’ll finally listen to me now. Told you to get a fucking disc lock for your bike.” She started the priceless vintage Ducati and let her guts lead the way out of the driveway. Instead of heading home, her guts aimed her straight at Manhattan. Fine. So be it. New York, it is. Kingsley said Griffin was watching the Empire while they were gone. A little afternoon delight with Griffin and Michael would do her nicely today. And if not, surely Sheridan could be persuaded to come over and play awhile. She’d be elbow-deep in that little girl before dinner. And tonight, she was getting shit-faced. Now that was what the doctor ordered.

As the miles flew past her, the realization that she’d actually slapped Søren in the face started to sink in. Not only had she hit him, she’d hit him harder than he’d ever hit her. That slap was one for the record books. He’d be lucky to not have a black eye from that bitch of a slap she laid on him. On top of that, she’d done it in front of Kingsley and Grace. No doubt Søren would beat the holy living hell out of her for this. The various punishments and tortures he’d lay on her danced in front of her face. He’d probably have to invent some new form of sadism to punish her latest crimes. Or he’d choose the worst possible punishment for her of all—enforced and prolonged celibacy.

Whatever it was it would hurt. It would be brutal. It would be torture. It would be pure Søren at his most sadistic.

She couldn’t wait.

Part Seven

CHECKMATE

46

THE QUEEN

December 21, eighteen months later

Nora tied a red ribbon around the box and using scissors and tape fashioned an elaborate bow. Céleste showed much more interest in the boxes than the presents so Nora made sure to give Kingsley’s daughter the best boxes in the world. Christmas was so much more fun this year now that she had children to buy presents for. Kingsley and Juliette’s little girl had come screaming into the world only two months before Zach and Grace’s son, Fionn. A boy and a girl. Perfect. She was already planning their first date.

“So I got my tickets to Paris. I leave the day after Christmas. You’re not going to miss me too much, are you?”

Søren turned around on the piano bench to face her. He’d been playing Christmas music all morning while she decorated the tree and wrapped the gifts. Hard to believe it would be Søren’s last Christmas at Sacred Heart.

“I’ll try to survive your absence. No promises.”

“Be strong. I’m only gone one week.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re going back to France?”

Nora didn’t answer at first. She hadn’t told anyone about Marie-Laure’s revelation that Kingsley had an illegitimate son living somewhere in the south of France. Marie-Laure might have been lying, playing with Nora’s emotions. She didn’t want to set Kingsley up for disappointment. Instead, she’d quietly hired a detective to find Nicolas. She’d seen a few pictures and he certainly looked like he could be Kingsley’s son. But she wouldn’t know for certain until she looked him in the eyes. Kingsley had taken to fatherhood better than anyone could have dreamed. Céleste had the most doting French papa in the world. Why not give the little girl the gift of a brother? Anyway, she had to try. From the moment she’d learned about Nicolas she felt possessive of him as if he were her own. The day after Christmas she’d meet Zach in Paris and together they’d hunt the kid down. Zach had lived in France a few years and knew the country much better than she did. Plus Grace had promised her a week with him. She planned to cash that chip in and find Kingsley’s other progeny.

“I’m looking for something,” she said to Søren, and left it at that.

“Something?”

“I’ll tell you when I find it. If I find it.”

“You’re being mysterious.”

“Entirely on purpose and mainly to annoy you.”

“It’s working.”

“You know I’m a writer. I can’t tell you everything in the beginning. Then there’s no point to the story.”

“But you will tell me?”

“Eventually, I promise. Soon as I get back.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Søren came over to the tree and surveyed her work. “Very good work on the tree. I see you managed to avoid any inappropriate ornaments this year.”

“I’m still putting the Christmas shark up on the tree when I find it. What is Christmas without the Christmas shark?”

“I can’t even begin to answer a question of such theological import without at least a week of prayer and fasting first.” He raised his hand to the little plastic hart that hung on a silver string from one of the higher branches. She’d given him the little hart years ago as a Christmas gift. Every year it had found its way onto his Christmas tree.

“Can you hand me that box over there? I have to wrap Fionn’s last gift.”

Søren handed her a small box and Nora shook her head.

“The other one please.”

“No...I think that’s the right box.”

Nora looked up at him suspiciously. She put her scissors down and studied the small box wrapped in red paper.

“It’s your birthday, not mine.”

“Open the box, Eleanor.”

“I’m supposed to give you presents.”

“You’ve already given me your present. Now it’s your turn.”

“What is it?”

“I have no idea,” Søren said. “I suppose you’ll have to open it to find out.”

Nora removed the red paper and found to her delight, and horror, a tiny black box on the inside.

“Oh, my Lord.”

“Open it, Little One. Don’t be scared.”

She opened the box and found a silver necklace on a bed of velvet. On the chain hung two silver bands.

“Søren, not this again...” she warned.

“They’re wedding bands.”

“I know they are. We can’t get married. We get married and you get excommunicated. That’s how it works. I’ve been excommunicated before. It’s not fun.”

“You are worth the risk.”

Nora picked up the rings and noticed the engraving on the bands. One word on each ring. Her ring said Forever. It was the promise she’d made him that night so long ago when he’d pulled her ass out of the fire. She didn’t even have to look to know his ring bore the promise he made her. Everything. The fire of her teenage infatuation with Søren had burned itself out years ago. In its flames a love made of iron had been forged. It could survive any blow, any trial. Even this trial.

“I made God a deal a long time ago,” she said, meeting Søren’s eyes. “If I didn’t take you from the church He wouldn’t take you from me. That’s the one promise I’ve ever made I will die before I break.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not now. Not ever. I won’t ask you to break your promise to God and I won’t break mine, either. I’m only asking that you wear these. Consider them...very small collars.” He smiled and she knew she couldn’t say no.

“I’ll wear them but you should know, it doesn’t matter to me that we can’t get married. I belong to you. I always will.”

Søren clasped the necklace around her neck and the cool metal of the rings tickled the skin of her chest.

“Yes, you do.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Forever.”

“Forever.”

He pulled back and she exhaled heavily. Wedding bands. Ridiculous. But they were very pretty, she had to admit that. She supposed this meant they were engaged. Fine, let Søren think they were if that made him feel better. At least he’d tried to make an honorable woman out of her. No, they would never get married. Not now, not ever, and they both knew it. But the future did hold the prospect of more time together. Six months ago Kingsley had announced that he was giving up his Empire, passing the keys of the kingdom to Griffin, and moving to New Orleans to start a new operation—smaller, more intimate. Less an Empire and more a private kingdom. New York had far too many enemies, far too many powerful people who he’d pissed off. He planned to start over in New Orleans, the perfect city for a man with a Haitian lover, and a quarter-French, half-Haitian daughter. Kingsley made his announcement and the next day Nora started house hunting. When Søren told her one month later that he’d accepted a full professorship at Loyola University in their Pastoral Studies department, she couldn’t even feign surprise. Of course he had. And for his birthday today, she’d given him a box with a key in it—a key to a house in New Orleans’ Garden District, a house hidden far from prying eyes, a house where he and she could be alone together, where he and Kingsley could be alone together.

He’d looked at the key and he’d looked at her. Nora had said, “You would have done the same thing for me.” They said no more about it. They didn’t have to. Things had changed between him and Kingsley since her week in Kentucky with Wesley. One night two weeks after her rescue she came to the rectory and found it empty. When Søren arrived home hours later and slipped into bed with her, she could taste Kingsley on his lips. She’d only laughed, called him a “big blond slut” and fallen asleep across his chest. They’d all looked death in the face thanks to Marie-Laure. When they looked away they saw one another, saw how all three of them belonged together, and they would never let anything or anyone divide them again. If Kingsley went to New Orleans, there would be no question. Søren would go, too. So would Nora.

She and Søren never spoke of his nights with Kingsley, as she never spoke of her phone calls with Wesley. After a few months, she could even ask Wes about his relationship with Laila without wanting to commit seppuku. Last year she’d cried alone at her kitchen table after Wesley told her Laila would be moving to Kentucky to go to school. Apparently there was some all-girls college not far from Wes’s house that had an equine program. How convenient. But that was it, the last time she’d cried over him. Now she could think of him without pain, remember without hurting.