Author: Tiffany Reisz

“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.

Kingsley wanted to guard the people who came to life only in the shadowy corners of the world. But who could guard them all? So he guarded the shadows instead. And someone had breached the boundaries of his shadows and shed blood in Kingsley’s house. Shed blood in the one manner Kingsley never allowed under his roof—without consent.

“You’re late, Griffin.” Kingsley turned around and saw the handsome, if exhausted looking young man standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

“I came as fast as I could, King.” Griffin dropped his suitcase on the threshold as he came toward him. “What the hell is going on? Mick’s freaked out. So am I. Not that I told him that.”

Sighing, Kingsley picked up his sherry and twirled the contents to coat the sides of the glass. He set it down without drinking.

“How is your new pet?” Kingsley looked Griffin up and down. Love had been kind to Griffin Fiske. As tired as he must be, he still looked ready and able to break anyone in half with his bare hands. Good. It might come to that. “Adjusting to life in his collar?”

Griffin grinned as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the bedpost.

“Seems to be. Mick…he and I, we’re good. Really fucking good.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow in amused approval. So much said in so few words. But Kingsley didn’t need the words. The glint in Griffin’s dark eyes told him everything he needed to know. Griffin Fiske, age twenty-nine, with the intimidating physique of a rough-and-ready bodybuilder, had found his match in the guise of a scared, nearly silent seventeen-year-old. The whole Underground still buzzed with the news that their wealthy, bisexual Lord of the Bacchanal had been brought back to earth by love. Everyone had scoffed in derision…until they’d seen Michael, that is, and those silver eyes that shone like the moon on a starless night. Kingsley had seen a little of himself in Michael—the young boy who worshipped the man who owned him, who needed fear and pain as much as he needed trust and gentleness. But Michael was only one-half of Kingsley. The boy hadn’t a dominant bone in his body, as Nora had explained to Kingsley. Kingsley had first served, and it had whetted his appetite for more. Not for more servitude, but to become a master himself.

“I’m pleased to hear all is well with you and your pet. Sadly, not all is well with me and my pets.”

Griffin’s eyes widened slightly.

“What happened?”

“Sadie…she was killed.”

“How?” Griffin dropped his arms and came to Kingsley, staring him in the face. Kingsley glanced away, not wanting him to see how deeply Sadie’s death had touched him.

“Stabbed. In the heart.”

“Holy shit. Who has that much of a death wish?”

Who indeed? Kingsley knew Griffin’s question was merely rhetorical. He wasn’t asking who had actually killed Sadie, but who on earth in their right mind would dare harm one of Kingsley Edge’s precious rottweilers? No one was the implied answer. No one at all. Only someone, as Griffin said, with a death wish. Or worse, someone already dead.

Kingsley gave a shrug as his only answer. He knew who had done it, but he would never tell, could never tell. But he could not allow anything to go further. He needed time. Time to think and plan and...he raised a hand to his face and rubbed his forehead.

“King…I’m so sorry.” Griffin touched him on the shoulder, and Kingsley nodded. No doubt Griffin mistook Kingsley’s moment of frustration as grief for his dead dog. Let him think what he wanted. The truth could never come out, anyway.

“As am I.” Kingsley faced Griffin with a smile. “But there’s nothing for it. She’s gone and we must do what we must to protect us all. Someone, whoever it is doesn’t matter, wants to harm us. I can’t allow that.”

“No. Of course not. What can I do?”

Kingsley exhaled. What could Griffin do? Nothing now. Not really. Kingsley trusted so few people in the Underground that simply having Griffin back in the city calmed him. He needed his closest companions with him now, those he could rely on. The Mistress had abandoned them. His Juliette he’d sent away.

“La Maîtresse…she is away. And I believe the person who killed Sadie also has designs on her.”

“On Nora? Why?”

Kingsley heard the fury lurking underneath Griffin’s question, and knew that’s why instinctively he’d sent for him. Griffin had loved Nora once…or tried to. And he still loved her, although not with passion and hunger anymore, but with loyalty and devotion. Nora had brought Griffin and his young lover together, and for that reason alone, Kingsley knew Griffin would walk on hot coals to protect her. And if things continued as they were, he might have to.

“Why? I cannot say, mais…I believe the person who killed Sadie is also responsible for the theft of a file from my private office. The file of La Maîtresse.”

“Shit. Someone’s breaking into your office…killing your dog. Kingsley, what the hell is going on?”

“I wish I could say, mon ami. As you can imagine, I would prefer if this does not get far. Rumors that my home is unsecure…” Kingsley let his voice trail off. He didn’t need to tell Griffin how bad it would be if the world knew that Kingsley’s home had been breached. Fear kept the city in line. Fear of Kingsley and his reach. In the archives in Kingsley’s office were thousands of hours of footage of the upper echelons of society engaging in every decadent, tawdry, immoral, indecent and criminal act known to man. And a few acts that had surprised even Kingsley. Rich and powerful alike had been caught on tape engaging in bondage and sadomasochism, participating in drug deals and arms deals. And in shadier deals that had lead to the deaths of more than one wealthy benefactor who’d made the fatal mistake of having a far too generous last will and testament. All this footage Kingsley had saved and cataloged after, of course, letting the police chief or the judge or the senator or the mayor or the socialite see the video. Kingsley would never use their crimes against them, he’d promised. He wanted neither their money nor their favors. He merely asked that if the time came, they would do him the kindness of taking his call and giving him five minutes of their precious time. He never had to explain the threat more than once. If they wanted to save themselves, they’d merely have to promise to help him whenever called upon.

“God knows I don’t want anyone getting into your office,” Griffin said, shaking his head.

“I burned your tapes long ago,” Kingsley lied. Griffin exhaled with obvious relief. He’d been a good boy for the past few years, but he was no saint when Kingsley brought him into the Underground. His drug addictions had nearly lost him his trust fund. In one particular high-definition photograph in Kingsley’s possession, one could even make out the wings on the butterfly tattoo on the back of the stripper underneath the pile of cocaine…and, of course, the face of Griffin Fiske with a hundred-dollar bill rolled up to his nostril.

“Thank you. So what? I’ll do anything for Nora. Hell, I left my honeymoon for you,” Griffin said with a roguish wink.

“The honeymoon can continue. Take your pet to La Maîtresse’s. Stay there. Watch the house. She keeps too much there that could harm her. I don’t want the house unattended.”

“Where did Nora go?”

“La Maîtresse is in Kentucky.”

Griffin’s eyes widened before he quickly composed himself. “That’s…news. How is Søren taking that?”

Kingsley paused before answering. He did trust Griffin. The boy had earned his regard and his confidence long ago. And without Juliette here to confide in…

Carefully, so as not to betray how much pain he suffered with each movement, Kingsley unbuttoned his shirt and held it open.

“Oh, fuck. Jesus, Kingsley…” Griffin flinched as he took in the mass of bruises and welts that comprised Kingsley’s chest. He looked and then glanced away before looking back again in horror.

“I believe you have your answer. That is how Søren is taking it.”

Kingsley buttoned his shirt up to his collarbone. He’d need a tie if he went out. His neck bore the unmistakable imprint of fingers.

“Did you…was that…”

“It was consensual, I assure you. Consensual if not entirely comfortable.”

Griffin shook his head. “I didn’t know you were…I didn’t know. Kingsley…you’re a switch?”

Sighing, Kingsley ran his hands through his hair. So hard to explain.

“I suppose. If we need a name for it, a label, that would do. I trust this is also nothing you will share with any others, not even your pet.”

“No. Of course not. Although he’d probably feel better knowing the most intimidating man in the city played sub sometimes. He’s still trying to get comfortable with what he is.”

“And he will still be trying when he is my age.”

“Does Nora know?”

“Oui. Bien sûr. What the priest knows she knows. And she…she’s almost as good at it as he is.”