Authors: Tiffany Reisz
2
THE KING
K
ingsley Edge stood in front of the mirror in his large walk-in closet studying his wounds as he changed from his torn shirt into another. The layers of marble-colored bruises Søren had left on him after their one night together had already turned from red to black. He could have hated the priest for the reminders upon his body of a night he feared would never be repeated. Still, he cherished the bruises now as much as he did when they were boys at school. Far more than the scars on his chest, gifts from enemies with guns, he wore them as badges of honor.
He raised his hand to the worst of his old wounds—a scar on the left side of his chest a few inches below his heart. A strange injury that looked more like he’d been stabbed than shot. Who knows? Maybe he had been.
The mission that had left him with that scar, with two of his four bullet wounds, he remembered almost nothing of. His mind had buried the memory, and he had no desire to dig it back up. Waking up in the hospital in Paris... That moment he would never forget. He would probably think of it on his deathbed. That hospital bed...it should have been his deathbed, could have been...
But for the visitor.
He had come to consciousness slowly, arduously, crawling through the deep dark on his way back into the light. He had dragged himself up through the trench of drugs and pain, bitter pain and the failure of the mission. Sensing white light in the room, he’d kept his eyes closed, unable yet to confront the sun.
From over his shoulder he’d heard low voices—one female, crisp and careful, and one male, authoritative and unyielding.
“He will live,” the man’s voice said in French. It wasn’t a question he asked the woman, but an order given.
“We’ll do what we can for him, of course.” Of course, she said.
Bien sûr
. But Kingsley had heard the lie in her voice.
“You will do everything for him. Everything. From this moment on he is your only patient. He is your only concern.”
“
Oui, mon père. Mais
...”
Mais
...but... Her voice betrayed her fear.
Mon père?
Kingsley’s muddled mind had tried to wrap itself around the words. His father had been dead for years. Who was the father she spoke to?
“Consider his life as precious as your own. Do you understand that?”
There it was. Kingsley would have smiled in his half sleep were it not for the tubes down his throat. He knew a death threat when he heard it.
Consider his life as precious as your own....
That was French anyone could translate.
He lives and you live. He dies and...
But who cared enough about him anymore to make even an idle threat? When joining
le Légion
he’d put one name down on his next-of-kin line. One name. The only family he had left. And yet, he wasn’t family, not at all. Why would he of all people come to him now?
“He will live,” the woman had promised, and this time she spoke no
“mais.”
“Good. Spare no expense for his comfort and health. All will be accounted for.”
The nurse, or perhaps she was a doctor, had sworn again she would do everything. She’d pledged that the patient would walk out whole and healthy. She’d promised she would do all she could and then some. Smart woman.
Kingsley heard her high heels retreating on the tile, the sound of her shoes as crisp and efficient as her voice. The sound died and Kingsley knew he and the visitor were now alone in the room. He struggled to open his eyes but couldn’t find the strength.
“Rest, Kingsley,” came the voice again. And he felt a hand on his forehead, gentle as a lover’s, tender as a father’s.
“My Kingsley...” The voice sighed and Kingsley heard frustration mixed with amusement. Amusement or something like it. “Forgive me for saying this, but I think it’s time you find a new hobby.”
And even with the tubes in his throat, Kingsley had managed a smile.
The hand left his face and he felt something against his fingers. The dark came upon him again, but it wasn’t the deep dark this time, merely sleep, and when he awoke again the tube was gone and he could see and speak and breathe again. And the thing that had touched his fingers was an envelope containing paperwork for a Swiss bank account someone had opened in his name—a Swiss bank account that contained roughly thirty-three million American dollars.
He took the money and he took the advice of his one and only hospital visitor. He returned to America, to the country where he’d once experienced true happiness.
And in America he did as he’d been ordered.
He found a new hobby.
* * *
Kingsley finished dressing. He tucked his shirt in and pulled on and buttoned his embroidered black-and-silver vest. Once more he looked dashing and roguish all at the same time. The household knew something had happened and for their sake he would act the part of their fearless leader as always if only to comfort their minds. In truth, he’d never been so scared in his life, not even that day in the hospital.
He yanked on his jacket as he stepped away from the mirror. Never before had he dealt with a crisis of this magnitude in his world. As soon as he’d built his Underground, his Empire of S&M clubs that catered to the wealthy and the powerful as well as the scared and the shamed, he’d begun stockpiling blackmail fodder on all the police chiefs and politicians, on the media and the Mafia, anyone who could potentially threaten his borders. Now the thing he’d feared most, harm—real harm to a citizen of his kingdom—had befallen them. And he had only himself to blame.
As soon as he left his bedroom, his night secretary, Sophie, met him in the hallway. She rattled off half a dozen messages and meetings.
“Cancel all the meetings,” he ordered as they reached the stairs. “Ignore the messages.”
“
Oui, monsieur
. Master Fiske is in your office.”
Good. Griffin was on time today.
He dismissed Sophie and headed to his private office on the third floor. When he reached it, he found Griffin standing by the window talking in hushed tones to the young man with him. Kingsley watched them a moment, waiting for them to notice him. But they had been afflicted with the tunnel vision of new love. Griffin raised his hand and cupped the face of Michael, his new lover. One kiss turned into a second one followed by a whisper. Michael nodded and leaned into Griffin, and when Michael’s silver eyes finally looked at something other than Griffin, Kingsley saw the terror in them.
He could sympathize.
“You should have left your pet at home,” Kingsley said, unable to resist goading Griffin.
Griffin raised his chin as he wrapped an arm possessively around Michael’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest.
“Somebody has Nora, King. I’m not going to let Mick out of my sight until we get her back.”
“Your pet is not in danger. I don’t think
la Maîtresse
is, either. Not yet.” He spoke the words with confidence and hoped they believed the half-truth.
“I don’t care. We protect our property. You and Søren taught me that.”
“C’est la guerre
.
”
He sighed. Kingsley had no counterargument. Wasn’t that why he’d sent Juliette away? To protect his property?
“Hey, where is Søren, anyway?” Griffin asked.
“He’s tied up at the moment.” Kingsley chose not to elaborate on the literal truth of that statement.
“What do we know? Anything?”
Kingsley shrugged.
“It’s a long story. Too long to tell. A waste of time. The priest and I, we have an old enemy we’d thought long dead. She’s not. I don’t know what her game is, but rest assured, it is a game.”
“Nora’s been kidnapped. What the fuck kind of game is this?”
“A very dangerous one. Luckily I’m something of an expert at dangerous games.”
“I’ll break any legs you tell me to,” Griffin offered, and Kingsley gave the slightest laugh.
“I appreciate the offer,
mon ami
. I think a more subtle approach might be necessary with this adversary. What I need from you is this...” Kingsley reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver key ring adorned with a
fleur de lis.
On it were eight keys—one to each of his clubs and the town house. “I will be occupied for some time dealing with this nasty business. Someone needs to keep an eye on the Empire for me.”
Griffin’s dark eyes widened. He held out his hand and Kingsley placed the keys in Griffin’s palm.
“The keys to the Kingdom,” Griffin said. “I’d say thank you for the honor but I know you’re only giving them to me because you don’t have any other choice.”
“I have dozens of staff on my payroll, many choices. I trust you. You can keep everyone in line until I come back.”
“Do you know where Nora is? Do we know anything? Do you think we should call—”
“The police? I know who we’re dealing with and I’m fairly sure what she wants. I wouldn’t call the police unless you want
la Maîtresse
dead.”
Michael inhaled at the word
dead
and Kingsley had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The poor boy, so young and innocent. He wouldn’t stay innocent long under this roof.
“If anyone hurts Nora...” Griffin let the words hang in the air, the unspoken threat more potent than any words.
“If anyone hurts Nora, you will have to stand in line for your retribution. I know a few who have the greater claim to her.”
“Point taken.”
“Now go see Sophie. She knows everything you’ll need to know. Remember, in this world it is better to be feared than loved. Keep everyone in line. Use a firm hand. You can stay in the house if you wish. Your pet, too. Although whatever you do, don’t go into my room.”
“Do I want to know why not?”
“Non.”
Griffin nodded and shoved the keys into his pocket.
“I’ll take care of the Empire. You find Nora, okay?”
“That is the plan.”
Griffin, with Michael trailing behind, headed toward the door. In the doorway, Michael paused and turned around.
“Mr. Edge?”
“What is it, Michael?”
The young man went silent for a moment and Kingsley waited. Usually he would have scolded someone for calling him Mr. Edge. It was
monsieur,
Kingsley, Mr. K., or nothing at all. But today he couldn’t care less.
“It’s only...” Michael began again, and Griffin put a comforting hand on Michael’s back. “Nora’s one of my friends.”
“I know she is.”
“I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“I’ll find her,” Kingsley promised. “We’ll bring her home.”
“Thank you. I mean...
merci
.”
Kingsley gave Michael a smile as he and Griffin left him alone in the office. One of his dogs, Max, ambled in and nudged Kingsley’s hand. As Kingsley petted the dog, he thought of Sadie, the lone female of his rottweiler pack. She’d died, stabbed in the heart. Had his own sister done that? Put a knife into the chest of an animal? Surely she had help with her games. Say what one would about Nora Sutherlin, but the woman was a survivor, strong and resilient and could have easily fought off another woman. She’d been born strong and iron had sharpened iron. Submitting to a sadist had made her unbreakable. Becoming a Dominatrix had made her vicious. She’d even broken him a time or two. But that was all play. Men paid for the privilege of letting her break them. Now she was in real danger. This wasn’t sadism or some role-play between consenting adults. This was violence, real violence and danger, the most pressing danger. He’d seen her lash bloody tiger stripes onto the body of a masochistic client with her whip skills, but he’d also seen her freeze in terror when a mentally unbalanced fan had attacked her at a book signing with a knife.
With a sigh, Kingsley ran his hands through his hair and rubbed hard at his face. If only the phone would ring, if only the letter would come with the demands and the threats. This dangerous game had only started. Marie-Laure had the board set up. What would be her opening move?
“Marie-Laure...” he whispered to himself. “What are you waiting for?”
“Monsieur?”
Kingsley turned around and glared at his secretary.
“Sophie, anything you need now must go through Griffin.”
“But,
monsieur,
there’s someone here to see you.”
“He can see Griffin.”
“He says he’s only here to see you.”
“He better be important.” Kingsley strode toward the door. Perhaps Marie-Laure had moved her first pawn.
“I think he is,” Sophie said with wide, scared eyes. “He says he’s Nora Sutherlin’s fiancé.”
3
THE KNIGHT
T
his couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. How could it be happening? The questions stomped through Wesley’s mind like a spooked stallion, trampling all other thoughts, all other questions. From the moment he’d gotten off the phone with Søren he’d been moving through the hours like a robot. He’d lost feeling in his hands. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The world buzzed with white noise and the only thought he could hold in his head was,
Why?
He’d woken up yesterday on the floor in one of the stables. Blood on his head, static in his brain, and no Nora anywhere. He’d called Søren, who’d hung up on him the moment Wesley had told him Nora was gone and the words
I will kill the bitch
were written on the stable wall. With a pounding skull, Wesley had thrown a few things into his car, left a vague message for his parents about visiting friends with Nora and headed north. He didn’t dare fly. He couldn’t risk being unreachable for four hours. What if Nora had been kidnapped for ransom? He’d pay every penny he had and steal whatever else he needed to buy her back again. He stopped only for gas on the way from Kentucky to New York and to down painkillers for his splitting headache. Surely he had a concussion from whatever had hit him. But that was the least of his worries now.
All that mattered was getting Nora back. Whatever the price.
And this was part of the price, coming to this house that he’d never entered before but already hated. Nora had said on at least a dozen occasions that, love him or hate him, Kingsley was her go-to man for any crisis she couldn’t solve on her own.
I trust Kingsley and I have good reason to. Even Søren goes to Kingsley when there’s a shitstorm,
she’d said.
And if I’m involved there’s usually a shitstorm.
Wesley had decided then and there he never wanted to meet this Kingsley person, whom he considered to be nothing more than Nora’s pimp. Kingsley called her all the time on that damn red phone of hers and sent her into all sorts of dangerous situations that left Wesley in borderline panic attack mode until she got home again.
But he couldn’t deny this was the shitstorm to end all shitstorms. Only for Nora would he come to Kingsley begging for help.
Wesley paced as he waited and knew if someone didn’t get him in five seconds, he’d go hunt Kingsley down himself. Kingsley Edge—who the hell was this guy, anyway? Wesley looked around the room for any clues and found nothing but a well-appointed music room complete with grand piano, antique furniture in various patterns of black-and-white and no hint whatsoever about what kind of person owned this house except that he had good taste and a lot of money. Nora didn’t talk too much about Kingsley except to complain about him overbooking her back in her days as a Dominatrix. Although once she’d had a little too much to drink and spilled a few secrets about him, secrets she probably hadn’t remembered telling him the next day. But other than that, Wesley knew nothing about him except that he was French. He imagined Kingsley was older, much older than Nora, and probably not very attractive. If he was attractive Nora probably would have had much nicer things to say about him other than muttering her usual vitriol at him. If she wasn’t calling him “Kingsley” she was calling him “the Frog” or the “fucking Frog” more likely. She called him that so often that whenever Nora said “Kingsley” Wesley always pictured an actual frog wearing a beret. He hoped his imagination was somewhat close to the mark.
“So the future Mr. Nora Sutherlin has come to visit,” came a voice from behind him, a voice with an unmistakable French accent.
Wesley turned and discovered a prince where a frog should be—shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, riding boots and a frock coat, handsome beyond reason. Did Nora not have
any
ugly men in her life?
“I think Nora Railey sounds better.” Wesley stood up as straight as he could and met Kingsley’s eyes from across the room.
“I’ll have my secretary start engraving the invitations.” Kingsley came into the room slowly. “Let’s hope we can find the bride before the big day arrives.”
“You know about Nora?” Wesley’s heart leaped, hoping against hope.
“I know she’s been taken. I know who has her. Where she’s been taken, I do not know that.”
“Does Søren know anything?”
“Søren knows more than you and I combined. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where she is, either.”
“But you know who has her?”
“Oui.”
Kingsley turned around and started to leave the room. Wesley raced after him and grabbed the back of his long coat. Before he knew what had happened, Wesley found himself with his back planted hard into the wall and Kingsley’s face inches from his own.
“Young man, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kingsley held Wesley immobile. “I used to kill people for a living. I never officially retired.”
“You don’t scare me.” Wesley hoped the pounding of his heart against his rib cage didn’t betray him. Kingsley dressed like someone off a romance novel cover but Wesley discerned genuine danger in the Frenchman’s eyes. Nora worked for this man? Called him the Frog to his face? She was braver than Wesley had ever given her credit for.
“You’re more attractive in person than you are in your photographs,” Kingsley said, giving Wesley’s face a close inspection. “I’m still not quite sure what she sees in you, however. Unless she lied to me about wanting a child of her own.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Not quite a man yet, either. Don’t worry. You will grow up quickly in this house.
Peut-être...
” Kingsley moved an inch closer to Wesley’s face and stared deep into his eyes. “She sees in you what I see in you.”
“What’s that?”
Wesley attempted to wrest himself out of Kingsley’s grasp. Kingsley didn’t let go.
“Everything she doesn’t see when she looks in the mirror.” With that, Kingsley released him and Wesley wrenched himself away. He felt a wave of nausea as if his brain bashed against his skull. But he didn’t give in to it. He breathed through his nose and stood his ground.
“I want to see Søren. Now,” Wesley said.
Kingsley straightened his jacket and smoothed his vest.
“Answer two questions first. Then I’ll let you see him.”
“Whatever. Fine. What?”
“Question one—is it true that you are affianced to her?”
Wesley narrowed his eyes at Kingsley, who stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of his stupid boots against the floor.
“Yes. Right before she got kidnapped, we went horseback riding. I asked her to marry me. When we got back to the stables, she said yes.”
Kingsley nodded as he rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip before raising two fingers.
“Second question. Did you ask her to marry you before or after your head injury?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Wesley asked, coming up to him again. Cautiously this time, however. If Kingsley pushed him into the wall again, Wesley knew he’d lose whatever nothing was in his stomach for sure.
“
Oui
. But only once. I made sure they never said it again. Come along. You want to see the priest? I’ll show you the priest.”
Kingsley started up the stairs and Wesley had no choice but to follow. He noticed Kingsley wincing slightly as they turned a corner and headed to the third floor. Was he injured? Had someone attacked Kingsley, too?
“Are you all right?” Wesley asked, his loathing temporarily giving way to his better instincts. Kingsley might be the asshole of the universe, but Wesley hated to see anyone in pain.
“It is safe to say I’ve been better.”
“Did someone attack you, too?”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I’d call it one of the better nights of my life.”
Kingsley said nothing more as he led them down a hall to a room on the right.
“I’m afraid
le prêtre
won’t be much good to you.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
“If you insist.” Kingsley opened the door to a room at the end of the hall. Wesley’s eyes widened when he took in the scene. On the floor, at the end of the biggest red bed he’d ever seen in his life, sat Søren, his blond head bowed, his eyes closed. “Talk away. He may not talk back, however.”
“What the hell...?”
“He threatened to call the police,” Kingsley said matter-of-factly. “The police, the church and all city, state and federal authorities. I couldn’t allow that. For his sake.”
“So you...”
“Sedated him. And handcuffed him. He’ll be out another hour at least with the shot I gave him.”
“You drugged Søren?”
“I have a very well-stocked medicine cabinet in case of emergencies.”
“You’re crazy.”
Kingsley gave a shrug so nonchalant it could only be described as French.
“Turnabout is fair play,
non?
His turn to wear the handcuffs.”
Wesley could only stare at Søren on the floor. Even unconscious he had a certain broken nobility to him in his black clerics and his white collar. The one time Wesley had spoken face-to-face with the man, he’d been wearing secular clothes.
“He’s a priest,” Wesley said as the reality of Søren’s profession finally sank in. He knew, of course. He’d known from the beginning. Nora never hid that from him. But seeing the collar...
“He is. And possibly the finest priest in America if not the world. And if he wants to remain a priest and get his lover back, then it’s for the best we leave the authorities out of this. I can only protect his secrets so much. He’ll thank me later.”
Kingsley closed the door and started back down the hall.
“Kingsley, we have to call the police. I don’t care what happens to Søren or you or even me. We’re wasting time. We don’t even know where she is.”
“You call the police if your car gets stolen. You don’t call them for anything that matters. I know who has your fiancée, and believe me, if you value your beloved’s life at all, you will trust me—calling the authorities would equal a death sentence for her.”
The truth of the words shone in Kingsley’s eyes. As much as Wesley didn’t want to believe him, something told him that whatever happened to Nora, it wasn’t some kidnap for ransom, wasn’t some prank or game.
“The woman who has your fiancée is willing to kill. She’s done it before. She’s also willing to die. Something else she’s done before. A dangerous combination. We raise the alarm, the siren sounds, Nora dies.”
“How do you know this person’s willing to die?”
“Because,
mon petit prince,
she pissed me off. That is a good indictor she had a death wish.”
Kingsley’s brash words failed to give any comfort.
“They’re going to kill Nora, aren’t they? The words on the walls...” Wesley whispered, his heart clenching as he remembered the fear upon seeing the French words, even not knowing what they meant. “Søren said they mean ‘I will kill the bitch.’”
“If it comforts you at all, ‘the bitch’ is not your Nora. I’ll leave the story for the priest to tell.”
“No way. You knocked him out so now you’re going to tell me.” Wesley stared Kingsley down. Kingsley might be strong and dangerous, but he was also in pain and pain made him vulnerable. Wesley wouldn’t back down this time. “And you’re going to tell me now.”
Kingsley exhaled heavily through his nose before shrugging again.
“Those words—
I will kill the bitch
—were uttered thirty years ago by the woman the priest married at age eighteen. His wife, Marie-Laure...my sister.”
“Thirty years ago...Søren was married to your sister?”
“Yes. A marriage of convenience. That was what it was supposed to be. That is what he told her it would be. She wanted more, more than he could give.”
“She was in love with him?”
“
Oui,
or whatever she had in her heart that passed for love.
Obsession
would be a more accurate word. When she found out he loved another she said those words as a threat. For whatever reason she waited thirty years to carry out her threat.”
“Nora would have been four years old then. She didn’t even meet Søren until she was fifteen, which is bad enough. No way could Nora have been the other woman at four years old.”
“
Exactement
. That’s why I say you can take some comfort in that threat. That’s why I know she’s alive and safe...for the time being.
Le prêtre
was in love with someone else at the time. But your fiancée was not the bitch my sister meant.”
“Who was she, then? Maybe we should talk to her.”
Kingsley turned on his booted heel and gave Wesley a gallant mock bow.
“You already are,
mon ami
. The bitch...at your service.”