[English] The Virgin

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“I see.”

“I’m a Switch,” she said. “Maybe not even a Switch. Maybe I’m a Dominant and it took me this long to figure it out. But I’m not a sub. If I know anything, I know that.”

“Then what, pray tell, have we been doing together for the past six years?”

“I love submitting to you. Most of the time. Tonight, I hate it. I loved dominating Kingsley. I want to do it again. I want to do it with other people. I want to have a submissive of my own—maybe Kingsley if he’ll let me—and I want to hurt him as much as I can, as often as I can and as hard as I can.”

She’d said the words to hurt Søren but as she spoke them, she knew them to be the truth.

They stared at each other in silence. Finally Søren spoke.

“No,” he said.

“No, what?’

“You don’t have my permission to top Kingsley again.”

“Your permission? I don’t remember asking your permission to top Kingsley.”

“You didn’t ask. If you had I would have said no. I’m saying it now. No.”

“Why not? You don’t want him anymore. Why can’t I have him?”

“Do not presume to tell me how I feel about Kingsley, Eleanor.”

“Fine, then I’ll tell you how I feel about Kingsley. I want to top him as often as I can. I’m not a submissive. I’m a switch.”

Then he took from her hand the antique wooden riding crop with the carved bone handle and broke it into three pieces.

“Also,” he said as he threw one broken piece across the room, flinging it like a newsboy tossing the morning paper. “Entirely.” He threw the second piece. “Immaterial.”

The wooden fragments of the riding crop hit the wall with a heinous crack and clattered to the floor.

A sound came out of Elle’s mouth. A sort of animal whimper like the sound she’d once heard a dog make after being hit by a car.

On leaden feet she walked over to the pile of now-worthless wood and dropped to her knees. One by one she picked up the pieces.

“You bastard,” she said, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “That was a gift from Kingsley to me.”

“You’re no longer allowed to have any contact with Kingsley. Not until I say you may.”

“He gave this to me. It was mine. Not yours.”

“Everything that is yours is mine,” Søren said. “I own you. Your body is mine. Your heart is mine. Your future is mine. Your decisions are mine. Your life is mine. You are mine.”

She didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she had the strength to stand up one more time. But somewhere she found the strength and she came to her feet a final time.

“I am mine.”

“What did you say to me?” Søren asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“I am mine,” she said again, gathering the broken pieces of her riding crop to her chest. She turned her back to him and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Søren called out.

Eleanor didn’t answer. She kept walking. She walked down the hallway and down the stairs. She found her coat and her purse and walked to the back door.

“Eleanor, where do you think you’re going?” Søren asked, his tone chiding. You’re not leaving, his tone said. You and I both know you aren’t actually leaving. “Eleanor, come back here this instant.”

At the door she stopped and turned around. She looked at Søren and spoke one final word.

“Jabberwocky.”

30

Upstate New York

ELLE LOOKED AT Kyrie who had tears on her face.

“Then I left,” Elle said. Three little words *****m up the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. “After I safed-out, I got into the car, and I drove away. I shouldn’t have been driving, not then. And not with all the pain I was in. But I did it. I left him.”

Kyrie didn’t speak. Elle reached out and brushed the tears off Kyrie’s face with her hand. Elle’s throat was tight, painfully constricted. But she had no tears, none. She’d cried them all out on the floor of the bathroom when she told Søren what had happened. She had no tears left for herself or him.

“Why are you crying?” Elle asked, smiling at Kyrie. “I’m the one who left him.”

“He broke your riding crop,” Kyrie said, gazing down on the three pieces of the broken twig on the blanket.

Elle reached out and grazed them with her fingertips.

“It would have hurt less had he broken my own body into three pieces,” Elle said. With each snap of the wood as he broke the crop, Elle had felt something snapping inside her. As he’d thrown the pieces across his bedroom, she’d felt as if he was throwing her against the wall, throwing her away.

“You did the right thing, leaving him,” Kyrie said.

“I know. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. You’d think it would.” Elle took a long ragged breath. “I used to think I wanted to marry Søren. I mean, I did want to marry him. When I was sixteen and that was the only thing I knew you were supposed to do with someone you’d fallen in love with—get married, have babies. I got older and my dreams changed. He was always in them, though. And in my dreams, he was always a priest. Because he is a priest. That’s not what he is. That’s who he is. And a good priest, too. I couldn’t let him give up who he is for me.”

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“He wanted you to give up who you are for him.”

“Yes,” Elle said. “Yes, he did.” She gathered the pieces of wood on the floor in her hand. “That’s why I’m here. He can’t get to me here. If I stayed, he would have called the bishop, told him he was leaving the priesthood and made me marry him. If he can’t get to me, he can’t make me marry him, and he doesn’t have any reason to leave the priesthood.”

“You walked away from him so he could lead the life he was supposed to live.”

“Even when I hate him I still love him,” Elle said.

“I couldn’t have done that,” Kyrie said. “I couldn’t leave someone I was in love with. I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that.”

“I didn’t leave him because I’m strong,” Elle said. “I left him because I had no other choice. I couldn’t let him throw away the most important part of himself for me.”

“He might have done it anyway,” Kyrie said. “Left the priesthood, I mean. You haven’t spoken to him since you left, right?”

“I haven’t,” she admitted. She hadn’t given that possibility much thought, that Søren had left the Jesuits, left the priesthood while she was here hiding at the convent. “I hope not. If he has, then me leaving him was for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Kyrie said, and Elle gave her a look of deepest apology.

“No, not for nothing. I met you here. I wrote a book here.”

“‘All things work together for the good for those who love God and are called according to his purposes,’” Kyrie said. “That’s my favorite Bible verse.”

“You think I was meant to come here?”

“If you’re here, then there’s a good chance you were. Maybe you were supposed to meet me so you’d write that book and have an agent who wants to read it.”

“Maybe I’m here because you’re not supposed to be a nun and this was the only way for you to find out.”

Kyrie smiled. “Maybe so.”

“So when do we leave?” Elle asked. “You and me?”

“When you finish the book. As soon as it’s done, we’ll go.”

“That’ll give me time to figure out where we can go,” Elle said. “Surely I know someone who could put us up for a few weeks while we decide what to do. Maybe I can get my old job at the bookstore back. My boss there loves me.”

“I can get a job too,” Kyrie said. “I have a college degree.”

“In what?”

“Biblical studies.”

“A BA in BS. That’ll pay the bills.”

“Oh, shut up, English major.”

“Did you tell me to shut up?”

“I did,” Kyrie said, crossing her arms in playful defiance. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll find a way to shut us both up,” Elle said, and grabbed Kyrie by the wrist. She dragged the girl to her and pushed her onto her back on the blanket. Elle lay on top of her and kissed her with the deepest passion. Kyrie moved beneath her, pushing her hips into Elle’s, rubbing her back, panting for more. Elle pulled Kyrie’s gown all the way off and tossed it aside.

Elle sat on her knees and took a length of rope out of her bag. Not real rope. She couldn’t find any at the abbey. But she did have old sheets at her disposal and she’d torn them into strips and braided them into her own makeshift rope. She wrapped the white sheet rope around Kyrie’s two wrists and tied them to the ornately carved leg of the nearest chapel pew.

“B is for Bondage,” Elle said as she tied off the knot. “And D is for Dominance. If you want another orgasm, don’t you say a ****ing word until I give you permission to speak again. Nod if you understand.”

Kyrie nodded. Vigorously.

“And S is for Sadism and M is for Masochism,” Elle said, pinching Kyrie’s nipples until she recoiled in pain. “Thus ends your alphabet lesson for the day.”

Elle shoved the girl’s thighs apart with her knees, and pushed two fingers into her wet hole.

Kyrie’s back arched and Elle smiled, drunk with the power she had over this girl’s beautiful little body. She lowered her head between Kyrie’s legs and lapped at her swollen clitoris. Kyrie grunted softly from the pleasure but didn’t speak. Elle rolled her tongue over all Kyrie’s most sensitive spots and soon the grunts becomes moans, and when Elle pushed her fingers inside Kyrie and stroked her softest places, the moan became one long groan of ecstasy.

When her climax came and passed, Kyrie lay spent on the blanket, taking short shallow breaths. Elle spent the next hour doing nothing but rubbing and touching every inch of Kyrie. As she massaged Kyrie’s body, she claimed it for herself.

“My hands,” Elle said, caressing Kyrie’s palms and fingers, one by one. “Aren’t they? You can speak.”

“Your hands,” Kyrie said, wiggling her fingers for Elle.

“My arms,” Elle said, rubbing up and down the length of Kyrie’s arms.

“Your arms.”

“My back,” Elle said, massaging Kyrie’s back. She took special pleasure in the small of her back, the small waist and hips.

“Your back.”

Elle claimed every inch, every orifice, every single finger and toe and eye and nose. And the lips. Of course the lips.

“My Kyrie,” Elle said with one last kiss. “My dove.”

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“Your Kyrie,” Kyrie whispered into Elle’s mouth. “Your dove.”

When Elle had finished taking ownership of every part of Kyrie’s body, she helped her dress and rise to her feet. She’d made her come three times, and Kyrie was light-headed now, weak from pleasure as Elle was weak from happiness. She had something in her heart she hadn’t had when she came here months earlier—hope. A real agent wanted her book. Kyrie wanted her. They had a plan to leave, to go back into the world. Elle could work and pursue a writing career. She could do that. She wanted to do that. She could see it all happening, the dominoes falling ahead of her, the tumblers clicking into place. They could have a life together, her and Kyrie. She could make this work somehow and she’d do it on her own, without Søren.

Hand in hand they walked through the trees back to the abbey. Silently they slipped inside and Elle escorted Kyrie all the way to the door of her cell. Somewhere in another hallway, footsteps echoed. Kyrie pulled her inside the tiny room and shut the door silently behind them.

Elle grabbed her and kissed her over and over again, the thrill of almost getting caught sending her heart racing and making her blood burn. She remembered this feeling, the exhilaration of reveling in the forbidden. Sometimes she’d wondered if she desired Søren so much in spite of the fact he was a priest, or because of it.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” Kyrie said in the smallest of voices. If they were caught...well, what did it matter? They were leaving anyway. “I needed to know.”

“You earned it.”

“Will you be okay?” Kyrie asked. “When you’re back out there, out in the world?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you won’t go back to him, will you?”

“No,” Elle said.

In the distance she heard a sound. Nothing more than a motorcycle in the distance, its engine purring and humming as it lingered at a stop sign. Søren’s? Maybe. She walked toward the window to hear it better, walked toward it as if drawn to the sound by an invisible cord wrapped around her heart.

Kyrie reached out and took Elle’s hand in hers, stopping her in her tracks.

“Come to bed,” Kyrie said. “Please? Be with me again. One more time tonight.”

Elle pushed her to the bed and laid her down onto her back. They would be tired tomorrow, but who cared?

And outside the gate she heard the motorcycle drive off.

She was safe. Whoever it was had gone.

She’d told Kyrie the truth. She wouldn’t go back to him.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not yet.

31

New York City

CALLIOPE SENT THE Rolls-Royce to pick Kingsley up at the airport. But when his driver took the turn to head back to Riverside Drive, Kingsley called to the front.

“Wakefield first,” he said.

His driver, a young semi-unemployed actor named Roland, did as Kingsley said.

A bone-deep exhaustion suffused Kingsley’s entire body. He felt like a soldier again, returned from battle, wounded and tired and numb. His driver had noted the unnecessary weight he’d lost and quoted Shakespeare at him. Kingsley had a lean and hungry look about him, according to Roland, and Kingsley found the ****** Caesar reference appropriate. Men with too much power were on his **** list today. Time to have a little talk with one of them.

“Should I leave you and come back?” Roland asked when he opened the door of the Rolls for Kingsley.

“Wait for me,” Kingsley said to the boy. “This won’t take long.”

Today was Saturday and Søren always said Mass on Saturday evenings. It would be over by now, but knowing Søren’s habits, he’d still be at the church or in the rectory. He couldn’t have gone far.

Kingsley was pleased to see the church empty of the faithful when he entered it. He was hardly fit for human company at the moment. His last bath had been yesterday in the ocean and he’d neither shaved nor slept in two days. He had on yesterday’s clothes—dark pants, a black T-shirt. He’d left his black jacket in the Rolls and Juliette he’d left behind in Haiti.

He knew he would never see her again. The one woman he could have spent his life with, and she’d ordered him away from her and out of her life.

He’d lost it all. Again. He should be used to it by now, he thought, losing everything and everyone he loved. He’d certainly had enough practice to be an expert at it. If only one could get paid for losing the people you loved, Kingsley could turn pro.

Inside the sanctuary Kingsley saw a familiar blond head facing the front of the church. The head was slightly bowed. He was praying. Good. Kingsley hoped God was listening right now. Kingsley had a few things to say to Him, too.

Kingsley took one step forward on the hardwood floor, and it was enough to alert Søren to his presence. The blond head turned and the priest rose from his pew. It might have taken him a second longer than usual to recognize Kingsley. The Caribbean sun had turned his olive skin to bronze. His hair was longer now and needed taming, and he hadn’t changed back into his usual uniform of expensive custom suits and boots and everything fine. Søren walked toward Kingsley with long purposeful, almost-eager strides.

Søren too appeared gaunt, as if he’d grieved in secret all this time.

His steps quickened as they neared Kingsley, and it took everything Kingsley had in him to not hasten the inevitable and go to him.

“Kingsley.” Søren breathed his name more than spoke it. A sigh of relief, of surprise. And Kingsley was relieved to see him alive, relieved to see him standing, relieved to simply see him, this man he’d loved all this life.

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Søren started to stay something else, but Kingsley stopped him with a quick vicious punch to the face.

Søren’s head snapped to the left. Kingsley had to give the man cre***. He took the punch well. He’d put other men on their backs by hitting them as hard as he’d hit Søren. For good measure and because he deserved it, Kingsley punched him in the chest. He aimed for under the rib cage and he was fairly certain he felt something crack.

“This isn’t kink, by the way,” Kingsley said. Søren clapped a hand onto Kingsley’s shoulder to steady himself. He wasn’t doubled over but close to it. “Consider it a lesson in empathy.”

“I missed you, too, Kingsley,” Søren said, his voice steady, but with a note of discomfort. He looked down and saw Søren’s clenched hand. And slowly, ever so slowly, Søren relaxed his hand.

“Turning the other cheek?” Kingsley asked. “Maybe you did learn something in seminary, after all.”

Søren stood up straight at last and raised a hand to his nose. A line of blood trickled from it. He touched it and looked at the blood as if surprised to see it there.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this greeting?” Søren asked, his voice composed but hard as granite.

Kingsley reached into the pocket of his trousers and held out the handle of the riding crop he’d given Elle, the handle of the riding crop she’d left for Kingsley as a message, the handle of the riding crop Søren had broken.

He dropped it onto the floor of the church in front of Søren’s feet. Kingsley looked Søren in the eyes.

“Don’t ever break my toys again.”

Kingsley turned to leave, but Søren stopped him with a question.

“Why weren’t you with her?”

Kingsley froze. Slowly he turned back around.

“So much for turning the other cheek,” Kingsley said. He smiled. “It’s impressive, really. You don’t even have to hit me to hit me. You are indeed the greatest sadist in the world. Congratulations. I hope you’re proud.”

“You shouldn’t have let her go through it alone.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. I should have been there. But where the **** were you?”

“I was in Rome, and I left her with you. I left her for you to take care of and instead I come home to find her bleeding in my bathroom and sick as I’ve ever seen her.”

“Yes, and what did you do when she was bleeding and as sick as you’ve ever seen her? You did that.” He pointed at the broken riding crop on the floor at Søren’s feet. “And now she’s gone. Maybe you should have stayed in Rome with the Pope. She’d still be here.”

“If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have let her go through it alone. If you’d called me—”

“I told her to call you. She refused. She said she didn’t want to burden you with the decision. She had to make it herself so it would never be on your conscience. That was the most scared I’ve ever seen her, and even then, she was thinking of you.”

Søren didn’t speak but he didn’t look away. He held Kingsley’s gaze, unapologetic.

“It’s funny,” Kingsley said as he made a sudden realization. “For over ten years I’ve thought one thing about her. Yes, she’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. Kinky. Smart. Every man’s dream. But I always thought perhaps...she wasn’t good enough for you. This little girl from Nowhere, Connecticut, with a nobody mother and a piece of **** father. How could she ever be worthy of you? Now I’m starting to think something different. You hide behind your collar and get to play God while the rest of us do your bidding and suffer the consequences. You get the glory. She gets the bruises. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of her. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of me, either.”

“Have you spent the last year planning this speech?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “The last twenty years.”

“Twenty years? I would have expected a longer speech then.”

For that Kingsley almost hit him again.

“I used to think you walked on water,” Kingsley said, meeting Søren’s eyes. “Now I know you’re drowning like the rest of us.”

“I am drowning,” Søren said, and Kingsley paused in the doorway. There it was again—the sound of an eggshell cracking inside his heart. He ignored it.

Kingsley walked out of the sanctuary and out of the church before Søren could say another word or before Kingsley could say anything he might regret someday.

Roland was out of the car in an instant, opening the door for Kingsley.

“Where to now, sir?”

“Home,” Kingsley said tiredly.

An hour later, Roland pulled the car in front of the town house and Kingsley got out on his own, his bag in his hand. He’d forgotten he had people to open doors for him, to carry his bags for him. He’d been gone too long. So long he’d thought he’d feel something when he arrived at his house. Relief? Happiness? Contentment? But he felt only resignation. He’d run away from home like a child who’d fought with his father. He’d gone out into the big wide world and the big wide world had sent him back home again. So much for the return of the prodigal. No fatted calf for him. No feast. No fanfare.

He opened the front door and sixteen feet raced at him in a flurry of love and fur. He dropped his bags and hit his knees as his four black Rottweilers whined and whimpered, almost mad with happiness to see him again. He let them paw at him, lick him, knock him flat on his back with their joy.

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“I was going to throw you a welcome home party,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Kingsley looked up and saw a girl with bobbed brown hair skipping down the steps. “But the kids said they didn’t want to share you.”

Calliope was dressed in her usual uniform of a plaid skirt, kneesocks and an oversize cardigan. She was his devil in disguise—a wicked computer genius who looked like a schoolgirl, because she was one.

“They’re very possessive,” Kingsley said as he pulled himself off the floor. Calliope stood on the bottom step and Kingsley walked to her. “You look different.”

“It’s the haircut,” she said, tossing her head left and right. “Like it?”

“It’s très French. You look like Coco Chanel.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I said you looked French. There is no higher compliment.”

She laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Am I allowed to hug my boss?” she asked. “Or would that be weird?”

“You aren’t going to hit on me, are you?” he asked.

“No. I’ll behave.”

“Then yes, you can hug me.”

Calliope leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re too skinny,” she said in his ear. “You need to eat. I’ll get us takeout from La Grenouille. And then we can watch The Matrix again.”

“I’ll need wine for that,” Kingsley said. “Lots of wine.”

“Can I have some, too?” she asked, pulling back to smile ingratiatingly at him. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur?”

“You’re underage.”

“Yes, but you’re French.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He paused and pretended to mull it over. He held up one finger. “Drink all you want then. But no driving.”

“That’s what we have Roland for, remember?” She embraced him again and for a moment Kingsley did feel what he wanted to feel upon arriving back at home after his journey—contentment, peace, happiness. But it was gone again in a flash.

“What about your Juliette?” Calliope asked. “When’s she coming?”

“She’s not,” Kingsley said.

“But what about everything I—”

“She’s not coming,” he said again. He forced a smile, but Calliope didn’t buy it.

“King, I’m so sorry.” She hugged him again, long and hard, and he let her.

“It’s fine,” he said, patting her on the back, comforting her as she tried to comfort him. “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

“Do you love her?” she asked, a child’s question. No adult would ask a question so honest.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll survive. That’s what I do. It’s what we all have to do whether we want to or not.”

“You better survive. I don’t want to have to get a real job.”

“This is a real job,” he said, pulling away from her. “You’re the personal assistant to a business magnate.”

“I’ve spent the last ten months having dungeons cleaned and hacking into the French governments personnel files.”

“And?”

“And I love it.” She grinned broadly at him. “So it’s good you’ll survive. And if she doesn’t see how awesome you are after all you did, she doesn’t deserve you.”

“You’re too kind. But I don’t want to talk about it. I want to play with my dogs and eat all the boeuf bourguignon in the city.”

“I’m on it,” she said, clapping her hands. “Your wish is my command. Come on, kids. Dinnertime.” She snapped her fingers and his four dogs—Brutus, Dominic, Sadie and Max—got to their feet and followed her like four huge black ducklings following their mother. He laughed at the sight of them. It was good to be home. He picked up his bag off the floor and tramped up the stairs. He’d take a long shower, shave, put on his favorite clothes, his favorite boots...then he’d feel like himself again. Or even better, he’d feel like someone else.

When he opened the door to his bedroom, he inhaled deeply. Calliope had done a good job. She’d kept the house in perfect order while he was gone. He could smell the wood polish on the bedposts, the leather polish on his boots in the closet. The air, however, carried the scent of abandonment. It was time he came home. He had the feeling his bed had missed him as much as he’d missed it.

He undressed and stood in the shower for a long time, willing the hot water to burn his misery out, willing the hot water to wash his heartbreak away. It didn’t, of course, but he felt better when he was clean again. He was only half dressed when he heard his phone ringing—the private line that rang only into his bedroom. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t her. Would he be hoping it was her every time any phone rang?

“Edge,” he said into the phone.

“You broke a rib,” came the reply.

Kingsley laughed, his first real laugh in over a week.

“I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“How’s your face?”

“I have a bruise. Should be interesting explaining that to my church.”

“Welcome to the company of we who must lie about our bruises. Your Little One was one of our founding members.”

“I’ve never left bruises on her face.”

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“Then I suppose you deserve a medal,” Kingsley said with more venom than he intended.

“I didn’t call to start round two.”

“No,” Kingsley said. “I know. I’m done. C’est fini.”

“Good. Because if you try that again, I will hit back.”

“I haven’t taken a beating in months. Your threats aren’t having the desired effect.”

“They never did.”

Kingsley paused and prepared his confession.

“I met someone in Haiti.”

“Is that where you went?”

“For a while.”

“Who is she? He?”

“Her name’s Juliette. But it doesn’t matter,” Kingsley said. “It didn’t work out with her. I might have taken my unhappiness about that out on you.”

It’s the closest Kingsley would get to saying he was sorry. Mainly because he wasn’t.

“She must have gotten to you for you to assault a priest in his church.”

“She was...is very special to me,” Kingsley said, hating the past tense. “I’m not telling you this for any reason other than...”

“What?” Søren asked, the slightest note of compassion in his voice.

“If what you feel for Elle is like what I feel for Juliette...”

“If you feel anything close to what I’m feeling and have felt since she left...then you have my deepest sympathies. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

“I want to ask you how you are, but I don’t want to know the answer,” Kingsley said.

“You know my life. You know my past.”

“I do,” Kingsley said.

“Then you know what it means when I say this is the worst thing I’ve ever been through.”

Kingsley winced. “For that I am sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. I promise, if I could make it your fault, I would.”

“Do you think she’s coming back?” Kingsley asked him.

“Yes,” Søren said.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I know my Eleanor. I know my Little One. She will come back to me.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Søren didn’t answer that, and Kingsley was glad. He didn’t want to know the answer to that question, either.

“She told you I asked her to hurt me?” Kingsley asked. “She told you she did hurt me?”

“She did.”

“You didn’t like that.”

“No. I still don’t.”

“I told you what she was a long time ago. That girl is no submissive. She’s a—”

“She’s mine,” Søren said. “Nothing else matters but that. She is mine. The end.”

“She’s yours, is she?” Kingsley pushed a wet swath of hair out of his face. “Too bad someone forgot to tell her that.”

“Are you finished now?”

“Finished with what?”

“Finished trying to hurt me?”

“I think so,” Kingsley said. “But I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”

“Is that because you haven’t forgiven yourself for letting her go through it all alone?”

“You smug bastard, I should have put you in the hospital.”

“Where do you think I’ve been the last hour? Good thing I have a doctor in my congregation.”

“How convenient.” Kingsley sat on his bed and hung his head. He and Søren were silent for a long time, long enough for Kingsley to get angry again. “Ten years ago the three of us stood in the hall of your church and had our first little conversation. There’d been a wedding and she was cleaning up afterward. You went over and I followed you and found her there. And I asked you if I could have her. Do you remember what you said?”

“Remind me,” Søren said, although Kingsley was utterly certain Søren remembered every word from that night.

“You said ‘Wait your turn.’”

“So I did. And?”

“And you should know,” Kingsley said, “if Elle ever comes back, it’s my turn.”

32

THE DAY HAD come.

Time to go.

Those were Daphne’s first thoughts when she woke up for the last time in John’s bed. The clock on the bedside table read 5:17 a.m. She dressed in the darkness as the sun wasn’t up yet and if it had been, the curtains were closed tight to whatever light was out there. She’d been living behind closed curtains since her first night with John. She went to his house at night in the dark and left before sunrise. In a book or a movie maybe she would have been a vampire who woke at sunset to her life and fell into a sleep like death at dawn. That had been her life, such as it was, for the past six months. From dawn to dusk, she lived in a daze, the hours empty of purpose and meaning. At sunset she came to life the moment she crossed his threshold.

This morning she would cross it again for the last time.

She pulled on yesterday’s clothes that had ended up here and there on the floor. John had been playful last night and tossed her panties in one direction, her socks in another. Did he have an inkling of what she’d planned? Had it been a delaying tactic? No, of course not. She knew John. If he had any idea at all she was leaving him today, she would have woken up tied to the bed by her wrists and ankles, her car keys hidden and her money gone. And she’d been disappointed when she woke up and found her hands and her ankles free, her keys where she’d left them, her money all in her purse.

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Once dressed, she stood by the bed and looked down at John asleep on his stomach, his hands to either side of his head. He had a beautiful body and she’d spent every night of the past six months underneath it. She ached to touch him but he always slept lightly, something he blamed on his military training. She couldn’t speak either lest she wake him. So in the temple of her mind, she spoke one silent prayer to him.

“I can’t do this anymore, John. I’m sorry. I got a letter that I’ve been accepted to UC. So I’m going there today. You don’t know that. No one knows that. I wanted to tell you but I know you and you’d find a way to talk me into staying. You’d find a way to keep me here. It wouldn’t be hard. You’d only have to say ‘Stay’ and I would stay. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t give you the chance to talk me out of this, because you would. I don’t know if this helps or makes it worse but you’re the only man who’s ever protected me. You need to stay a cop so you can protect other people. And someone would have found out about us eventually and you’d never be a cop again. I couldn’t live with that, knowing I’d taken you from the life you love. So this is the only way. I promised you once I’d never run away from you again. There’s two things you should know. I love you. But I lied.”

Daphne turned around, picked up her car keys, walked out the back door and got into her car.

She started it, she backed out of the driveway and she drove.

She drove to the end of the street and stopped at the stoplight.

There was no one else on the road. She was alone, all alone.

The light turned green.

But Daphne didn’t go.

She had to go.

The light turned red again.

Daphne waited. If she went back, she could slip into his bed and he’d never know she’d gone.

Or she could drive away and start a new life without him.

Stay? Go? Stay? Go?

The light turned green.

* * *

“So what happened?” Kyrie asked, flipping over onto her side to face Elle. “Does Daphne go back to him right then? Or does she drive away?”

“That’s for you to decide,” Elle said. “I left it open-ended. What do you think she did when the light turned green again?”

“I don’t know,” Kyrie said, smiling. “I kind of want her to go back to him. But then again, she’s only seventeen. Can you really find your true love in high school?”

“I thought I did.”

Kyrie met Elle’s eyes and she braced herself for a question. But Kyrie didn’t ask it and Elle thanked God she didn’t have to answer it.

“What would you have done in her shoes?” Elle asked. “When the light turned green, would you go back or go forward?”

“I think...” Kyrie paused. “I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

“You think about it and get back to me.” She loved that Kyrie wanted to think about it, wanted to mull it over. That’s what Elle intended with the ending. It would be something different for every reader. The romantics at heart would say Daphne went back to him. The realists would say she left him.

“So it’s done?” Kyrie asked, putting the pages of the book in order. “The whole thing is done? Beginning, middle and end?”

Elle nodded. “The end,” she said. “Now I just have to find a computer, type it up, clean it up and email it to your sister’s agent.”

“So it’s time?” Kyrie asked. Elle saw a flash of fear in her eyes. Elle didn’t blame her.

“Yeah, time to go. Are you ready?”

“I’m...” It was as far as Kyrie got with her answer. A sob escaped her throat. Elle held her close and tight, rocking her as if Kyrie was a child in her arms.

“I know,” Elle said. “I’m scared, too. But the longer we stay the harder it will be to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?”

“I want...” Kyrie began and stopped. She seemed to be debating her answer, weighing her words, searching for something to say, the right thing to say. Then she nodded and when she spoke again her voice was clear and steady. “Yes, I want to go.”

Elle pulled her close and Kyrie cried quietly in her arms. They did everything quietly—laughed, talked, ****ed. They hadn’t been caught yet, but it was only a matter of time. And Elle was tired of being quiet all the time. She needed to raise her voice; she needed to laugh as loudly as she could. She needed to tie Kyrie to a real bed and make her come until she screamed.

“When are we going?” Kyrie asked, looking up at Elle.

“Tomorrow night,” she said. “We’ll wait for tomorrow night when everyone is asleep and just go. We can go out the back door of the oratory and walk to the road. We’ll have to walk all the way to Guilford but when we’re there, we can get a hotel room for the night and figure out where to go from there.”

“I know it’s really far away, but we could go to California,” Kyrie said. “My brother would let us stay with him.”

“Are you sure?” Elle asked.

“He left the Church after Bethany died. He didn’t want me to be a nun.”

“Does he know—”

Kyrie shook her head.

“Nobody does. You’ll have to say you’re my friend. Sorry.”

Elle shrugged. “Being lying about my love life ever since I had one. I guess I can keep doing it.”

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“You can tell my brother and his wife you’re leaving your boyfriend. They can guess why.”

Elle laughed mirthlessly. She was getting tired of lying about herself.

“Leaving my boyfriend. Sounds so vanilla,” Elle said. “I was the ***ual property of a sadistic Dominant Catholic priest and now I’m ‘leaving my boyfriend.’”

“You can’t tell people the truth,” Kyrie said. “They’ll freak out, and they won’t help us.”

“You’re sure your brother will?”

“Yeah,” Kyrie said. “He’s a good guy. Conservative. But he loves me. He and his wife have a pretty big house. I know we can stay there for a while, at least while we figure things out.”

“Okay. We’ll go to California. I’ve always wanted to swim in the Pacific Ocean.”

Kyrie laughed. “You’ll need a wetsuit. The water is freezing.”

Elle sighed. “There goes that dream.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault the ocean’s cold out there.” She held Kyrie’s face in her hands and kissed her. “I have other dreams. Better dreams.”

“Am I in them?”

“You’re in all of them. We’ll go to your brother’s house, and I’ll get a job. We’ll make it work. Maybe your sister’s agent can sell the book.”

“I’m sure she can. The book is so good. I love it.”

“I’ll write another one. And another one.”

“Good. I want to read them all.”

“Maybe I’ll write one with two girls next time. Athena and Aphro***e fall in love.”

“Weren’t they sisters?”

“They can’t breed. Who cares?”

Kyrie laughed, and Elle kissed her again, happy to see a smile.

“That’s better,” Elle said. “We’ve got a long journey ahead of us. I need you to be strong for me, okay? Once I leave, they won’t let me back in here. When we go, we have to go, and there’s no coming back.”

“I understand.”

“I can’t leave here without you.”

“Yes, you could. You just don’t want to.” Kyrie smiled.

“Of course I don’t want to leave without you. Not now or ever. But I have a reason to leave now, and it has nothing to do with him.”

Kyrie held up the handwritten pages of Elle’s book. “We’ll do it for this.”

“I didn’t believe you when you said you’d figure out what I was supposed to do with my life.”

“I told you I would.”

“Now I believe you. You were right.”

“Good. That’s all I needed to hear.” Kyrie reached for Elle again and they kissed. Elle pushed Kyrie onto her back and caressed her face, her hair, her neck and arms.

Elle took the lit candle off the bedside table. Kyrie raised her hand.

“Can we just sleep tonight?” Kyrie asked. “For a while, you and me. We’ve never slept together.”

“Will you wake up in time?”

“Does it matter if I don’t?” Kyrie looked up at Elle and smiled nervously. “We’re leaving.”

“Good point. I guess if we get caught now...what’s the worst they can do? Kick us out?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. We can sleep.” Elle blew the candle out and slid under the covers. She was small herself, but Kyrie was smaller. She pulled Kyrie against her, her back to Elle’s chest. They lay together spooned tight until they fell asleep. When Elle woke up at dawn, Kyrie had already returned to her cell.

Elle took deep breaths to calm herself. They had a plan. Meet at night, leave through the oratory. Walk to the city. Buy bus tickets.

And then...who knew? And who cared? She’d have Kyrie with her, someone to take care of, someone to be with so she wouldn’t have to do it all alone.

Nothing left to do now but pack.

The day had come.

Time to go.

33

New York City

TWO MONTHS SINCE leaving Haiti and Kingsley was still alive, still functioning. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but he did it. He survived losing Juliette. He didn’t drink—not much. No more than usual. He didn’t slip back into his old drug habits. He didn’t engage in any wildly self-destructive behaviors. Of course, he did **** as often as possible. When in doubt, Kingsley ****ed. That had been his coping mechanism all his life, and it had always served him well.

Kingsley played smart and ****ed only people he trusted. Women he’d known for years, who’d known him for years and had no interest in pursuing a relationship. He ****ed Simone, one of the better pro-submissives of his acquaintance and Søren’s go-to masochist when his Little One was unavailable. He wondered how much time Simone had spent on Søren’s Saint Andrew’s Cross lately. He didn’t ask. Kingsley was certain he didn’t want to know. There was also Tessa, who’d worked for him on and off for years. He went out a few nights with Griffin and seduced a beautiful twenty-seven-year-old gold-medal-winning diver named Hunter, whom Griffin trained with at his gym. Kingsley had hunted Hunter, and now Hunt, as he preferred to be called, had been Kingsley’s most constant bedtime distraction for the past month.

For all his coping, he did have a weak moment and considered, for almost an entire minute, taking Calliope to bed. He discarded the idea quickly. She was eighteen and her adoration and affection for him made it easier to get through the day, to get back to work. He adored her and wanted only the best for her. And sleeping with her might compromise the high esteem she held him in, and he needed someone’s love right now, even if it was from the eighteen-year-old girl who picked up his dry-cleaning.

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It was for the best, really, that Juliette had made him go. Monogamy simply wasn’t in Kingsley’s blood. He loved ****ing men too much. And other women. And pain, he loved that too, and Juliette only wanted to receive it, not give it. Cold comfort, but it was comfort. He needed all the comfort he could get.

“Mr. King?”

Calliope’s soft voice interrupted his solitary reverie. Good. He needed to stay out of his mind as much as possible. He looked up from the book he hadn’t been reading and smiled at her.

“Yes?”

“Are you done with me for the day?” she asked, standing in the doorway to his sitting room.

Kingsley checked his watch. It was a little after seven in the evening.

“I suppose. You have somewhere to go?”

She grinned. “I have a date.”

Kingsley slammed his book shut and set it on the table next to him.

“A date? With whom?”

“No one you know.”

“Why don’t I know him?” Kingsley took his glasses off and tossed them on top of the book.

“Because I barely know him. It’s a first date.”

“You can’t go on a date with someone you barely know. What if he’s a criminal?”

Calliope pointed at him. “You’re a criminal.” She pointed at herself. “I am a criminal. We—” she pointed back and forth at both of them vigorously “—are criminals. Half of what I do for you is illegal. You caught me using a fake ID I made to get into your clubs and you hired me because it was such a good fake.”

“We’re not talking about me or you. We’re talking about him.”

“He seems nice. He’s friends with Tessa.”

“Nice? He’s not vanilla, is he?”

Calliope screwed her face up in disgust. “Ugh. Don’t even joke about that.”

“What’s his name? And birth date? And place of birth?”

“You are not allowed to make a file on him,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “You are not allowed to do a background check.”

“I’m your boss. I can do anything I want.”

“No,” she said again firmly.

“Does he know about me?” Kingsley asked. “Did you tell him I used to kill people for a living?”

“I hope you never have a daughter if this is how you act when your assistant has a date.”

“Don’t get pregnant.”

“I don’t believe in getting pregnant on a first date.”

“Good. Do you need condoms?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you. I’m leaving. Right now. This instant.”

“You come to my room when the date is over so I know you’re safe. That’s an order.”

“Anything else, sire?”

“Take a gun.”

“Oh my God.” Calliope shook her head and sighed. Kingsley considered having her tailed.

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” he said.

She sighed and smiled at him. “I know. I’ll be fine. It’s sweet that you care.”

She walked over to him and kissed him on both cheeks in the French manner as he’d trained her to do. He heard the doorbell and willfully ignored it. Calliope’s date must be picking her up here. Maybe he should go say hello to her suitor...ask him a few questions.

But no. Calliope would kill him. Eighteen years old, he reminded himself. Almost nineteen. A legal adult. And intelligent. And responsible, apart from her association with him. And hardworking. She deserved a date without her boss giving her a hard time about it. Of course, if this boy harmed her in any way Kingsley would be forced to kill him. But that went without saying. He picked up his glasses and his book again—Wide Sargasso Sea, a book Elle had recommended to him long ago. A beautiful book but a poor choice for a man trying to forget the woman he loved who lived on a Caribbean island with a man who would never understand her.

“King?” came Calliope’s voice again.

“If he stood you up, I’ll shoot him,” Kingsley said.

Calliope didn’t laugh.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There’s a woman here for you.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t tell me her name.”

“What does she look like?”

“Stunning,” Calliope said, sounding truly stunned. “I’ve never seen her equal.”

Kingsley’s eyes widened. He stood up and walked to the door. Calliope looked at him.

“I don’t want you getting hurt, either,” Calliope said with concern scrawled across her face.

Kingsley kissed her forehead. “Have fun on your date.”

He walked past her and out into the hall. Down the hall to the entryway.

And there she was—Juliette. At first he could only stare at her in wonder. Juliette, in the flesh, standing in his foyer. She wore the loveliest turquoise dress and shoes and she shimmered like a jewel.

“That was a very pretty girl who answered the door,” Juliette said.

“Cal. Calliope,” he corrected. “My assistant.”

Juliette nodded. “Calliope? Is that her real name?”

“She’s a computer hacker. She says she has to have a mythological code name. Silly girl. She has a beautiful real name, but she won’t let anyone call her that.”

“What is it?” Juliette asked.

“Céleste.”

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“Yes,” Juliette agreed. “Lovely name.”

“Did you come here to talk about my assistant? We can if you like. She’s going on a date tonight, and I’m not taking it well.”

Juliette gave him a tight smile and laughed to herself.

“I came here because I can.” She looked uncomfortable, nervous, out of her element. It took everything in his power to not grab her and drag her up to his bedroom. “Thanks to you.”

“You said you wanted freedom. Freedom was the only thing you wanted. You wanted it more than you wanted me. So I gave it to you.”

“I didn’t expect you to pay for my mother’s medical bills.”

“I didn’t expect you to find me. You wanted freedom. Now you have it.”

He’d had Calliope set up a third-party medical trust fund account and had all of Juliette’s mother’s medical expenses paid through it. Everything was in Juliette’s name and nothing was in his.

“You left without telling me where you lived, what your name was,” Juliette said.

“You said you didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. It was a gift. No strings attached.” Kingsley had made sure of that. Calliope set up everything so that Juliette could never find him through the accounts. It was hers, free and clear. Leaving without telling her goodbye, without telling her how to find him had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

Kingsley didn’t say anything else. He didn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“I left him,” she said at last.

“Did you?”

She nodded.

“I haven’t really loved him in a long time. He’s not an evil man. He’s actually... I wish him well,” she said. “I told him he should be with someone who does love him, but it would never be me.”

“Was he angry?”

“Shocked. He wanted to know where the money came from.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I found a buried treasure on the beach.”

Kingsley swallowed hard. He would have laughed if he could have. Right now he could barely breathe, much less laugh.

“How did you find me?” Kingsley asked.

“Gérard had me help him with his work. I know how to find people. I knew your first name, your age, that you lived in Manhattan. Took a while, but here you are. Kingsley Edge—you weren’t joking. You have your own kingdom. Must be nice.”

“I’m afraid to ask you what you’re doing here. But I’ll do it anyway. Why did you come here?”

Juliette shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I went to visit my mother since I could. The first trip I’ve ever taken that he didn’t pay for.”

“How is she?”

“She’s comfortable,” Juliette said. “But her doctor said she’s not improving.”

“I’m sorry about that. Truly.”

“She’s happy and they treat her like a queen. That’s all I care about.”

“What did you do after visiting her?” Kingsley asked. Juliette glanced around the entryway. He hoped his home didn’t disappoint.

“I traveled Europe. I liked Germany very much. And Italy. They were my favorites. After Paris, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I thought about you while I was traveling,” Juliette said. “About what we had together and what you did for me. I thought about how I’d wanted freedom for years now and how you’d given it to me without asking anything in return. And I came to a conclusion...”

Kingsley had trouble speaking. His throat was tight and his hands were trembling. He shoved them into the pockets of his jacket.

“And what is the conclusion you came to?” he finally asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

Juliette looked at him. Then she smiled.

“Freedom is overrated.”

34

Upstate New York

HER BAG WAS packed, and inside it Elle had all her clothes, her handwritten copy of The Virgin, the copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology that she’d stolen from the convent library and the two pieces of riding crop she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw away.

All day long she was an electric bundle of energy. She did everything she could to stay calm and stay focused, but she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop panicking. She was leaving. Finally. Getting out of here. She’d been trapped in a convent for months and months and was so ready to leave she could scarcely breathe the air inside anymore.

Elle had only one loose end to tie up. Her mother. She’d avoided thinking about her mom in the two months since she and Kyrie had decided to run away together. Her mother was certain that if Elle left here, she’d run right back into Søren’s arms. Knowing her mother, she’d likely prefer that to Elle admitting she’d been sleeping with a woman for the past two months.

But still...Elle had to say goodbye somehow, some way. If she went and hugged her mother, that would be far too suspicious. And if she told her mother she was leaving, her mother would do everything in her power to get her to stay. She’d make a scene, start a fight. Kyrie was too fragile to handle leaving under those con***ions.

And Elle too...this decision to leave felt fragile, as well. She was afraid to leave but more afraid not to. When would she see her mother again? They’d found a little peace together under this roof, behind these walls. But Elle couldn’t stay just for her. Elle knew her destiny, unlike her mother’s, didn’t live behind these walls. As much as it hurt, she had to go. And since she had to go, she had to say goodbye. Elle decided on a letter. It was the only way.