The Prince
Page 48
“For electrocuting people.”
NORTH
The Past
Kingsley returned to Saint Ignatius in September, healed and whole and desperate to see Søren. Søren…he couldn’t believe that he of all the students at the school had somehow earned the right to call Søren by his name. His friends, Christian and the others, greeted him eagerly but warily when he stepped back onto the campus, suitcase in hand, hair pulled back in a ponytail, bruises on his neck from Jackie’s farewell love bites last night. But his smile and his stories of his summer exploits seemingly reassured them. No one asked him about what had happened to him two days before school let out. Had they asked, he would have simply repeated his mantra to them. He would never speak of that night to anyone but Søren.
But where was Søren?
Kingsley moved back into the dormitory and took the bed next to the one Søren had occupied last school year. Glancing there, Kingsley was troubled to see none of Søren’s things—his Bible written in some Scandinavian language; his shoes, two sizes larger than Kingsley’s and always polished to a perfect shine—on the floor next to his trunk. Even the large wooden trunk with the brass lock was gone.
“Your friend Stearns graduated,” Christian said, noticing Kingsley’s stares at Søren’s bed.
“What?” Kingsley gazed aghast at him.
“Yeah. Graduated. He’s moved out of the dorms and into the priests’ quarters now. Thank God, right? That guy is f**king terrifying. I was always scared I’d trip in the night on the way to take a piss, and he’d kill me. The Fathers get to walk on eggshells now.”
“So he is still here? He didn’t leave the school.” Kingsley nearly collapsed with relief.
“Teaching now. Foreign languages. None of the Fathers are fluent in much of anything but Latin, Greek and Hebrew. They’ve got Stearns teaching French, Spanish and German. Don’t know why. You should be the one teaching French.”
“Perhaps I could be his teaching assistant.” Kingsley smiled at the thought, but Christian only stared at him, wide-eyed. “It was a joke, Christian.”
“Better be. Jesus, can you imagine his poor students? Well, they’ll learn the language at least. They’ll be too scared not to.”
“I don’t think he’s as terrifying as you think he is.”
Christian slapped him playfully on the arm as he headed out of the dorm. “You’re a braver man than I am, then. Or just f**king crazy.”
Alone once more, Kingsley picked up his things and moved them to Søren’s old bed. He didn’t know if they’d ever be able to sleep together now—at least not in the same room. But Kingsley could sleep in Søren’s bed. It might be enough.
That night in the dining hall, Kingsley barely ate. The need, the eagerness to see Søren superseded all other hungers. But Søren didn’t show—not for dinner, not for Vespers, not for lights out.
That night Kingsley lay in bed and studied the ceiling as, one by one, the twelve other boys in the room dropped off to sleep. Their heavy, rhythmic breaths and soft snores filled the room. Kingsley turned over in bed and gazed at the light from the hallway creeping in from under the door. The light flickered as something blocked it. Something…someone.
Kingsley threw back the covers and raced as silently as he could to the door. Holding his breath, he turned the knob and opened it, praying if he moved slowly enough, it wouldn’t make its usual loud squeak. His prayer was answered. Kingsley slipped into the hall, shut the door behind him and found himself immediately against the wall, his face pressed to the cool stone.
The warmth of a body burned against his back. He’d gone to bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts that Susan had given him. So against his skin he felt buttons from an oxford shirt, the silk of a tie, the cold metal of a belt buckle. Inhaling deep, Kingsley smelled winter.
“I missed you,” he whispered in French.
Søren said nothing, merely leaned in harder against him. The second he’d seen the strip of light under the door darken, Kingsley had grown aroused. He wanted to feel Søren’s arousal, too, wanted it against his back, against him and inside him.
Kingsley braced himself against the wall with his hands. Søren grasped his wrists with an easy grip.
“You came back,” Søren said against Kingsley’s hair.
“You told me to.” In those four words, Kingsley felt a kind of deep truth he’d never experienced before about himself. You told me to. Kingsley would do anything, absolutely anything, for Søren.
“I hurt you. Badly.” Søren said the words simply, without a trace of guilt or shame.
“Oui.”
“You liked it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Oui. Mais…” Kingsley didn’t know quite how to broach the subject. He stopped speaking and let his one word of objection hang in the air.
“I’ll find a way to be more careful,” Søren pledged. He rested his hand on the flat of Kingsley’s stomach, and Kingsley inhaled sharply. The presence of Søren’s hand on his skin sent pleasure spiking through him.
“I have something with me that should help,” Kingsley said.
“Good.” Søren kissed the back of his bare shoulder.
“Now?”
He felt Søren shaking his head.
“Not tonight. Not here. But soon.”
NORTH
The Past
Kingsley returned to Saint Ignatius in September, healed and whole and desperate to see Søren. Søren…he couldn’t believe that he of all the students at the school had somehow earned the right to call Søren by his name. His friends, Christian and the others, greeted him eagerly but warily when he stepped back onto the campus, suitcase in hand, hair pulled back in a ponytail, bruises on his neck from Jackie’s farewell love bites last night. But his smile and his stories of his summer exploits seemingly reassured them. No one asked him about what had happened to him two days before school let out. Had they asked, he would have simply repeated his mantra to them. He would never speak of that night to anyone but Søren.
But where was Søren?
Kingsley moved back into the dormitory and took the bed next to the one Søren had occupied last school year. Glancing there, Kingsley was troubled to see none of Søren’s things—his Bible written in some Scandinavian language; his shoes, two sizes larger than Kingsley’s and always polished to a perfect shine—on the floor next to his trunk. Even the large wooden trunk with the brass lock was gone.
“Your friend Stearns graduated,” Christian said, noticing Kingsley’s stares at Søren’s bed.
“What?” Kingsley gazed aghast at him.
“Yeah. Graduated. He’s moved out of the dorms and into the priests’ quarters now. Thank God, right? That guy is f**king terrifying. I was always scared I’d trip in the night on the way to take a piss, and he’d kill me. The Fathers get to walk on eggshells now.”
“So he is still here? He didn’t leave the school.” Kingsley nearly collapsed with relief.
“Teaching now. Foreign languages. None of the Fathers are fluent in much of anything but Latin, Greek and Hebrew. They’ve got Stearns teaching French, Spanish and German. Don’t know why. You should be the one teaching French.”
“Perhaps I could be his teaching assistant.” Kingsley smiled at the thought, but Christian only stared at him, wide-eyed. “It was a joke, Christian.”
“Better be. Jesus, can you imagine his poor students? Well, they’ll learn the language at least. They’ll be too scared not to.”
“I don’t think he’s as terrifying as you think he is.”
Christian slapped him playfully on the arm as he headed out of the dorm. “You’re a braver man than I am, then. Or just f**king crazy.”
Alone once more, Kingsley picked up his things and moved them to Søren’s old bed. He didn’t know if they’d ever be able to sleep together now—at least not in the same room. But Kingsley could sleep in Søren’s bed. It might be enough.
That night in the dining hall, Kingsley barely ate. The need, the eagerness to see Søren superseded all other hungers. But Søren didn’t show—not for dinner, not for Vespers, not for lights out.
That night Kingsley lay in bed and studied the ceiling as, one by one, the twelve other boys in the room dropped off to sleep. Their heavy, rhythmic breaths and soft snores filled the room. Kingsley turned over in bed and gazed at the light from the hallway creeping in from under the door. The light flickered as something blocked it. Something…someone.
Kingsley threw back the covers and raced as silently as he could to the door. Holding his breath, he turned the knob and opened it, praying if he moved slowly enough, it wouldn’t make its usual loud squeak. His prayer was answered. Kingsley slipped into the hall, shut the door behind him and found himself immediately against the wall, his face pressed to the cool stone.
The warmth of a body burned against his back. He’d gone to bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts that Susan had given him. So against his skin he felt buttons from an oxford shirt, the silk of a tie, the cold metal of a belt buckle. Inhaling deep, Kingsley smelled winter.
“I missed you,” he whispered in French.
Søren said nothing, merely leaned in harder against him. The second he’d seen the strip of light under the door darken, Kingsley had grown aroused. He wanted to feel Søren’s arousal, too, wanted it against his back, against him and inside him.
Kingsley braced himself against the wall with his hands. Søren grasped his wrists with an easy grip.
“You came back,” Søren said against Kingsley’s hair.
“You told me to.” In those four words, Kingsley felt a kind of deep truth he’d never experienced before about himself. You told me to. Kingsley would do anything, absolutely anything, for Søren.
“I hurt you. Badly.” Søren said the words simply, without a trace of guilt or shame.
“Oui.”
“You liked it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Oui. Mais…” Kingsley didn’t know quite how to broach the subject. He stopped speaking and let his one word of objection hang in the air.
“I’ll find a way to be more careful,” Søren pledged. He rested his hand on the flat of Kingsley’s stomach, and Kingsley inhaled sharply. The presence of Søren’s hand on his skin sent pleasure spiking through him.
“I have something with me that should help,” Kingsley said.
“Good.” Søren kissed the back of his bare shoulder.
“Now?”
He felt Søren shaking his head.
“Not tonight. Not here. But soon.”
