The Prince. Tiffany Reisz

hasn’t chosen to share with anyone yet. At least once a week he wakes up screaming. Ignore it. He will go back to sleep in a few minutes. If you see him sleepwalking, follow him. Last winter he wandered outside and nearly developed hypothermia. Joseph Marksbury is in charge of the chore list. I suggest you talk to him before he comes to you, unless you want nothing but bathroom duty for the entire semester. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my Portuguese.”

      “You’re learning Portuguese, too?” Kingsley asked. “How many languages do you speak?”

      “Eight.”

      “I’m bilingual. What do they call someone like you?”

      Stearns arched an eyebrow at him. “Intelligent.”

      Kingsley started to laugh, but then realized Stearns hadn’t been joking.

      “Eight,” Kingsley repeated. “I would go crazy with so many words in my head. I have enough trouble keeping my French and English separate.”

      “A few students here speak a little French, but since Father Pierre died, I’m the only one fluent at the school. If you need to speak French, speak it to me. And as you’ve seen, this place is full of kind and courageous priests and intelligent and hardworking young men, many of whom have had to overcome great obstacles to be here. If you ever feel the need to lie again, tell your lies to me.”

      Kingsley blushed and crossed his arms. “I’ll apologize to Matthew.”

      “A very good idea, Mr. Boissonneault,” Stearns said.

      “You can call me Kingsley. That’s my name.”

      Stearns seemed to mull the invitation over.

      “Kingsley …” He nodded, and Kingsley tensed at the sound of his name spoken by the blond pianist who seemed to own the school. “This school has been my salvation. I would appreciate if you at least pretended to show it some respect.”

      Stearns turned and started to walk from the dormitory room.

      “Merci,” Kingsley said, before he was gone. “Thank you.”

      “For what?” Stearns asked from the doorway.

      “The Ravel today. Mon père aimait Ravel.”

      For a moment Stearns only stared at him. Kingsley wanted to shrink from his penetrating gaze, but held his ground and didn’t blink, didn’t look away.

      “Aimait? Your father is dead?”

      Kingsley nodded. “Et maman. A train crash last May. You play piano beautifully. I’ve never heard Ravel like that before.”

      Stearns came back into the room and stood before him. Kingsley felt his eyes on his face again and found himself suddenly shy. Shy? At age sixteen Kingsley had slept with nearly fifty girls already. No, not just girls—women, too. Even the wife of his late father’s business partner.

      “I was named Marcus Stearns,” Stearns finally said. “No one ever calls me Marcus.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because Marcus is my father’s name, and I am not my father’s son.” He spoke the words slowly, deliberately, as if imparting a threat instead of just information.

      “Can I call you something other than Stearns? It seems very formal.”

      Stearns seemed to ponder the question.

      “Perhaps someday.”

      “Anything else I need to know?” Kingsley asked, intimidated by him, but for some reason not wanting to let him go yet.

      Stearns fell silent and looked at Kingsley’s suitcase sitting at the foot of a bed. “Your bed is the one next to mine,” he finally said.

      Kingsley’s hands tingled at the mention of the proximity of their two beds. He didn’t know why he was reacting to this young man the way he only ever reacted to a beautiful girl. He couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t stop wondering what secrets he kept, and what it would be like to hear those secrets whispered across a pillow at night.

      “How did you get stuck sleeping so far from the fireplace?”

      “I volunteered. I stay warm enough. A word of advice,” Stearns said, turning to stare Kingsley in the eyes, “do not wake me up at night.”

      Kingsley barked a laugh. “What? Will you kill me?”

      Stearns turned and headed toward the door again.

      “Or worse.”

      

      NORTH

       The Present

      Kingsley took a length of rope and twisted it into a slipknot. With wary eyes the girl watched him as he brought the rope down over her head and let the knot rest at her throat.

      “It’s a simple game, chèrie.” He made a circuit of her body and nodded his approval. Lovely girl. Twenty-nine years old. Blue eyes. A yoga instructor or something equally silly. He’d bend her in half tonight, and she’d thank him for it after. “One end of the rope is around your neck. The other end …” He tapped the back of her knee until she raised her leg like a well-trained show pony. Grasping her calf, he raised it, and looped the other end of the rope around it. “Goes là, on your lovely, well-turned ankle. You say you can hold your yoga poses for hours. Let’s see how long you can keep your back leg up and bent while I fuck your ass. The leg starts to drop … you start to choke. Simple. Oui?”

      Her pupils widened. She swallowed audibly.

      “Oui, monsieur,” she whispered.

      “Bon. Now allow me to simply tighten this a bit.”

      Kingsley bound her wrists to the bedpost in front of her and shortened the rope that connected her neck to her ankle by a few inches. So far he could tell her boasts had been honest. Her leg stayed up, high and bent, and her breathing remained unconstricted. Of course, once he started fucking her, she might lose her concentration.

      He did love this game.

      From the bedside table, he pulled out his lubricant and a condom. Her fear and her arousal mingled so powerfully he could smell it from three feet away. Standing behind her, he started to open his pants.

      The door to Kingsley’s bedroom opened and Søren strode inside, glanced at them with only the merest arch of an eyebrow before sitting down in the armchair by Kingsley’s bed and throwing his long legs up onto the covers, shoes and all.

      “We need to talk.”

      Kingsley leveled a stare at Søren that would have sent any submissive at The 8th Circle into paroxysms of panic. Søren only stared back without blinking.

      With a sigh of frustration, Kingsley unknotted the ropes, slapped the girl on her bottom and uttered a quick, angry, “Out.”

      “But …” She looked first at him, then at Søren, who, thankfully, had come to the town house incognito tonight. No collar. He wore only a black T-shirt, black pants and he carried his black motorcycle helmet in his hand.

      “Out,” Søren repeated, and this time she listened. Quickly, she gathered her clothes off the floor and raced from the room. Kingsley started to shut the door behind her, but his second favorite girl, Sadie, slipped inside and sat at his feet.

      “You’ve never heard of knocking, have you?” Kingsley asked, dropping into French. He grabbed Sadie, his lone female rottweiler, by the collar and shepherded her to the bed. She hopped up nimbly and onto his covers, making herself at home.

      Søren smiled and answered in English. “I’ve heard rumors of knocking. I never believed them.”

      “I had a lovely