The Prince (The Original Sinners 3)

“Tomorrow,” he whispered in her ear as she brought her mouth to his again.

“What’s tomorrow?” She gazed up at him through eyes hooded with desire.

“We’ll start acting like heroes.”

NORTH

The Past

He never thought he’d live to see this day—and Søren, Stearns, or whoever he was, doing manual labor. At age seventeen, watching Søren scrubbing the floor of the hermitage with soap and water and steel wool, with his bare hands and on his knees, Kingsley knew he could die at this moment and safely say he’d seen everything.

“You’re supposed to be helping, Kingsley.” Søren rinsed the steel wool in the water and tackled a stain with renewed vigor.

“So sorry. I’m in shock. Haven’t recovered yet, mon ami.”

A smile played at the corner of Søren’s lips.

“Our Lord was a carpenter or possibly a stonemason. The apostle Paul was a tentmaker. They worked with their hands—grueling, backbreaking work. If it wasn’t beneath them to get their hands dirty, it should not be beneath me.”

“I want to be beneath you.”

“You are beneath me, Kingsley, in every way but literally. And if you want to be beneath me—literally—before morning, I would suggest helping me. I told you the hermitage was a hellhole.”

With a heavy sigh, Kingsley grabbed a sponge and dropped to his knees.

“You did not exaggerate.” Kingsley glanced around and took in once more the spiderwebs, the ashes ground into the dirt-covered floor, the droppings from the mice and birds that had made a home of the hermitage after Father Leopold had gone to meet his maker. “We should find somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else. Not for miles.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“This is Maine. Winter is coming and it’s coming fast. We have two weeks of warm nights left, perhaps.”

“It’s beyond disgusting.”

“Once clean, it’ll be perfect for us.”

“Perfect for you to beat me and f**k me?”

“Exactly,” Søren said, not even cracking a smile. No smile necessary, Kingsley realized, as Søren wasn’t joking. Good. “The students never come out here.”

“Pourquoi?” Kingsley put his back into his scrubbing. It appeared a mouse had died in this spot and the grease of its bones and marrow had left a permanent mark on the wood. A lovely place to give his body to the man he worshipped.

“Someone started a rumor that Father Leopold’s ghost haunts the hermitage since he died out here. They didn’t find his body for a week, as a blizzard trapped everyone inside the school.”

“Just the ghost of a priest. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“The story claims that Father Leopold’s ghost takes sexual liberties with anyone who comes within his reach. In death he feasts on what he denied himself in life. Do you believe that?”

Kingsley looked at Søren with wide eyes. “No…but I very much want to.”

Søren laughed and threw his steel wool at him. Kingsley caught it against his chest and attacked the mouse-grease stain with determination. It took two entire hours to clean the floor. Another hour to sweep away the spiderwebs and kill the inhabitants. He crushed a wolf spider with gusto. Too much gusto for Søren’s taste.

“Can’t you catch them and set them outside, Kingsley? Killing them seems excessive.”

Kingsley leveled a cold, hard glare at Søren.

“Catch the spiders and release them outside? Did I ever tell you I passed blood for three days after our first night together? Pardonez moi for saying your Catholic respect for the sanctity of life would be more convincing were you not a sadist.”

Søren rose to his feet and straightened. He strode over to Kingsley. “I have no desire to hurt spiders like I want to hurt you. There’s a difference.”

“Really? How so?”

“First of all, I don’t find spiders attractive.”

Søren raised his eyebrow. Kingsley couldn’t stop the laugh inside him from bursting out. But Søren’s lips on his silenced him.

The kiss lasted for but a moment before Søren pulled back.

“Back to work,” he ordered.

Kingsley dropped to his knees in front of Søren and gazed up at him.

“Yes, sir.”

Søren stared down at him and Kingsley easily discerned the hunger in his eyes.

“Back…to…work…” Søren ordered. It sounded as if he was telling himself as much as Kingsley.

Kingsley frowned. “Yes, sir.”

Sighing, he grabbed the sponge and started in on the one and only chair they were able to salvage from the rotted furniture left in the hermitage. He halfheartedly scrubbed at it until he heard Søren mutter with disgust, “Kingsley, have you never cleaned in your life?”

“Non. I have a sister.”

Søren narrowed his eyes at him. Kingsley laughed.

“It’s true. I have an older sister—Marie-Laure. She and Maman did all the cleaning. Papa worked. And I…I did whatever I wanted.”

“Why am I not surprised? There are orphans at this school who spent half their childhood on the streets and are more disciplined than you.”

“I imagine it would take a great discipline to survive on the streets. I rather enjoyed being spoiled. The only son in a French family is an enviable position. And you? I can’t imagine you did much cleaning in your house.”