The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(28)

“Then why isn’t she teaching me?”

“She’s in Rome. Have you used a whip before?”

“On the back—large target.”

“Then you’ll need to practice on a smaller target. Not a person.” S?ren had one of Kingsley’s business cards in his hand. He stabbed it over a hook on the wall.

“You want me to hit that?” Kingsley asked. “A business card?”

S?ren put his hand on the center of Kingsley’s chest and pushed him back…back…back until he was against the wall.

“No,” S?ren said. “I’m going to hit it. You’re going to watch. From a safe distance.”

S?ren stepped away, coiled the whip, put his right foot before his left foot and then released the whip with a quick snap. With the tip of the whip, S?ren cut the business card neatly in half.

Kingsley applauded as he walked up to the card. The cut sliced the card right down the middle between the word Edge and Enterprises.

“Such a good trick,” he said, impressed.

“Whips are multipurpose,” S?ren said. “Good for pain. Good for bondage.”

“Bondage?” Kingsley asked, reaching for the card.

S?ren lightly f lung the whip at him. It wrapped around Kingsley’s wrist. He laughed even as it tightened, and S?ren tugged on it, pulling him closer.

“Nice,” Kingsley said, his breath quickening. “What else?”

“Wrists,” S?ren said, taking Kingsley’s other wrist and wrapping the supple leather whip around his hands. “Ankles even. The neck, too, but you have to be careful. Do you want to see Magdalena’s favorite trick?”

“Show me.”

S?ren had left an eight-inch length of whip between Kingsley’s right wrist and left wrist. He spun Kingsley around quickly and pulled his back to S?ren’s chest, bringing the whip hard against Kingsley’s throat.

The world fell out from under Kingsley.

He blinked, and the walls turned to black, the temperature dropped and when he breathed in he smelled sulfur.

He dropped to his knees and yanked at the chain around his neck. If he could get his fingers between the chain and his throat he had a chance. The air went out of the room. He could hear nothing, see nothing. But he could feel, and what he felt was a wet-hole cavern in his chest, bone shattering and a lung collapsing.

No air. None. No matter how he gasped, how he gulped, how he fought, he could get no air.

Someone spoke…Slovakian? Ukrainian? He couldn’t tell. The voice was too far away…and it didn’t matter.

He was dying.

He was dying.

A bullet in his chest. A chain around his neck.

He was dead.

“Kingsley.”

He heard his name but didn’t respond. Dead men don’t scream.

“Kingsley, you’re in Manhattan. You’re home.”

He wasn’t home. He was bleeding to death on a shit-stained basement f loor in Ljubljana.

“You’re alive.”

No, he wasn’t.

“Open your eyes. Can you hear me?”

He heard something in his ears. A popping. It startled him. He jumped. His eyes f lew open. The world was a haze. But he did see something, a gray light.

“You have to breathe.”

He heard something other than the voice. A deep loud gasping wheeze. Over and over again.

Kingsley felt something on his back, a hand hitting him hard. It should have scared him, but instead the pain and the rhythm brought him back to himself.

“Kingsley, talk to me,” the voice ordered. It was S?ren. His voice. His hand.

“I’m fine,” Kingsley said.

“Stop lying to me. You aren’t fine.”

Kingsley looked down. He sat on the f loor of his playroom, his back to the wall. His shirt was sticky with sweat and his throat raw from wheezing.

“I’m fine,” he said again.

“Was that a panic attack?” S?ren asked, crouching in front of him. “Or a f lashback?”

“It was nothing.” Kingsley’s body was tense. His hands shook. “I think I spaced out for a second.”

“Two minutes,” S?ren said. “Not one second.”

Kingsley tried to stand, but S?ren put his hand on Kingsley’s shoulder and held him in place.

“Stay down. Look at me.”

“I don’t want to look at you,” Kingsley said.

“I don’t care. Look at me.” S?ren took Kingsley by the chin, forcing the eye contact. “Tell me where you were.”

“Slovenia.”

“Why?”

“I was shot there.”

“Is that all that happened?”

“I think so.”

He glanced away. It hurt to be looked at like this, with such concern and pity. That wasn’t how he wanted S?ren to look at him. He wanted S?ren to look at him with lust and desire and want and hunger.

He tried to stand up again, but S?ren still wouldn’t let him.

“I touched your throat with the whip, and you started wheezing like you were actually choking,” S?ren said. “You fell to your knees and wouldn’t speak.”

“I’m fine,” Kingsley said for the third and final time.

S?ren sighed and pushed a damp lock of hair off Kingsley’s forehead.