The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(31)

Blaise groaned in frustration.

“You are the king of top drop.”

“You’re making up words again.”

“Top drop. It’s that funk dominants fall into after the scene’s over. You brood.”

“Brooding is my version of afterglow.”

“Call the priest. You’re in a better mood when he’s around. He doesn’t brood like you do.”

“He invented brooding. He holds the patent on brooding. He gets royalties whenever anyone broods. You just haven’t seen him do it yet.”

“Call him,” Blaise said, poking him in the chest.

“I don’t want to. I don’t like him anymore.”

Blaise exhaled and shook her head in abject disgust.

“You lying French *. You called him your ‘oldest and dearest friend’ right in front of me. I was there.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Then what is he?” Blaise asked, annoyed. He did love to ruff le her glamorous feathers.

“My dead sister’s widowed husband.”

Blaise’s eyes widened hugely.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I don’t anymore. Told you, she’s dead. He was married to her for a few weeks before she f lung herself off a cliff, and her body broke into two pieces. Sheered her face off, too.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Blaise clapped a hand over her mouth as if she were about to be sick.

Kingsley picked up his bottle of bourbon.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Kingsley…I had no idea.”

“And now you know why I drink.”

He took a sip, then a second one.

“I hoped it was because you loved the taste of bourbon.” She tried to smile at him, tried and failed.

“Love it? I hate this shit.”

Blaise leaned over and kissed him again—not on the mouth but on his forehead like a mother kissing her child.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered before slipping off the chaise and leaving him alone by the pool. A gentle and sensitive soul, she’d probably run off to cry somewhere. Good thing she left. Last thing he wanted to see was a woman in tears. He’d seen more than enough of that in his life.

Alone again with his bourbon he drank. He drank until he felt safe enough to sleep. The alcohol never turned off the nightmares, but it did mute them. Tonight, however, he hadn’t drunk quite enough to achieve the desired effect. This time he was back in the hospital, his mind alive and active, his body motionless, inert, dying. If he could get a word out, then maybe someone would realize he was aware inside the tomb his body had become.

All he wanted to do was scream.

In his nightmare, his mind screamed, and his mouth remained mute.

He woke up covered in water.

Water?





11


KINGSLEY COUGHED AND SPUTTERED. HIS EYES FI nally f lew open as water rose and thrashed all around him. “What the f*ck?” He wasn’t sure if he spoke in English or French, wasn’t sure he even spoke out loud.

“Kingsley. Look at me.”

“Non.”

“Kingsley. Right now. Do as I say.”

“I don’t take orders from you anymore.” Kingsley sank

down into the water before a strong hand hauled him back up. S?ren gripped his neck hard enough to penetrate the shield his body had become.

“What do you want?” Kingsley’s eyes f luttered open again. He saw S?ren waist-deep in the water. S?ren grabbed Kingsley by the shirt and backed against the edge of the pool.

“I want you to live.”

“That makes one of us.” Kingsley tried to pass out again, but S?ren shook him awake once more.

“Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”

“I hear you.” Finally Kingsley had the strength to open his eyes and keep them open. He saw S?ren again, saw his face. He looked angry and scared, almost human. He had his clerics on again, his white collar. “Why are you wearing that?”

“I’m a priest, remember? How many brain cells did you kill tonight?”

“Not enough of them.”

A wave of nausea passed through him. He coughed again, and S?ren hauled him up and over the edge of the pool. Into a large white towel, Kingsley threw up.

“Get it all out,” S?ren said calmly. Kingsley felt a hand on his back, rubbing the heaving muscles. He wasn’t drunk enough to be sick from the alcohol. The dream had done it to him.

Kingsley’s body complied with the order. For what felt like eternity, he threw up again and again. S?ren held his hair back, rubbed his shoulders, offered encouragements that Kingsley could barely hear over the sound of his own wrenching sickness.

Finally Kingsley stopped. He knew better than to move, lest he get sick again. He shivered and took shallow breaths.

“You threw me in the pool?” Kingsley asked when the nausea finally passed.

“You were screaming and thrashing. I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

“Bad dream,” Kingsley whispered. “I have them sometimes.”

Kingsley pulled away from S?ren and sat on the steps that led into the pool. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the water that surrounded him. Water. Only water. It wouldn’t hurt him. Nothing here would hurt him. Not even S?ren. Not anymore.