The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(36)

“What?”

“Death.” S?ren pushed him underwater.

Immediately Kingsley thrashed and jerked, trying to fight off S?ren’s iron grip that held him under the surface of the water. He was drowning, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get back up. He knew how drowning worked. He knew he would be dead in a minute. The water covered his head and face, and he couldn’t get traction, couldn’t get air. He looked death in the face and clawed at its eyes. He’d kill death before he’d let death kill him.

He fought back, fought hard.

He would not die tonight. He would live even if he had to kill S?ren to survive.

S?ren pulled him back up, and Kingsley spit out water, his throat and lungs burning.

“Resurrection.”

The water settled. Kingsley panted. The word resurrection echoed around the room, reverberating into the innermost chamber of his heart.

S?ren took a step back.

“I did my part by coming back to you,” he said. “God did His part to keep you alive long enough for me to get here. Now you do your part and make yourself worthy of the second chance you’ve been given.”

“You tried to drown me.”

S?ren smiled.

“It’s called baptism, Kingsley. Welcome to the Kingdom.”

S?ren walked up the stairs, grabbed a towel and left him alone in the pool. Kingsley wordlessly watched him leave. He could still taste the vomit in his mouth. His clothes were soaked, he looked like hell. And yet, he felt clean.

Welcome to the Kingdom.

The Kingdom.

In that moment he stood sick and shaking and cold and wet, Kingsley knew exactly what he would do with his life. Once upon a time, he’d made S?ren a promise. He’d made a promise and now he would keep it. He saw it before him, and it seemed so real he could touch it, feel it. He saw a building, old, Gothic, crumbling, like he was—awaiting rebirth. And people filed into it, people with secrets. They needed him, needed his protection, needed his knowledge. They needed to kneel. They needed a king. He heard their cries of ecstasy, saw their hunger and devotion. He would take them all and give them to one more worthy.

And he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

A promise made long ago… A promise he would keep.

A king must have a kingdom after all.





12


May “YOU’RE PLANNING TO BUILD A WHAT?” S?REN ASKED. “A BDSM club,” Kingsley said. He leaned forward at his

desk and held up photographs he’d taken at a dozen different clubs. “I’ve been all over the world the past three weeks

looking at what’s out there. I took these pictures in LA. It’s

more a nightclub than a kink club, but it has a few dungeons.

I went to this club in Germany—it’s as terrifying as it looks.

This one was New Orleans. A brothel and a club, probably like

your friend’s in Rome. And this is Chicago. Did you know

the old Playboy clubs gave a key to every member? We’ll do

something like—”

“Kingsley, stop.” S?ren met his eyes across the desk. “What?”

“Are you on drugs again?” S?ren asked.

Kingsley tossed his photographs down.

“I’m sober, and I have been for two weeks.” He wasn’t

merely sober, he was wildly sober, willfully sober and blissfully

sober. His head was clear, his eyes bright and the bone-deep

exhaustion he’d been living with for a year had evaporated.

He was alive and happy about it for the first time in as long as he could remember. “I’m trying to tell you I know what

to do with my life.”

“And that is…?”

“I’m going to build the biggest, most exclusive, most impressive S and M club in the world.”

S?ren said nothing at first. But he did look up to the ceiling and addressed a few words to it.

“I suppose it wouldn’t have occurred to you to call him to

join the Peace Corps, Lord,” S?ren said, still gazing upward.

“It had to be this?”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Kingsley demanded. “God. I was criticizing Him, so perhaps it’s for the best you

interrupted. This is your grand calling in life? Your ultimate

purpose? An S and M club?”

“No,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “Not an S and M

club. The S and M club. And you’re going to help me, because

it’s your fault I’m doing this.”

“My fault?” S?ren repeated, pointing at himself. “What

leaps in logic did you take to lay this at my doorstep?” “You turned me kinky,” Kingsley said.

S?ren paused.

“I want to argue with that assertion,” S?ren said. “Oui?”

“I said I wanted to argue with, not that I could.” S?ren took

a breath, sat forward in the chair and clasped his hands. “I have

to say I am pleased to see you enthusiastic about something

that isn’t drinking yourself to death before thirty.” “Drinking yourself to death before thirty is so nineteenth

century.”

“Whatever the reason for this change of heart, I’m grateful