The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(74)

being who’d made a sacrifice of him.

“You do love pain, don’t you?” Mistress Felicia asked, her

voice low and sensual. As he had the crop in his mouth he

couldn’t answer in words. His ragged breathing and erection

surely told her all she needed to know. “I can tell. You lose

yourself in the pain.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as she ran her

fingers over the welts on his arms, renewing the pain. “Lose yourself, then,” Mistress Felicia said. “Go wherever

the pain wants to take you—into your mind, into your past,

into your darkest dreams. Go as far away as you need to. I’ll

come for you, and I’ll find you and bring you back.” If he could have spoken he would have thanked her. They

were the words he most needed to hear, especially now as she

worked his chest over, striking even the scar tissue left by the

bullet wounds. She had no fear of the damage done to him by

the violence of other men, and for that he would have kissed

her feet could he have reached them.

He closed his eyes and let himself fall away into the crucible of pain. It burned. He burned. Everything burned.

And through the fire he walked, barefoot and heedless of the

f lames. The path of the fire led him into his past, back to the first night S?ren had him. When he came through the f lames, he was sixteen again and running through the woods outside his school. He heard twigs breaking under his feet, the crunch of leaves, the soft thud of his soles on bare ground. And S?ren was behind him, gaining on him. Why did he run? For eleven years he’d asked him that question. Yes, he’d run in fear. When he’d seen the look in S?ren’s eyes, he knew what was coming.

But what S?ren intended was everything Kingsley wanted. Why did he run?

He ran for the pleasure of being pursued. That S?ren wanted

him so much that he would run after him even through the

minefield of sharp hills, quick descents, grasping tree branches,

tearing thorns. But was that why he ran? The true reason? The fire caught up the half truths and burned them to ashes. And then Kingsley remembered something he’d forgotten

ever since that night. He’d wrenched himself from S?ren’s

grip and taken off again. But he’d paused once, turned around

and smiled at S?ren. Come and get me, that smile had said. S?ren had come and gotten him.

“Where are you?” Mistress Felicia whispered in his ear.

She took the crop from his mouth. “Tell me where you are

in your mind.”

“A forest,” Kingsley said. “I’m sixteen. And I’m running,

and I don’t know why.”

“You know why.”

“He’s chasing me.”

“Who?”

“The boy I love.”

“The sadist.”

“Yes.”

“If you love him, why are you running?”

“I want him to catch me.”

“Has he caught you before?”

“No…the night in the forest was our first time.” “You wanted it?”

“More than anything,” he said, speaking the truth from his

heart. “So, why did I run?”

“Because you weren’t running from him. You were running to you. The real you.”

The words sank in to his soul.

“I was,” he breathed.

“Good boy…” Mistress Felicia said, taking his erection in

her hands again and stroking him. “Now, run to me.” Slowly he opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for the

haze of the past to clear completely. He smiled.

When he looked down he saw that the entire front of his

body had turned red. He had welts on his chest, welts on his

sides, welts on his hips and stomach. A hundred welts decorated his legs in a pattern like tiger stripes. Mistress Felicia had

been merciless with him. His skin throbbed from the injuries

she’d inf licted on him. No wonder she could command billionaires to kiss her feet. Pain like this was worth any price. She took the crop from his teeth and laid both her hands

on either side of his face. She tilted his head so that his eyes

met her eyes. For a long time she did nothing but hold the

eye contact, forcing him to see her. In her eyes he saw power

and strength, intelligence and compassion. Compassion? For

what? For his suffering? Yes. He saw that. But which suffering? The pain she’d inf licted on him? Or all his other pain that

she sensed he carried within? It didn’t matter why he moved

her that way, only that he did. For when she kissed him, he

felt real tenderness, affection. She kissed masterfully, her lips

teasing his, her tongue caressing his tongue. She didn’t force

the passion. She roused it. She bit his bottom lip and drew

blood. He tasted the copper and swallowed it.

“I never kiss my clients,” she whispered against his lips. “I

never f*ck them. But you’re not a client.”

“What am I?” he asked.

“Tonight,” she said, “you’re mine.”

And tonight he was.