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.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” S?ren said, his tone almost, but not quite, apologetic.
“You didn’t scare me. I’m not scared.” His racing heart, his churning stomach made a liar of him.
“Well, this answers my question.”
“What question?” Kingsley asked, dropping his head. He didn’t want to look in S?ren’s eyes. He saw fear in them, not of Kingsley but for Kingsley. And something told him S?ren wouldn’t be touching him again for a very long time.
If ever.
“Now I know why you don’t let anyone hurt you anymore.”
Kingsley looked up at S?ren from the f loor.
“Get out of my house,” Kingsley said.
“Kingsley?”
“You said I don’t owe you anything. Get the fuck out of my house.”
S?ren got the fuck out.
10
SEVEN DAYS AND SEVEN NIGHTS PASSED, AND S?REN didn’t come back to Kingsley’s house. He didn’t call, didn’t write, didn’t visit and didn’t once tell Kingsley he needed to get help. He was gone, gone, gone, and that was fine, fine, fine with Kingsley.
Except it wasn’t. Because S?ren had promised never to leave him again. And he had.
Promises, promises.