“Your Kyrie,” Kyrie whispered into Elle’s mouth. “Your dove.”

When Elle had finished taking ownership of every part of Kyrie’s body, she helped her dress and rise to her feet. She’d made her come three times, and Kyrie was light-headed now, weak from pleasure as Elle was weak from happiness. She had something in her heart she hadn’t had when she came here months earlier—hope. A real agent wanted her book. Kyrie wanted her. They had a plan to leave, to go back into the world. Elle could work and pursue a writing career. She could do that. She wanted to do that. She could see it all happening, the dominoes falling ahead of her, the tumblers clicking into place. They could have a life together, her and Kyrie. She could make this work somehow and she’d do it on her own, without Søren.

Hand in hand they walked through the trees back to the abbey. Silently they slipped inside and Elle escorted Kyrie all the way to the door of her cell. Somewhere in another hallway, footsteps echoed. Kyrie pulled her inside the tiny room and shut the door silently behind them.

Elle grabbed her and kissed her over and over again, the thrill of almost getting caught sending her heart racing and making her blood burn. She remembered this feeling, the exhilaration of reveling in the forbidden. Sometimes she’d wondered if she desired Søren so much in spite of the fact he was a priest, or because of it.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” Kyrie said in the smallest of voices. If they were caught...well, what did it matter? They were leaving anyway. “I needed to know.”

“You earned it.”

“Will you be okay?” Kyrie asked. “When you’re back out there, out in the world?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you won’t go back to him, will you?”

“No,” Elle said.

In the distance she heard a sound. Nothing more than a motorcycle in the distance, its engine purring and humming as it lingered at a stop sign. Søren’s? Maybe. She walked toward the window to hear it better, walked toward it as if drawn to the sound by an invisible cord wrapped around her heart.

Kyrie reached out and took Elle’s hand in hers, stopping her in her tracks.

“Come to bed,” Kyrie said. “Please? Be with me again. One more time tonight.”

Elle pushed her to the bed and laid her down onto her back. They would be tired tomorrow, but who cared?

And outside the gate she heard the motorcycle drive off.

She was safe. Whoever it was had gone.

She’d told Kyrie the truth. She wouldn’t go back to him.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not yet.

31

New York City

CALLIOPE SENT THE Rolls-Royce to pick Kingsley up at the airport. But when his driver took the turn to head back to Riverside Drive, Kingsley called to the front.

“Wakefield first,” he said.

His driver, a young semi-unemployed actor named Roland, did as Kingsley said.

A bone-deep exhaustion suffused Kingsley’s entire body. He felt like a soldier again, returned from battle, wounded and tired and numb. His driver had noted the unnecessary weight he’d lost and quoted Shakespeare at him. Kingsley had a lean and hungry look about him, according to Roland, and Kingsley found the Julius Caesar reference appropriate. Men with too much power were on his shit list today. Time to have a little talk with one of them.

“Should I leave you and come back?” Roland asked when he opened the door of the Rolls for Kingsley.

“Wait for me,” Kingsley said to the boy. “This won’t take long.”

Today was Saturday and Søren always said Mass on Saturday evenings. It would be over by now, but knowing Søren’s habits, he’d still be at the church or in the rectory. He couldn’t have gone far.

Kingsley was pleased to see the church empty of the faithful when he entered it. He was hardly fit for human company at the moment. His last bath had been yesterday in the ocean and he’d neither shaved nor slept in two days. He had on yesterday’s clothes—dark pants, a black T-shirt. He’d left his black jacket in the Rolls and Juliette he’d left behind in Haiti.

He knew he would never see her again. The one woman he could have spent his life with, and she’d ordered him away from her and out of her life.

He’d lost it all. Again. He should be used to it by now, he thought, losing everything and everyone he loved. He’d certainly had enough practice to be an expert at it. If only one could get paid for losing the people you loved, Kingsley could turn pro.

Inside the sanctuary Kingsley saw a familiar blond head facing the front of the church. The head was slightly bowed. He was praying. Good. Kingsley hoped God was listening right now. Kingsley had a few things to say to Him, too.

Kingsley took one step forward on the hardwood floor, and it was enough to alert Søren to his presence. The blond head turned and the priest rose from his pew. It might have taken him a second longer than usual to recognize Kingsley. The Caribbean sun had turned his olive skin to bronze. His hair was longer now and needed taming, and he hadn’t changed back into his usual uniform of expensive custom suits and boots and everything fine. Søren walked toward Kingsley with long purposeful, almost-eager strides.

Søren too appeared gaunt, as if he’d grieved in secret all this time.

His steps quickened as they neared Kingsley, and it took everything Kingsley had in him to not hasten the inevitable and go to him.

“Kingsley.” Søren breathed his name more than spoke it. A sigh of relief, of surprise. And Kingsley was relieved to see him alive, relieved to see him standing, relieved to simply see him, this man he’d loved all this life.