Søren started to stay something else, but Kingsley stopped him with a quick vicious punch to the face.

Søren’s head snapped to the left. Kingsley had to give the man credit. He took the punch well. He’d put other men on their backs by hitting them as hard as he’d hit Søren. For good measure and because he deserved it, Kingsley punched him in the chest. He aimed for under the rib cage and he was fairly certain he felt something crack.

“This isn’t kink, by the way,” Kingsley said. Søren clapped a hand onto Kingsley’s shoulder to steady himself. He wasn’t doubled over but close to it. “Consider it a lesson in empathy.”

“I missed you, too, Kingsley,” Søren said, his voice steady, but with a note of discomfort. He looked down and saw Søren’s clenched hand. And slowly, ever so slowly, Søren relaxed his hand.

“Turning the other cheek?” Kingsley asked. “Maybe you did learn something in seminary, after all.”

Søren stood up straight at last and raised a hand to his nose. A line of blood trickled from it. He touched it and looked at the blood as if surprised to see it there.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this greeting?” Søren asked, his voice composed but hard as granite.

Kingsley reached into the pocket of his trousers and held out the handle of the riding crop he’d given Elle, the handle of the riding crop she’d left for Kingsley as a message, the handle of the riding crop Søren had broken.

He dropped it onto the floor of the church in front of Søren’s feet. Kingsley looked Søren in the eyes.

“Don’t ever break my toys again.”

Kingsley turned to leave, but Søren stopped him with a question.

“Why weren’t you with her?”

Kingsley froze. Slowly he turned back around.

“So much for turning the other cheek,” Kingsley said. He smiled. “It’s impressive, really. You don’t even have to hit me to hit me. You are indeed the greatest sadist in the world. Congratulations. I hope you’re proud.”

“You shouldn’t have let her go through it alone.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. I should have been there. But where the fuck were you?”

“I was in Rome, and I left her with you. I left her for you to take care of and instead I come home to find her bleeding in my bathroom and sick as I’ve ever seen her.”

“Yes, and what did you do when she was bleeding and as sick as you’ve ever seen her? You did that.” He pointed at the broken riding crop on the floor at Søren’s feet. “And now she’s gone. Maybe you should have stayed in Rome with the Pope. She’d still be here.”

“If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have let her go through it alone. If you’d called me—”

“I told her to call you. She refused. She said she didn’t want to burden you with the decision. She had to make it herself so it would never be on your conscience. That was the most scared I’ve ever seen her, and even then, she was thinking of you.”

Søren didn’t speak but he didn’t look away. He held Kingsley’s gaze, unapologetic.

“It’s funny,” Kingsley said as he made a sudden realization. “For over ten years I’ve thought one thing about her. Yes, she’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. Kinky. Smart. Every man’s dream. But I always thought perhaps...she wasn’t good enough for you. This little girl from Nowhere, Connecticut, with a nobody mother and a piece of shit father. How could she ever be worthy of you? Now I’m starting to think something different. You hide behind your collar and get to play God while the rest of us do your bidding and suffer the consequences. You get the glory. She gets the bruises. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of her. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of me, either.”

“Have you spent the last year planning this speech?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “The last twenty years.”

“Twenty years? I would have expected a longer speech then.”

For that Kingsley almost hit him again.

“I used to think you walked on water,” Kingsley said, meeting Søren’s eyes. “Now I know you’re drowning like the rest of us.”

“I am drowning,” Søren said, and Kingsley paused in the doorway. There it was again—the sound of an eggshell cracking inside his heart. He ignored it.

Kingsley walked out of the sanctuary and out of the church before Søren could say another word or before Kingsley could say anything he might regret someday.

Roland was out of the car in an instant, opening the door for Kingsley.

“Where to now, sir?”

“Home,” Kingsley said tiredly.

An hour later, Roland pulled the car in front of the town house and Kingsley got out on his own, his bag in his hand. He’d forgotten he had people to open doors for him, to carry his bags for him. He’d been gone too long. So long he’d thought he’d feel something when he arrived at his house. Relief? Happiness? Contentment? But he felt only resignation. He’d run away from home like a child who’d fought with his father. He’d gone out into the big wide world and the big wide world had sent him back home again. So much for the return of the prodigal. No fatted calf for him. No feast. No fanfare.

He opened the front door and sixteen feet raced at him in a flurry of love and fur. He dropped his bags and hit his knees as his four black Rottweilers whined and whimpered, almost mad with happiness to see him again. He let them paw at him, lick him, knock him flat on his back with their joy.