The Mistress

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not now. Not ever. I won’t ask you to break your promise to God and I won’t break mine, either. I’m only asking that you wear these. Consider them...very small collars.” He smiled and she knew she couldn’t say no.

“I’ll wear them but you should know, it doesn’t matter to me that we can’t get married. I belong to you. I always will.”

Søren clasped the necklace around her neck and the cool metal of the rings tickled the skin of her chest.

“Yes, you do.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Forever.”

“Forever.”

He pulled back and she exhaled heavily. Wedding bands. Ridiculous. But they were very pretty, she had to admit that. She supposed this meant they were engaged. Fine, let Søren think they were if that made him feel better. At least he’d tried to make an honorable woman out of her. No, they would never get married. Not now, not ever, and they both knew it. But the future did hold the prospect of more time together. Six months ago Kingsley had announced that he was giving up his Empire, passing the keys of the kingdom to Griffin, and moving to New Orleans to start a new operation—smaller, more intimate. Less an Empire and more a private kingdom. New York had far too many enemies, far too many powerful people who he’d pissed off. He planned to start over in New Orleans, the perfect city for a man with a Haitian lover, and a quarter-French, half-Haitian daughter. Kingsley made his announcement and the next day Nora started house hunting. When Søren told her one month later that he’d accepted a full professorship at Loyola University in their Pastoral Studies department, she couldn’t even feign surprise. Of course he had. And for his birthday today, she’d given him a box with a key in it—a key to a house in New Orleans’ Garden District, a house hidden far from prying eyes, a house where he and she could be alone together, where he and Kingsley could be alone together.

He’d looked at the key and he’d looked at her. Nora had said, “You would have done the same thing for me.” They said no more about it. They didn’t have to. Things had changed between him and Kingsley since her week in Kentucky with Wesley. One night two weeks after her rescue she came to the rectory and found it empty. When Søren arrived home hours later and slipped into bed with her, she could taste Kingsley on his lips. She’d only laughed, called him a “big blond slut” and fallen asleep across his chest. They’d all looked death in the face thanks to Marie-Laure. When they looked away they saw one another, saw how all three of them belonged together, and they would never let anything or anyone divide them again. If Kingsley went to New Orleans, there would be no question. Søren would go, too. So would Nora.

She and Søren never spoke of his nights with Kingsley, as she never spoke of her phone calls with Wesley. After a few months, she could even ask Wes about his relationship with Laila without wanting to commit seppuku. Last year she’d cried alone at her kitchen table after Wesley told her Laila would be moving to Kentucky to go to school. Apparently there was some all-girls college not far from Wes’s house that had an equine program. How convenient. But that was it, the last time she’d cried over him. Now she could think of him without pain, remember without hurting.

And life was starting to get really interesting.

Twenty years ago Søren had been sent to Sacred Heart in Wakefield, Connecticut, as a temporary fill-in for an ailing Father Greg. His “temp job,” as she dubbed it, had turned into a calling that had taken him away from his Jesuit brethren. Now two decades later, he would rejoin them. A difficult transition, but still, it was life out of the small parish fishbowl, life outside the scrutiny.

“Eleanor?”

Nora realized she’d been doing nothing but staring at the rings on the silver chain for the past five minutes.

“I’m all right. I can wear these. But don’t tell anyone we’re engaged. Number one, we aren’t. And number two, an engaged Dominatrix is a boner-killer, and I’ve got to be tough for the New Orleans scene. I’ll be the new kid at school.”

“I would never presume to tell anyone anything so horrifying and slanderous. And you’ll have the entire town under your heel in a month.”

“Good. I like the sound of that. Okay.” She took a shallow breath to steady herself. “Now can I please have that box I asked for, sir?”

“I’ll give it to you now. You’ll earn it later.”

Nora wrapped Fionn’s last present, a Catholic Bible with his name engraved on it—Fionn Aaron Easton. She had already declared herself his godmother and hadn’t taken any argument from Zach about it.

Nora, you and I have slept together. I don’t know how appropriate it would be for you to be my son’s godmother.

When has the appropriateness of something ever been a deciding factor for me doing anything?

Well, I suppose I can’t argue. Especially considering...

Considering what? Nora had asked but Zach hadn’t answered her.

Søren watched over Nora’s shoulder as she wrote the name on the gift tag.

“Fionn,” Søren said, narrowing his eyes at the name tag.

“What?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you know if Fionn is a family name?”

“No idea. Grace’s mom’s Irish. She said it was an old Irish name.”

“It is. Fionn or Finn refers to the legendary Irish warrior, Fionn mac Cumhaill, or Finn McCool. It’s very interesting.”