The Scent of Winter
A Novella
Tiffany Reisz
8th Circle Press
Contents
1. Unholy Orders
2. Capture the King
3. Trillium Woods
4. The Hawk and the Hare
5. The Scent of Winter
About the Author
Books by Tiffany Reisz
Dedicated to Tia Johnson, who wanted a Kingsley story—
ask (on Facebook) and thou shalt receive
Author’s Note
This novella takes place the December before the events of The Virgin and The Queen (the third and fourth books in The Original Sinners: The White Years series from Harlequin’s Mira Books).
* * *
To avoid spoilers, the reader should complete the series through The Queen before starting The Scent of Winter.
1
Unholy Orders
What was the point of cold weather without any snow?
Not that Kingsley minded the lack of snow in New Orleans during winter. There was something to be said for sitting on his back balcony in December and drinking wine with Juliette after putting Céleste to bed. But now that he’d been back in New York for two days, he found himself wishing for snow with the same fervor and longing he’d wished for it as a child, when a rare heavy snowfall meant maman might let him stay home from school. From the window in Griffin’s dining room, Kingsley studied the sky and found it empty of snow clouds. The sun hung down from the ceiling of the overcast horizon like a sad, low-watt light bulb.
Winter in New York was a disappointment. The sooner he got back to New Orleans the better. Ah, well, it was a business trip anyway. Not in town for pleasure. Pleasure was back in New Orleans. Nothing in New York these days but paperwork.
“I promise Mick’s not dead,” Griffin said, interrupting Kingsley’s melancholy reverie. Griffin brought two cups of coffee over to the dining room table where they’d been working. Kingsley had offered to sell his old townhouse to Griffin at below market value to use as a base of operations, but Griffin hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment he’d shared with Michael for almost four years. He liked the privacy of it, which Kingsley could appreciate. In the old days, people were always tramping in and out of Kingsley’s townhouse on Riverside Drive for a dinner party or a music recital, an auction or an orgy.
“Sick?” Kingsley hadn’t seen Michael all morning. And not once yesterday either.
“Worn out from finals. He always sleeps for about three straight days when the semester’s over. But he’ll be up eventually.”
“Let him sleep. He’s earned it,” Kingsley said, taking the coffee cup Griffin offered. “What are your Christmas plans?”
“The whole family’s at the ski lodge again this year. Mick’s mom is coming, too.”
Kingsley raised his eyebrow. “This is the same mother who is now dating your oldest half-brother?”
“Yeah.” Griffin winced as he scratched his fingers through his dark brown hair, which was still a little wild from sleep. “If she and Aiden get married, I’ll be Mick’s step-uncle. That’s weird, right? It feels weird.”
Kingsley only shrugged. “La Maîtresse will probably write a book about it, knowing her.”
Griffin rolled his eyes, threw his feet up on the table, and sat back in the chair.
“She would, wouldn’t she?”
Kingsley poured over the last of Griffin’s books, leisurely sipping his coffee.
“Well?” Griffin asked. He was nervous, which Kingsley found endearing. Even if Griffin was the new King of the Underground, he still wanted to impress the old King of the Underground. “What’s the verdict?”
“I don’t see anything of concern. But where are the other books?”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Jules and I kept two sets of books. The ones the IRS saw, and the ones the IRS didn’t.”
“King, my father is the former chairman of the New York Stock Exchange.”
“Then if anyone knows how to game the system, it’s you.”
Griffin laughed. “No second set of books. I’m keeping the clubs on the up and up. The only nefarious behavior going on around here is on my sheets, not the spreadsheets.”
“It won’t be nefarious for long. I hear congratulations are in order.” Kingsley closed the pages of the spiral-bound financial report and tossed it aside.
“Save the date,” Griffin said. “Mick’s going to make an honest man out of me.”
“First, he already has. Second, the date is not saved. The entire week is. Nora’s house has been taken over with wedding planning books, and Juliette is already shopping for dresses for her and Céleste. Jules is unusually excited the wedding will be in Scotland, and I’m not sure I want to know why...”
“Scottish castle. Who wouldn’t be excited?” Griffin drained his coffee in a gulp. “I still can’t believe this time last year, I thought I’d lost Mick for good and now we’re planning a wedding.” Griffin gazed out the large picture window in his high-rise Manhattan apartment and smiled a little dreamily to himself. He was a man in love—and even better, a man contented. It was good to see. Kingsley, too, was a man in love. He wouldn’t say no to a little more contentment, however.
“The course of true love never did run smooth,” Kingsley said. “No one knows that better than I. Than me? Ah, I still hate English. Than moi.”
“Speaking of true love...” Griffin said, grinning that old playboy grin of his. “How’s the big guy? It’s his birthday tomorrow, right? The big 5-1? You two partying together? Picnic in the park? Pairs figure skating? Karaoke night?”
Kingsley took off his glasses and cleaned them with the white silk handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket. He wanted to laugh but didn’t quite have it in him today. Spending two straight days pouring over financial records did not do wonders for his sense of humor.
“I doubt I will even see him.”
“He’s that busy?” Griffin asked. “I thought since the semester was over, he’d have nothing to do but grade finals.”
Kingsley shrugged dismissively. “New Orleans is a very Catholic city. Advent is a hectic time at the parish.”
“Too bad,” Griffin said and frowned, though Kingsley could see he was trying very hard not to smile.
Kingsley tucked his glasses and the handkerchief into his pocket.
“Never fall in love with a priest,” he said. “God will always be his first priority. If you’re lucky, you’ll be second.”
“Not a big worry of mine. Mick’s an ex-altar boy, but the only orders he takes are from me.”
“Unholy orders are far more fun than Holy Orders.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Griffin asked.
Kingsley shrugged. “I turned fifty last month. I think I’m finally starting to feel it.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you don’t look a day over forty. You’re sexier now than you were when I met you. I’d fuck you in a New York minute. If I wasn’t engaged, I mean.” Griffin glanced over his shoulder. “Hope Mick didn’t hear that. Nah. Doesn’t matter. He’d fuck you too. Well, he wouldn’t fuck you since he’s a bottom. But you get what I mean.”
“I do. You painted quite a picture.”
“Don’t sweat the numbers, King. Sting’s in his mid-sixties.”
“Now that does make me feel better.” Kingsley stood up. He’d seen everything he needed to see. “You’ve done very well. I’m impressed with your work.”
“You are?” Griffin looked like a boy about to burst with happiness but trying very hard to remember he was a grown man.
“You’re an excellent CEO,” Kingsley said. �
��Even if you don’t quite look the part.”
As it was only eleven in the morning, Griffin was dressed in pajama pants and a faded blue t-shirt that read WANT TO WATCH PORN ON MY FLAT SCREEN MIRROR?
“Sorry,” Griffin said. “We keep it casual around the house. You’re lucky I have pants on.”
“Yes, we know how offended I am at the sight of naked men.”
“Speaking of looking the part…I see you’ve given up the Lord Byron duds. I kind of miss ‘em. Don’t get me wrong, you look damn good. Like one of those sexy Greek tycoons on those romance novels Mom’s always reading. But it’s kind of an adjustment seeing you look...what’s the word?”
“Vanilla?” Kingsley said.
Griffin raised his hands in innocent surrender. “Hey, you said it. Not me.”
Kingsley had indeed made a wardrobe change, though he still kept all his breeches, military coats, Edwardian suits, and riding boots in the closet at home and wore them on special occasions. But these days, people were more likely to find him wearing something like what he had on today: an Armani business suit, double-breasted, black, with a white shirt under and a slim black tie.
“I’m keeping a low profile these days,” Kingsley said. “And I’m a father now. I’m not quite ready to explain fetish-wear to my daughter. That’s what her Tante Elle is for.”
“Don’t worry. When I’m at the clubs, I look the part. You set a high bar. I want to make sure I clear it.”
“I have no doubt you do.”
“Any suggestions for The Kingdom? It’s your baby.”
Kingsley shrugged. “I’d watch your overhead at the California location. Opening clubs is the easy part. It’s like falling in love. Keeping them running is the real work. I wouldn’t expand operations out west until you’ve turned a profit there two years in a row.”
“Good advice. Anything else?”
“Nothing else. I put my realm into the right hands. Merci. Merci beaucoup.”
“De rien, mon ami,” Griffin said as they shook hands. “I love the work. I feel like I’ve found my calling.”
Kingsley picked up his coat off the back of a chair and pulled it on. Winter had hit New York hard this week. The temperature was barely scraping the bottom of thirty.
“Leaving already?” Griffin asked. “You could reschedule your flight. Tonight’s Bisexual Appreciation Night at the club.”
“Isn’t every night Bisexual Appreciation Night?” Kingsley asked.
“Yes, but tonight we’re having punch and pie.”
“Tempting. But I must get home. My girls miss me almost as much as I miss them.”
“I know. Just had to ask. Let me walk you out.”
They strode down the long hall toward the front door of Griffin’s penthouse apartment and passed a darkly sensual abstract painting that looked to Kingsley like a red mouth kissing a black bruise. Kingsley almost inquired who the painter was so he could buy one for his home in New Orleans when he saw the artist’s name scrawled at the bottom—Michael Dimir.
Griffin stopped at the door to the master bedroom and cracked it open.
“Just a sec. I want to make sure he’s still breathing,” Griffin said with a wink.
Michael lay on his stomach across Griffin’s large platform bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist but no higher. Red welts decorated Michael’s pale back diagonally from shoulder to hip. The boy had been transformed into a human candy cane.
“Mick?” Griffin whispered. “You awake?”
Michael raised his head, blinked, and pushed a lock of black hair off his face.
“I’m sort of awake, sir.”
“Say hi to King,” Griffin ordered.
Michael gave a quick, tired wave. “Hello, Mr. Edge.”
“Joyeux Nöel, Michael,” Kingsley said.
“Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Then Michael dropped face first back down onto the bed and Griffin shut the door.
Kingsley looked at Griffin and blinked pointedly at him. “Exquisite welts.”
Griffin wore a devilish smile. “He woke up about eight o’clock last night for a couple hours and said he was finally rested up. I must have fuckered him out again.”
“The phrase is ‘tuckered out,’ non?”
“Pretty sure it’s fuckered out. And if it’s not, it is now.”
Kingsley kept his mouth shut as the elevator took them from Griffin’s penthouse to the main lobby. The welts on Michael’s back had sent a jolt of intense longing through Kingsley’s body. A longing far too much like envy…envy left him grappling with guilt. He had Juliette, whom he loved and adored and lusted after with every bone in his body. He had his daughter who had kicked in and crawled through every closed door in his heart. He had Nico who was everything a father could want in a son and more. He had friends like Nora and Griffin who were a second family to him. He had a beautiful home, a beautiful life, meaningful work...
But.
There was no denying his essential nature. He’d once told a client of Nora’s that fetishes were the pet you feed or the beast that eats you. It had been almost three months since he’d fed that chained beast of his. Coming to New York had tested Kingsley’s willpower. He knew the phone numbers of every good Dominatrix in the city by heart, and his fingers itched to dial one of them.
He might have succumbed if it was merely pain and submission he desired. But it wasn’t. Not even pain and submission and pleasure. He simply wanted his priest as soon as possible. Now, preferably. But as he wasn’t going to get his priest until Nora left for France in January, Kingsley didn’t even bother putting him on the Christmas list.
“Can your doorman fetch me a taxi?” Kingsley said.
“Already taken care of it,” Griffin said, pointing at the doorman, who nodded and picked up the lobby phone. As they waited, Kingsley pulled on his gloves and adjusted his scarf.
“King,” Griffin said, pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask,” Kingsley said.
“It’s about the wedding. I was hoping, you know... Would you maybe be my best man?”
Kingsley’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Griffin started talking again before he could answer.
“It would mean a lot if you were up there next to me,” Griffin went on hurriedly. “My whole life changed for the better that day I woke up in your strip club with your boots on my chest.”
“Griffin, I’m honored. Truly. But you have brothers.”
“That’s the thing. I love my brothers. I can’t pick just one without hurting the others. But even if I could I’d still want you. You saved my life. You did, don’t deny it. I know it and you know it and Mick knows it and my brothers know it. You got me into rehab. You helped me find something better than drugs to make me feel like I mattered. There’d be no Griff and Mick without you, because there’d be no Griff. So please say yes. Nora’s going to be Mick’s ‘best mistress’ and Søren’s already agreed to perform the wedding.”
“In that case.” Kingsley smiled at Griffin and embraced him. “Of course I will be your best man. It would be my honor.”
“Thank you,” Griffin said, on the verge of tears. “Seriously. Thank you.”
“Stop. You’re the new King of the Underground. You can’t be this soft in public.”
Griffin chuckled before composing his handsome face into a mask of cold hard fury. “I am very scary and dangerous,” he said. “Can’t you tell?”
“That would be more believable if you weren’t wearing Queen Elsa fuzzy slippers.”
Griffin looked down at his feet. “They’re very warm.”
Kingsley glared at him.
“Okay, so they’re not as intimidating as Hessian boots. But how did you know what they were anyway?” Griffin demanded. “Secret Disney fetish?”
“I have a two-year-old daughter. What’s your excuse?”
“Killer fashion sense,” Griffin said. “Car’s here.”
As soon as they walked out the double glass doors, a sleek black town car pulled forward.
“Very nice,” Kingsley said.
“Even a king in exile is still a king.” Griffin stepped forward to open the door for him.
“It was good to see you again,” Kingsley said. “Come down and visit.”
“I will. Hey, I’m supposed to give this to you.”
Griffin handed Kingsley a crisp white envelope.
“What’s this?” Kingsley asked.
Griffin smiled. “Don’t be mad. I’m just following orders.”
“Orders? Whose orders?” Kingsley demanded.
“Um...Let’s call them...Un-holy orders.”
And with that, Griffin slammed the door shut. Outside the car window, Griffin grinned and waved goodbye. Kingsley had a very suspicious feeling that he’d just been kidnapped.
The car pulled into traffic and Kingsley leaned forward to address the driver.
“You’re not taking me to the airport, are you?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Edge.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me where are we going, then?”
Griffin would only take orders from him, Nora, Juliette or Søren. He guessed Juliette had arranged to meet him somewhere for a night in the city alone together. She’d talked about it, if Nora were willing to watch Céleste.
“I’m supposed to tell you that everything you need to know is in the card.”
With his heart in his throat, Kingsley ripped the envelope open and removed the card from within. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a standard-issue Christmas card, the sort one received from banks or doctor’s office. A generic forest snow scene, the sky streaked with falling stars.
Still...the forest in the photograph seemed eerily familiar. Where had he seen it before?
Kingsley opened the card, and something fell out of it and into his lap.
It was a silver cross on a silver chain and that chain was broken, snapped by the clasp and tarnished with age.
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