God, he missed hating that man.
Wesley left Laila sleeping in her bed. He didn’t want to be the weirdo creeper caught staring at an unconscious girl. Especially not by Søren, who would probably kill him as Laila had warned last night.
After eating his low-carb and no-taste breakfast, Wesley went in search of Søren. He needed updates, information, any news anyone had about Nora. He didn’t find Søren anywhere downstairs. But in the library he found Kingsley sitting behind a big desk, a book across his stomach, his eyes closed.
“Any news?” Wesley asked without preamble.
Kingsley slowly opened his eyes.
“Shall I get you the Sunday Times?”
“About Nora.”
“Non.” Kingsley sat up in the chair and faced Wesley over the desk. “No news.”
“You went there last night. What happened?”
He shook his head.
“Rien.”
“Please. English.”
“Nothing. Nothing happened.”
“You went there and what? Had a picnic?”
“Oui, I had a picnic. Then I broke into the house, hid in the servants’ halls, listened to your fiancée speaking—”
“You heard her?” Wesley’s heart leaped with hope.
“And saw her.”
“She’s alive. Oh...thank God.” He collapsed into the chair in front of the desk, his head in his hands. “Was she okay?”
“Okay is a relative term. She was alive, she looked uninjured. Her clothes were on and, although soiled, did not appear torn.”
Wesley breathed through his hands.
“Then what? You saw her. You couldn’t get her out.”
“Not without shooting my own sister in the back.”
Kingsley stared at him full in the face. A hard, cold stare that Kingsley wielded like a weapon. Wesley stared back and didn’t look away. Kingsley seemed to be challenging him, daring him to question his choices.“I couldn’t do that, either,” Wesley finally said. “Kill someone. Not in the back, anyway. Self-defense, maybe, but no, not in cold blood.”
Kingsley narrowed his eyes as if not trusting Wesley’s words.
“I left her there in the house. I couldn’t get her out.”
“So what’s next, then? What’s the plan? You say there are people there with your sister. People can be bought, bribed.”
“Would you like to go to the house now and write them a check?”
“If I thought it would work, I would. Jesus, we can’t just sit here and wait. We have to do something.”
“I am doing something. I’ve made some calls. I have some help coming. When they get here, we’ll try again. Don’t worry. We’ll get your fiancée back and you two can get married. Please don’t forget to invite me to the divorce.”
“Are you ever going to explain to me why you hate me so much?”
“You’re not interesting enough to hate.”
Wesley shook his head in disgust.
“God, I thought Søren was bad. Could Nora have worse taste in men?”
“I believe you’re the answer to that question.”
Wesley leaned forward in his chair.
“Tell me. Why do you hate me? I want to know.”
Kingsley slammed the book in front of him shut and stood up. He came around the desk and sat on the edge.
“You want to know why? I’ll tell you why, mon petit prince. You have never suffered. And don’t tell me you have. I have shoes that have suffered worse tortures than you.”
“You’re right,” Wesley agreed readily. “I haven’t suffered. I’ll be the first to admit I won some kind of cosmic lottery with my family.”
“You have. And yet you think you deserve someone like her. And worse, you think she’s better off with someone like you. You are a child. You are the child who wakes up from a nightmare and stumbles into his parents’ bedroom and sees Daddy on top of Mommy and thinks, ‘Why is he hurting her?’ That’s what you are. An ignorant child who has not lived, has not struggled, has not suffered, has not hurt, and yet presumes to tell his parents that what they’re doing is wrong.”
“And that’s why you hate me so much? Because I’m not kinky?”
“I couldn’t care less if you’re kinky or not. You might as well ask me if I care what sort of car you drive, Ponyboy.”
Wesley glared at Kingsley. He started to protest but Kingsley snapped his fingers in his face, cutting him off.
“I don’t like you because you sit there in judgment of us. I have seen real evil. I have seen the horrors of this world and even committed a few myself. You look at le prêtre and you see some kind of monster. If there is anyone on earth who has the right to hate him or to judge him, it is me. And do you know who I see? I see God.”
“Søren is not God.”
“He’s the closest thing to God I’ve ever found. He let his lover leave him and he took her back. She left him again and he would take her back again. He forgives and forgives and forgives. Mon Dieu, forgiveness is in his job description. It’s what he does for a living. He forgave her for spurning his love and welcomed her back with open arms. No punishment, no questions asked. When he metes out his punishments, they are deserved and they are fair. His acts of mercy are legendary. His capacity for love is never-ending. And you come along and see him putting a knife in someone’s chest and you scream, ‘Murderer!’ while the rest of us see a heart surgeon.”