The Queen

“I will be prepared. In truth, I couldn’t watch while he’s being hurt, but I admit I enjoy the thought of tending to his wounds after...”

“That’s a kink, you know. Comforting someone after a hard scene. Usually it’s the person who did the hurting who handles the cleanup, but I’ve known kinky people whose favorite thing to do was dress the wounds of masochists after a beating. Aftercare can be very intense, very intimate.” Søren had always taken good care of her after the beatings. Washing her wounds, cleaning her cuts, kissing her boo-boos away. Those were her favorite moments, when he put her back together after tearing her apart. “It’s like playing doctor or naughty nurse.”

“I would look good in a nurse’s costume, wouldn’t I?”

“You would look good in a brown paper bag.”

Juliette smiled, a smile so steamy it could have fogged the windows in a parked car.

“You break him down,” Juliette said, pointing at Elle. “And I—” she pointed at herself “—I will build him up so he’ll be ready when you break him again. Between the two of us he should be a very happy man. It’s a good plan, non?”

“A very good plan, yes. So you think we can be friends?” Elle asked. “No jealousy? No awkwardness?”

“Jealousy is a sign of insecurity. He adores me,” Juliette said, sounding almost affronted by the very suggestion Kingsley would ever choose another woman over her. Veritable madness. “And I am never awkward.”

“I can believe that. Thank you for this.” Elle swallowed hard, suddenly on the verge of tears and not knowing why. A tiny kindness from a woman she barely knew and...tears? This wasn’t like her. Not at all.

Juliette gave her a long searching look.

“You miss him,” Juliette said. “Your lover?”

“I shouldn’t,” Elle said. “I left him.”

“I miss mine, and I hated him.”

“I hate my ex, too.”

Juliette raised a finger, shook her head. “Elle, you do not know hate the way I know hate,” and Elle believed her. “Starting a new life isn’t easy. Not even for me and I have wanted this new life all my life.”

“I hate crying,” Elle said. “Seems...weak. I’m usually stronger than this.”

“It’s not weak. I cry, too, and I’m not weak. If I feel weak because I’m crying I remind myself of one true thing.”

“What’s that?” Elle asked.

“This is a new life I’m living. I am reborn. And all babies cry when they’re born.”

Elle smiled and knew she’d remember that one true thing all her life. Being born hurt. So did being reborn.

Juliette left her alone and the second she was gone, Elle locked her bedroom door and tore open the envelope. A handwritten note lay on top of a rubber-banded bundle of papers. Her book printed out with edit notes.

“Elle,” the note read, “Loved it, loved it, loved it. I’ve made some notes in the margins. I found a couple scenes to cut but most changes are minor. I’d love to have it back by next Friday.”

The note was signed by her new agent. Kingsley had ordered her to stay in the house. Elle did not follow men’s orders anymore. So she stuffed the book into a backpack, threw on a hat and headed out into the city.

Coming back to Manhattan had been harder than Elle had anticipated. Even now, two weeks after she’d returned, the noise of the city had kept her on edge. Life in the convent had been so quiet. She’d fallen asleep at night to the sound of soft breezes and chirping crickets. With nothing but Kyrie to distract her, she’d been able to write her book quickly. Yet another reason to make as much money as she could as fast as she could. A quiet house of her own where she could write in peace. That was the dream...

But first, she’d need her own damn computer. Sneaking to the library to work on her book was hardly ideal. She didn’t put it past Kingsley to chain her to the bed. He’d done it to Juliette, after all.

She reached the library but didn’t go into the computer lab yet. First she walked through the stacks, as she always did, seeking inspiration. The convent library had “uplifting” or “religious” literature in its small library and not a single novel. But here she found Jane Austen, George Eliot, Henry Miller and her beloved Anaïs Nin. She walked the stacks and paused when a book in the C’s caught her eye. She pulled it from the shelf and held it in her hand.

Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll.

Elle had her own copy of this book back at Kingsley’s. Søren had given it to her when she was nineteen. He’d brought the book home with him from Rome. Back then she’d been too young to wonder how a priest under a vow of poverty had gotten the money to pay for such an expensive early edition of this book. When she’d gotten older and had learned to ask more questions, he’d told her that he had a wealthy friend in Rome, a madam of a brothel who’d worked all her life as a dominatrix to European businessmen, royalty and clergy. Whenever he returned to Rome he visited with her. And although Elle had never met his friend Magdalena, Magdalena seemed to know Elle.

Why me? Elle had asked him when Søren admitted the book had been given to him by Magdalena to give to Elle.

Søren had answered, Because a long time ago she looked into my future and saw you. So she says, anyway.

What’s my future? I’ll go through the looking glass?

She says you are like Alice in the Looking-Glass world. First a pawn and then a queen.

Was that what had happened? She’d stepped through a mirror into a world where everything was backward—where she was Kingsley’s domme and not Søren’s slave? Where she was a dominant and not a submissive? Where she was a queen and no longer a little girl?

Elle put the book back on the shelf. No reading right now. No remembering. Queen or not, she had work to do. She took the computer right next to the wall and started cutting. Today’s project was her last project before her book went out on submission with editors. Her agent had told her that her book needed trimming. Less was more and Elle knew she was right. Elle highlighted a scene consigned to the chopping block and hit Delete.

It hurt, of course. She might have winced a little between highlighting and deleting, but it was also empowering. She felt like a god of her own world in a way. She created their reality—what her characters ate and drank and how they lived and loved and fucked and if they did something she didn’t want them to do then all she had to do was...poof...delete...gone...

Just. Like. That.

She wished real life came with a delete key. But if she could change her reality, would she? Maybe. She knew she’d never truly be free of Søren as long as she remembered everything that had happened between them, from their first meeting at Sacred Heart two weeks before her sixteenth birthday to that last awful night when he’d been so angry he’d scared her. But it wasn’t that night that she wanted to be free of. The bad memories gave her the strength to keep following this path. It was all the good nights that held her hostage, her memories of beautiful kink, passionate sex, lying in bed after Søren had spent his pain and passion on her, talking about everything and nothing until she fell asleep against his chest and woke up with her collar locked away in the rosewood box until the next time he would make her his. Too many good memories. They were like links in a chain that bound her to the past.

Why couldn’t she push Delete on those memories and make them go away like she did the scenes in her book that slowed the story down?

Maybe she could.

Elle opened a new blank document on her computer screen and stared at the blinking cursor.

What to write...what to write... What memory did she most want to rid herself of? Which night haunted her more than any other, weighed on her more than any other? Impossible to pick only one, but she had to start somewhere.

She thought of the book again—Through the Looking-Glass. Her favorite part of it had always been the “Jabberwocky” poem, especially when Søren read it to her at night in his poshest and most entertaining English accent. Some evenings he’d read to her before they adjourned to his bedroom for kink and sex and on those nights it was torture to have to sit and wait while he read when all she wanted from him was pain and fucking.

But there were other nights, special nights, private nights she would tell no one about even on pain of death...

A memory hit her so hard in the stomach she almost whimpered aloud. God, it hurt to remember. But wouldn’t it feel good to forget? Not good, but powerful? She could show those memories who was boss. She was god of her own world.

She knew right where to start.

Elle put her fingers to the keys and started to type.

It was a winter’s night in Ordinary Time, but this was no ordinary night.

7 (#ulink_b18373de-7c2d-584b-a42f-58cb54c3790b)

Ordinary Time

IT WAS A winter’s night in Ordinary Time, but this was no ordinary night.