Nora woke alone in her dungeon bed. Søren hadn’t left her, however. She rolled up, wrapped the sheet around her for warmth, and found him sitting in her waiting room, fully dressed with a cup of tea in his hand.
“About time you woke up,” he said. “It’s ten already.”
“You are a monster.”
“Am I?”
She padded across the floor to him, trying not to wince. She turned and bent her knee so he could see the bottom of her feet.
“Bruises,” she said. “On the bottom of my feet. On the bottom of my feet…are bruises.”
“This will happen when one’s feet are subjected to foot torture.”
“Did I mention the bruises that are on the bottom of my feet?”
“They’ll heal quickly. The flesh on the bottom of the foot regenerates faster than any other part of the body. So says the tattoo artist that did my work,” he said.
“You asked about tattooing the bottom of your feet?”
“No, I asked her what parts of the body healed the fastest. I thought such knowledge would come in handy.” He grinned devilishly. “Or…footy.”
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you more because you said ‘footy.’”
He set his cup of tea on the table, reached for her and pulled her into his lap.
“And I love making you hate me.” He kissed her and she let him. Begrudgingly. But soon she simply let herself enjoy the kiss and his arms around her. She settled in against him and he pulled her legs up over the arms of the chair and held her in his lap.
“We need to discuss Mr. Tremont,” Søren said. “And this ‘case.’ I’m not happy with you playing detective.”
“Are you going to order me to stop helping him?” Her heart sank at the thought. She really liked spending time with Cyrus, and she wasn’t sure she would ever really be at peace until she knew why Father Ike had tried to call her.
“I don’t want to, but I will if I have to. I’d like to talk to your new friend man to man.”
“Like…have coffee with him?” Her voice went very high at the end of the question.
“Something like that. Would you call him for me?”
Nora stood up and walked to her dungeon to find her phone.
Just to annoy Søren, she said “ow” with every step she took. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. About fifty ow’s in total by the time she returned with her phone. She settled again on his lap and sent Cyrus a text.
You up?
The reply came quickly.
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“Suspicious,” Nora said under her breath before calling his number.
“Good morning,” Nora said when he answered.
“Yes, it is,” Cyrus replied. His voice sounded so chipper, it hurt her ears.
“Calm down,” she ordered. “I have a bangover.”
“A hangover? When did you drink?”
“Bangover,” Nora corrected. “It’s a hangover from sex. Everything hurts.”
“And you decided to call me first thing? That’s on you.”
“Søren’s making me. He wants to talk to you again. Oh, he just told me to tell you that you’re not in trouble.”
“That’s good news. Put the man on.”
Nora handed Søren her phone.
“Mr. Tremont?” Søren said. “Do you, by any chance, run?”
Nora’s eyes went wide. She tried to grab for the phone.
“Say ‘no,’ Cyrus! It’s a trap!”
Søren swatted her hand away.
“Good,” he said. “Tomorrow morning? Let’s say seven?”
“Don’t do it!” Nora yelled as Søren named a park where they could meet.
“See you then,” Søren said. He hung up.
“It’s bad enough you torture me,” she said. “But Cyrus, too? He doesn’t deserve this. And he doesn’t even have a safe word.”
“We’ll run and we’ll talk. Afterwards, I’ll tell you if you can continue working with him on the case. In the meantime, you’re getting a security system installed on your house.”
“Speaking of…where’s Gmork?”
Søren whistled. Outside the door, Nora heard a bark.
“You locked him out? No wonder he hates you.”
“I took him out when you were still sleeping. But then, yes, I did lock him out. With water and a blanket.”
She scrambled to her feet, but when she tried to walk to the door to let Gmork back in, Søren tugged the sheet off of her. She turned around, naked, and glared at him.
“Was that necessary, Sir?”
“You can either let him in,” Søren said, “Or we can go back into your dungeon, play, and make love before lunch.”
Søren sat cooly in her big red armchair in his jeans and white tee, his beard with a touch of gray in it, his hair slicked back with water, a look of casual superiority on his face.
He wore casual superiority so well.
His steel-gray eyes gleamed with sinister intent as a self-satisfied smile played across his lips.
Gmork? Or Søren?
“He’s a dog,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”