Author: Tiffany Reisz

Grace laughed out loud and pulled back from his embrace.

“She said that to you?”

“She took exception to the fact that I didn’t put a lock on my motorcycle. She said I was asking for someone to steal it. Considering that a week after that conversation she was arrested for stealing cars, she did know what she was talking about.”

“Arrested for car theft? That naughty girl. I had no idea she’d been in that kind of trouble. I thought teenage girls got arrested for shoplifting purses and makeup.”

“Eleanor does not do anything the normal way.”

“And you loved her for it.” Grace smiled up at him.

“I did. Utterly and unrepentantly. My heart was so torn after meeting her. Rent in two. I knew I should only love her like a father to a daughter, but her wildness and her beauty made it nearly impossible. I protected her, though, like a father. I always tried to protect her. And I always did. Until now.”

Grace took another step back. She needed some space between her and Søren. Being in his arms felt preternaturally good, unreasonably safe. She wondered if this is what Zachary had felt with Nora—this strange pull toward someone she couldn’t understand, who seemed almost alien. They had some kind of secret knowledge, both of them. Secret insight. They had seen things she couldn’t imagine, Søren and Nora, knew things she would never understand. But how she wanted to see, wanted to understand....

“My heart is outside myself tonight and far away,” Søren said, staring into the darkness.

“How far away?”

“Ten miles between here and Elizabeth’s house. I could run it in an hour.”

“I could run it in fifty-five minutes,” she said, grinning up at him.

“Behave yourself. You’re seventeen years younger than I am. Respect your elders,” he said, clearly trying not to smile at her.

“If I don’t will you turn me over your knee?”

Søren raised his eyebrow, and Grace blushed ear to ear.

“Good God, now you’ve got me doing it.” She buried her face in her hands.

“Be glad Kingsley didn’t hear that. He’d take you up on that offer.”

He smiled as he spoke but she saw sorrow in his eyes, sorrow and fear.

“Where is Kingsley?”

“The last place I want him to be.”

“He’s trying to get Nora back.”

Søren nodded.

“Both Kingsley and Eleanor are out there facing unknown terrors. I’m most content when they’re both near to me.”

“You love Kingsley?”

“I do. Does that shock you?”

“Not at all. He reminds me of Nora. Arrogant, cocky, dangerous, beautiful.”

“Those two—they’ve twin spirits, although they’d deny it with their last breaths. Kingsley’s parents died when he was fourteen. Eleanor’s parents were beyond useless to her as a teenager.”

“You were a father figure to both of them.”

“In a way. And now I’m a father who’d give everything to have them both back safely.”

“They will come back. You have faith I’ll have my child someday. I have faith you’ll have yours.”

“Thank you. Until then...” He raised the glass and took another drink.

“I should have thought of that,” she said, nodding at the wine. “Better than crying over a stuffed dog.”

Søren smiled subtly and held out the glass to her.

“Take it. I shouldn’t have any more.”

Grace hesitated a moment before taking the wine from his hand. It seemed an unbearably intimate thing to drink after him. Still, she took a sip.

“Merlot. Very nice.”

“Daniel has a decent cellar. His late wife, Maggie, was something of an oenophile.”

“Then I’ll drink it in memory of Maggie.” She raised the glass for another drink.

“Sláinte mhaith,” Søren said, his pronunciation of the Celtic words so perfect even her Irish mother would have been impressed.

“Sure you don’t want it? Happy to share.”

“I’ve already had five glasses tonight.”

“Five?” Grace repeated, aghast. “I’d be underneath a table in a coma after five glasses of Merlot.” Four glasses equaled an entire bottle.

“I rarely drink this much. One glass a day at most.”

“It’s wonderful for occasional stress relief. If it was Zachary trapped in that house, I’d have to have an alcohol IV inserted in my arm.”

“I usually find far pleasanter means to reduce my stress than alcohol.”

Grace laughed as she took another deep drink of wine, willing it to go to her head as quickly as possible.

“I’m sure you can. A night with Nora must make for excellent therapy.”

“You have no idea....” The smile that crossed his face was so amorous that Grace felt her knees nearly buckle. Potent wine. Must be the wine.

“I am a very happily married woman with a husband who’s a spectacular lover. And I’ve read all of Nora’s books. I think I have some idea.”

“I’ve read her books, too.”

“Scandalous,” she teased. “A priest who reads erotica.”

“Only Eleanor’s.”

“She’s certainly my favorite author.”

She sat on the ledge of the roof and put the forest to her back. She’d much rather look at Søren, anyway. Never in her life has she been attracted to blond men but something about him was so utterly arresting. Even at night he cast a shadow. Strange to see him like this—a white shirt and no Roman collar and yet still he seemed priestly to her, sacred.

“May I ask you a question?” Søren gazed down at her.

“Of course. Anything.”

“Why don’t you hate Eleanor?”

“I might need a lot more wine to answer that.” She tried to laugh but it didn’t quite come out. Søren waited, his eyebrow raised. “All right... My marital problems with Zachary began long before he met her.”

“But they were lovers,” he reminded her.

“I’m well aware of that. She hits on him every time they talk. I know this because she tells me my husband is being mean and won’t put out for her anymore.”

“And that’s not infuriating?”

“It would be if I genuinely thought she was a threat. I think she would be heartbroken if Zachary and I broke up.”

“She would be. She loves you both.”

“She flirts with him and she flirts with me, and if given the chance I think she wouldn’t say no to another night with him but it’s only a game with her, it’s play.” Grace stopped talking when she realized what she’d said and to whom she said it. “I’m sorry. I’m sure the last thing you want to hear is about Nora flirting with—”

“Don’t be sorry. I have never begrudged Eleanor her dalliances. The sacrifices she’s made to be with me are so profound that I would be the worst of men if I demanded complete fidelity from her.”

“I wish more people were as open-minded as you and Nora. A few of Zachary’s friends, well, ex-friends now, hate me because I dated someone while we were separated. No matter how many times he tells them he was involved with someone else, too...boys will be boys but a woman who has sex with anyone other than her husband, that’s an unforgivable sin.”

“Not to me. And not to God, either. Eleanor and I have always had an open relationship, and it was entirely at my instigation. Because of what I am—”

“And what are you?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. She suddenly felt like a naughty schoolgirl about to get scolded.

“You know what I am, Grace.”

“I know you’re a sadist. That’s what Nora says. And I also know you’re a good man and a wonderful priest. Which she also told me.”

Søren sighed and sat next to her on the roof ledge. She studied his profile as he weighed his words. It had been years since she’d taken pen to paper and written a poem. She’d been quite a good poet in her university days and had dreamed of making poetry her life’s work. But marriage, her career, the real world, had taken that dream from her. Now she suddenly felt inspired to try to write again. She knew she would remember this quiet moment on this roof with this priest for the rest of her life. The still-forming memory fluttered about her head like a moth. She would net this night with words and pin it to paper so it would stay in place forever.

“There are those of our kind who play at sadism like a game. That might sound crass and sordid to you.”

“My brother plays rugby. I’m familiar with the concept of inflicting pain as a game.”

“They’re the lucky ones. The ones who can play at it. The whistle blows, the game ends, they walk away. But for me...it’s not a game. I can’t walk away from it.”

“Nora explained it to me a little. She said it’s like being gay or straight. It’s what you are instead of what you do.”

“I’m glad she helped you understand. Not everyone does. It scares people. As it should. I would worry about someone who was blasé about the concept of hurting another person for pleasure.”

“It must be terrifying, doing what you do.”

“It can be. The greater the pain I inflict on someone, the greater my pleasure. It’s a tightrope walk, a balancing act. There’s always the fear of going too far, of falling off. And in such a situation, you don’t fall off alone. You take the other person down with you.”

“But that’s what the safe words are for, right? To stop the fall?”

Søren nodded. “They help, the little safeguards we have. Eleanor and I have been together for so long she knows how far she can take me without me losing myself.”

“Have you ever—” Grace tried to find the right words “—lost yourself?”

“Yes. Once with Eleanor shortly after we became lovers. She taunted me in play. I retaliated in earnest. In her shock she forgot that she had her safe word to stop me. I didn’t stop.”

Grace shivered as his voice dropped to not much more than a whisper. I didn’t stop... She didn’t want to know what he didn’t stop doing. That was a secret she would let him keep.

“Any other times?” Grace brought the glass to her lips.

“Several. All with Kingsley.”

Grace nearly choked on the wine. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

“With Kingsley? Really?”

“You seem surprised.” She wasn’t surprised. She was shocked and Søren seemed entirely amused by her shock.

“I thought you two were teenagers when you were together.”

“We were. Although there have been a few occasions since then. Rare ones. They have to be rare.”

“Why?”

Søren stopped speaking for a moment. He held out his hand. Grace laughed, handed him the wineglass and watched him drink. He returned the glass to her, slightly less full than it was before.

“Kingsley Edge...not his real name. Would you like to know his real name?”

“Very much.”

“Kingsley Théophile Boissonneault.”

Grace blinked.

“Can you spell that for me?”

“B-o-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-a-u-l-t.” Søren spoke each letter with the French pronunciation. “As you can imagine, he was rather keen to divest himself of such a name when he settled in America.”

“That is quite a mouthful.”

“Not unlike the man himself.”

Grace nearly dropped the glass, but she saw the glint of wicked amusement in Søren’s eyes.