The Mistress

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Søren started to push past her and Nora put a hand out, grasping the door frame.

“You go another step past me and you will never see me again,” she said, her voice low and menacing. “If you dare interfere with Wes’s chance at happiness, even a few more minutes of it, I will run so fast and so far from you even God and all His angels won’t be able to hunt me down. You and I have been playing this game by our rules for twenty f**king years and it is way too late for you to be pulling this vanilla bullshit on any of us right now. We know who you are. We know what you do. Every single one of us in this room has the bruises to prove it. So unless you want to lose me and lose me for good this time, you will sit your ass down and eat your goddamn breakfast and you will leave Wes and Laila alone. Otherwise, I will disappear from this life and the next life. I will make sure I die first and whether I’m in heaven or hell, I will bar the gates behind me so you can’t even touch me in the afterlife. Say, ‘Yes, Mistress,’ if you understand.”

“Eleanor...”

“Say it. Say it if you ever want to see me again.” Nora felt like a corpse struck by lightning and jerking back to life. “I left you before. By God, I will do it again. This time I won’t come back.”

It was the only hand she had to play and she wasn’t bluffing. She stared at him. He stared at her. Wars had been started with less fury than she felt at him right now. No way in hell would she let him humiliate Laila and Wesley for doing nothing wrong at all. Laila was eighteen, not even fifteen like Michael was. Wes was twenty and a college student, not thirty-three and a Catholic priest like Søren had been their first time. They had nothing to apologize for, nothing to be ashamed of. They’d committed no sins and she wasn’t about to let Søren punish them for one night of pleasure.

“I mean it,” she said when she saw the war raging in Søren’s eyes. “You know I mean it.”

For a few more terrible seconds Søren remained silent. She knew her entire future hung in the balance even more now than it had two days ago when she held her and Søren’s lives both in her hand. She could forgive Søren any hurt he’d ever caused her in her entire life. But she would not, could not, forgive him if he hurt Wesley. That she could not allow.

“Yes, Mistress,” he finally said, and Nora nearly sagged with relief. But she didn’t relax, not yet.

“Good boy. Oh, one more thing.”

“What?”

Nora slapped Søren so hard across the face that he gasped from the pain of it. Søren looked at her in pure unadulterated shock.

“I have wanted to do that for nineteen years, you pretentious, overbearing, self-important hypocrite. You made me water a goddamn stick for six f**king months.”

The last words she almost shouted as years of pent-up rage rose up in her like an army with banners aloft ready to die and ready to kill.

“Kingsley,” she said, looking past Søren, “I’m leaving. If he tries anything before Wes and Laila come up for air, shoot him.”

She couldn’t remember the last time Kingsley looked so delighted.

“With pleasure, Maîtresse.”

Nora turned on her heel, leaving everyone—Søren, Kingsley, Grace, Wes, Laila and all the bad memories of the past few days—behind her.

“Nora, are you all right? Where are you going?” Grace called out after her.

“Thirty-six hours is about my upper limit for wallowing. I’ve got places to go, people to beat.”

Nora slammed the front door behind her and the sound jarred her back to reality. She had no car, no keys, no money on her. Nothing. That’s okay. Never stopped her before.

Wesley’s Mustang was parked out front and Kingsley’s Jag. She was rather fond of Wes and King today. Only one option remained.

Nora found the keys waiting in the ignition of Søren’s motorcycle.

“Arrogant prick. Maybe you’ll finally listen to me now. Told you to get a f**king disc lock for your bike.” She started the priceless vintage Ducati and let her guts lead the way out of the driveway. Instead of heading home, her guts aimed her straight at Manhattan. Fine. So be it. New York, it is. Kingsley said Griffin was watching the Empire while they were gone. A little afternoon delight with Griffin and Michael would do her nicely today. And if not, surely Sheridan could be persuaded to come over and play awhile. She’d be elbow-deep in that little girl before dinner. And tonight, she was getting shit-faced. Now that was what the doctor ordered.

As the miles flew past her, the realization that she’d actually slapped Søren in the face started to sink in. Not only had she hit him, she’d hit him harder than he’d ever hit her. That slap was one for the record books. He’d be lucky to not have a black eye from that bitch of a slap she laid on him. On top of that, she’d done it in front of Kingsley and Grace. No doubt Søren would beat the holy living hell out of her for this. The various punishments and tortures he’d lay on her danced in front of her face. He’d probably have to invent some new form of sadism to punish her latest crimes. Or he’d choose the worst possible punishment for her of all—enforced and prolonged celibacy.

Whatever it was it would hurt. It would be brutal. It would be torture. It would be pure Søren at his most sadistic.

She couldn’t wait.

Part Seven