The Siren
Nora waited in submissive silence as Søren built a fire in the living-room fireplace. Glancing around, Nora saw the secret signs of their long association: the Bösendorfer piano she’d given him as a gift last December 21 for his forty-sixth birthday, the tassel of an embroidered bookmark she’d made for him at church camp the summer she turned sixteen peeking out from a volume of John Donne poetry, a lock on the bottom door of a cabinet under one of the bookcases. Only she and he knew what he kept behind that lock. And on the fireplace mantel were ten slight scratches in the wood left by her desperate fingernails on a night he had shown her no mercy. She knew she might add another ten there tonight.
Søren came to her and gazed down at her face. She kept her eyes respectfully lowered. It had been the first submissive act he’d taught her.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“To give myself to you, sir.”
“You wish to be mine again?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“And utterly, sir,” she said. “Without conditions or constraints.” The words came so easily to her she knew they must be true. Coming back felt as easy as falling, as simple as death.
“You weren’t mine last night, were you?” Søren demanded and Nora blushed.
“No, sir,” she whispered.
“You were with your editor last night. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And did you do as I told you? Did you make him hurt you?”
“Yes, sir.”
From the corner of her eye she saw him raise his eyebrow at her in clear skepticism.
“Show me.”
Nora held out her hands and displayed her wrists, the purple bruises on her skin.
“He held you down,” Søren said. “Your arms were over your head.”
“Yes,” Nora said, amazed how Søren could read that simply from the angle of the marks.
“What else?”
Nora unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Without shame or fear she shed all her underclothes, as well. She stood naked before Søren and waited. He studied her body with appraising eyes. Stepping behind her, he raised her hair off her back.
“He bit your shoulder, I see. Several times. He took you from behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anal?”
“Once.”
Søren moved to her front again. He reached down and slipped his hand behind her knee. He raised her leg, inspecting the inside of her thigh with the perfunctory expertise of a judge at a dog show.
“Finger marks,” he said, releasing her leg. “And knees. You fought him.”
“I made him work for it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you fight me tonight?”
“No, sir. Not now or ever again.”
Søren said nothing as he continued to study her naked body.
“A few bite marks, a few bruises…I’m afraid your Zachary is something of an amateur in the art of pain. Isn’t he? Not like us.”
The vicious slap landed across her cheek with such speed that Nora gasped as much from the shock of it as she did the pain. She inhaled and tasted blood in the back of her throat. She swallowed it and met Søren’s eyes.
“No, not like us…sir.”
Søren smiled and snapped his fingers. Without a moment’s hesitation she dropped hard to her knees. He wrapped her collar around her throat and buckled it at the base of her neck. She breathed into its grip; let it hold her throat like a hand.
Nora heard the air divide in half and she braced herself for the blow.
How easily you forgive, Eleanor. How freely you absolve the sins of others. Tell me, little one, when the time comes, how will you absolve yours?
With the first lash of the whip Nora felt a strip of fire burn across her back. She cried out from a pain so ferocious she nearly choked on it.
Like this, Søren, she dared answer only in her mind. This is how.
* * *
Yawning, Zach stumbled into his flat. He’d spent all night with Grace at her hotel talking it out. In all his life he’d never been so grateful for a sleepless night. He glanced at the clock on the wall—10:38 a.m. He smiled at the clock. He’d missed his flight to L.A.
He’d already called J.P. and told him he needed some time to decide what to do next. Thankfully, J.P. didn’t seem the least surprised. Zach had gone with Grace to JFK and seen her off. She’d kissed him goodbye, something she hadn’t done when he’d left almost eight months ago. He floated home on that kiss and curled up with it on the couch. He would sleep first, catch an hour or two then call Nora. He didn’t know what to say. But he knew she would understand.
Before he could close his eyes the phone rang. Zach grabbed at it, nearly dropping it in the process of trying to answer it.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Zach, it’s me. Wes.”
“Wesley, what is it?” Zach asked, coming fully alert again at the sheer panic in the boy’s voice.
“I’m at the hospital. I had to bring Nora in.”
“My God, what happened?”
Zach heard Wesley cough like he was gagging on something. But it only took one word to explain all.
“Søren.”
* * *
The ride to the hospital was nearly as torturous as the ride to Grace’s hotel had been the day before. Zach found the emergency ward where Wesley said they took Nora. He stood in the middle of the vast antiseptic room prepared to do battle with any doctor or nurse who dared ask him to leave. He wasn’t sure exactly where Nora was, what curtain to look behind. He listened, hoping to hear her voice or even her tears, anything to lead him to her. Instead, he heard her laugh.