DragonNarrative Writes

You don't think this man owns an ounce of self-consciousness in his entire body. You feel your thighs tighten together unconsciously, squeezing your muscles. "Didn't think they made Englishmen so big."

His mouth ticks up a notch, scar tissue moving thick. "Drank lots of milk."

"Hmm." You let your limbs go loose and bobbing in the water, eyes flickering around him to take in the empty pool area; it's nearly closing time and you figured you'd get it alone. "Here for business?"

"Nah, I'm just a fan of hotels with planes whizzin' by overhead all night."

He still hasn't looked at you, but then, there's a pressurized movement under water and his foot reaches out and nudges yours. The jacuzzi isn't huge and he takes up most of the room. You're not mad at it.

"Honey?" Your husband, Ian, calls out from behind you, making his way across the tiled floor to you, a fresh set of towels retrieved from the front desk to set in the reclining chair where you'd left your robe and key card.

You wave a hand lazily, hearing the questioning tone in his voice. "Hey." You watch boredly as he climbs into the jacuzzi while avoiding eye contact with the stranger.

"Ian, I was just meeting a new friend here. What was your name again?" You turn sweetly to blink at the stranger.

"Simon." Doesn't even acknowledge Ian. Eyes trained right on you the entire time. Sending pulses down to your pussy, sparking and flaring.

—

"Yer wife's cunt feels fuckin' good, mate. Feel like a fuckin' dream."

Hands braced over Simon's thighs, muscular and hairy, your fingertips grazing his scarred kneecaps and your hips grinding down over his thick cock as you stare dazedly off the bed at Ian, sat in his little armchair.

"Honey?" He asks, voice soft.

"I'm gonna cum again, Ian. Oh my fucking god, he feels so good, Jesus Christ." Your breath is punched out of you as Simon's big hands clap down in tandem over your ass cheeks, sending your flesh rippling off in echoes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Atta girl," he groans. "Let yer fuckin' husband hear it. Let him look at ya."

Your tits, slapping heavy against the flesh of your tummy in this position, your head on a constant swivel to stare at Ian, look back at Simon, stare down at your hands digging into his legs. "Oh my god," you cry sharply, the sound breaking off as his cock strikes your gummy spot, his hands grabbing the fat of your ass as hard as he possibly can. Bruising and exhilarating.

"I'm gonna cum inside your sweet fuckin' wife, mate."

"Okay."

Simon's orgasm flows through him hard and fast, fucking up into your pussy faster until you're sobbing and nearly shrieking, as he slaps and slaps at your ass cheeks. Pulls your ass and hips down to grind the rest of his orgasm out, panting and heaving harsh.

You eventually pull off, the fullness something to mourn already. You curl up, legs akimbo, arms flopped over your wet hair.

"Get her a rag, mate, c'mon. Clean us up."

Ian shuffles into the bathroom, and Simon uses the moment alone to slap at your thick thigh again in appreciation. When Ian returns, Simon instructs him firmly to clean you both up. "You gonna head out?" You ask after Ian's bent down to wipe Simon's cum off your labia, and given you a soft, heated kiss.

"Gimme some time and I can give ya a round two."

Even better.

The eyes drew closer, reflecting starlight, pale and iridescent. The creature’s shadow loomed by the edge of her pond, too slim to be a bear, the legs and snout too long. A wolf, although it was far too big to be a true wolf. It took her eyes a moment to adjust after staring up at the blaze of starlight for so long, but there was only one wolf this could be, inky black fur turning him into a nigh invisible void in the darkness.

“Valter, did you follow me?” she asked accusingly, lifting her head clear of the water.

The wolf yipped, jumping and rolling over backward like an ungainly puppy. He skittered off, out of sight, though the bone-cracking sound of his transformation still echoed around the clearing, setting Cat’s teeth on edge.

He approached again, on two legs this time, dressed just as he had been earlier. Valla had always transformed naked— Whatever magic allowed them to shift shape didn’t have an effect on clothing.

“Why aren’t you naked?” she asked, frowning up at him.

He blinked. “What? No, I— Oh, you mean—” He gestured to himself before he sat down on the biggest rock beside the pond and leaned forward to unlace his boots. “Jon was tired of my showing up naked to meetings. I used to forget, sometimes. He made me an amulet, it does something so my clothes don’t get shredded and reappear when I change back. Don’t ask me how it works, because I don’t know.”

Cat hummed, glancing over at her own neatly folded clothing. There was no graceful way to slip out of the water to get redressed without him seeing everything. She’d have to ask him to turn around, although the thought was the slightest bit mortifying. It shouldn’t have been— She’d been swimming with her friends in town too, wearing precious little more than this, but it felt different with Valter. Riskier, though she wasn’t afraid he’d hurt her.

She was worried he’d do just the opposite, in fact.

“I was just looking for a good spot to spend the night,” he added, answering her first question when the silence stretched too long. “I didn’t catch your scent until I was just on the other side.” His eyes lingered on her bare shoulders. “I didn’t mean to intrude, really, I just— Sometimes it’s hard to remember human decency when I’m a wolf. Should I go?”

Absolutely. Immediately.

“You can stay,” she said instead, reining in the instinct to snap at him to cover her own conflicted emotions. “Just… Behave.”

“I always do.” His white teeth flashed in the darkness when he grinned. He leaned forward to dip his fingers into the water, sending distorted ripples through both of their reflections. “Cold. You’re not cold?”

“I am,” she said, “but it’s not that bad.”

“It is strangely warm here, isn’t it? Feels like the height of summer.” He stood again and unbuckled the wide, ornately tooled leather belt he wore around his middle.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her wide eyes following his broad hands as he unlaced his shirt at the neck.

“I’m going for a swim,” he said peacefully, his eyes betraying his amusement.

“Go swim somewhere else!” she hissed.

“Company’s better here. Besides, hardly seems fair that you’re the only naked one.”

“Neither of us should be naked! Are you insane?” She had to yank her eyes away when he dropped his pants to the ground, the tails of his shirt hitting just low enough on his thick, hairy thighs to leave at least something to the imagination. She didn’t look up until she heard him slip into the water, relieved to see that his lower half was submerged. “I did come here to be alone, you know.”

“Then why tell me I could stay?” he asked, pushing away from the rock, swimming a lazy circle around her.

“I— Well— I didn’t expect you to take your clothes off,” she said hotly. She tried not to think about the glimpse she’d caught before she tore her eyes away, the broad shoulders and strong arms, torso supported by a thick waist, the trail of dark hair narrowing slightly under his belly-button.

“No sense getting them wet.”

“Right. Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” he asked innocently.

“You keep saying you’re happy to give me space, but you just keep getting closer.”

Valter’s circles had gotten close enough that Cat could reach out and touch him, if she chose to. “Do you want me to give you more space?”

“No! Yes. Maybe. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“No risk of that, kitten. Hardly anything going on in here.” He tapped his head, chuckling. “It would be a miracle for you to give me any ideas at all.”

Cat splashed water at him. “Oh stop it. I know that’s not true.”

“What idea are you afraid you’ll give me, then? That you like me? Or just that you like that I want you?” His fingertips brushed close to her back as he circled around again, the currents ghosting across her skin.

“Valter, you know we shouldn’t be alone together like this.”

“Why not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know you spend a lot of your time in the capital, but you should know that the cyonite influence hasn’t faded from the North. Arka may have driven them off, but she couldn’t erase two generations of backwards thinking overnight. I’m expected to behave myself, even if you aren’t.”

“No one else is here to see if you’re behaving badly or not,” he pointed out. “Just me. And I wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Turn around, please.” Cat swam to the edge of the pond and hauled herself out, snatching up Valter’s abandoned shirt to wrap around herself. She was not a short woman, but Valter was massive, enough that the shirt that brushed his thighs came within a few inches of her knees. She glanced over at him, scoffing when she found that he hadn’t turned around, and was studying the droplets of water rolling down her legs. “You have no shame, do you?”

“None whatsoever,” he agreed, paddling closer, as if Cat possessed some undeniable magnetism that drew him in. “That looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

“I’m much better looking than you are,” she said loftily.

“No argument here.”

Cat scoffed, tugging the hem of the shirt down as she leaned over her pack to find her towel and a comb. “You aren’t supposed to agree.”

“Why not? It’s true. Doubt anyone’s ever called a gorgeous thing like you an ugly mutt.”

Cat sat down on the biggest, flattest rock, dipping her toes back into the water. She studied Valter’s face in the darkness, peering through her lashes and pretending to be more absorbed in the task of drying her hair and combing out the tangles. Valter was far from ugly. He had the countenance of a hero, a strong jaw, his prominent nose arched neatly, just a tiny bit crooked from one of many breaks. The advanced healing that marked his condition was constantly correcting such things, slowly erasing scars or crooked fingers with each transformation. Something like a broken nose might have been obvious for a few years for the average wolf, that only transformed at the height of the moon, but for Valter, who slipped from one shape to the other as easily as changing a pair of boots, scars didn’t last long at all.

She knew that from her time with Valla, more than any true knowledge of Valter, but they were alike in many ways. They even looked alike, the same thick black hair, the same intelligent golden eyes, the same crooked, toothy grin. Tern had only given Valter his towering size, the Northern propensity for long limbs and broad shoulders.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking,” he said, stretching himself out along the surface of the water and folding his arms over the edge of the rock. His fingertips traced along the outside edge of her knee lightly.

Cat glanced at his hand, annoyed, and her eyes slid past automatically, over thick arms and the exquisite musculature of his back. “Listen, I…”

“Don’t think so much, kitten. I’m at your service.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Whether it’s something you should or shouldn’t want. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the delegation and ride in with them, and I’ll pretend we never met today. This can just be a dream. It already feels like one.”

Cat reached out hesitantly, cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble on his chin. “You are impossible to shake.”

He grinned, turning toward her wrist, nose brushing over her pulse. “Like a dog on a trail.”

"Simon! I was just about to call you. Did you get the chicken for stew?" B grabs the plastic bag you barely noticed from his hand and hums. She turns to head back to the kitchen, calling, "Perfect, perfect. Come in, don't leave my door open or the damn cat is gonna run."

Bump, B's ancient tabby, hasn't moved from his spot on the armchair in your living memory, but you let Simon in and shut the door. He looks even bigger this way, surrounded by your aunt's old and eclectic stuff. He watches you look him over for a moment before toeing off his sneakers, setting them aside, and making his way to the kitchen.

You trail behind him to find B puttering around with the kettle and the good tea. Who is this guy?

“Simon, this is Necie, my sister’s daughter,” B says when Simon pulls a chair out to settle his improbable bulk into it. “She lives in town. Having some man troubles-”

Your jaw drops. “Auntie!”

“- so she’s staying the night,” she continues right along. “Simon’s my neighbor, since Robert and Delilah got divorced and moved out. Simon doesn’t know the story, but he doesn’t need to, I’m no gossip.”

Simon makes deliberate eye contact with you, then says, “’S not gossip if it’s jus’ the facts.”

“That’s true,” B snickers, pouring three cups of tea and bringing two to the table, “Necie, get the meat started. Cookies first! And where did you put the grocery - oh, here it is. I don’t need any of these for dinner, dear, but it’ll be a couple of hours. After tea, you can get these for me. But for now, Robert. Bless him, he put up with too much-”

***

Simon is a soldier, B tells you when he leaves for the groceries. He’s gone for weeks to months at a time. When he’s around he restocks her heavy groceries and does anything around her apartment that needs doing. He’s a bit of a homebody. He likes to read on the couch while B watches Family Feud.

“Why do you have a white man hanging around on your couch?” you ask while you stir the rice and peas before covering the pot again.

B scoffs from where she’s sitting at the table. “You keep a man on the couch, you don’t have to go looking for him when you need him. I don’t have to go calling after him at all hours-”

Oh here she goes. “Auntie, I’m not trying to keep Brandon.”

“And that’s your problem,” she counters. “If you’re not trying to keep him, then you need to get rid of him.”

“Those are the two options, huh? We can’t just want to be together, with out trying to “keep” each other? Or even just because we have fun together.”

“There’s plenty of men to have fun with. It doesn’t have to be that one.” B stands up to check on the stew again, even though you just stirred it. Her bony fingers grab your elbow with surprising strength as she turns you to face her. “You know I’m not going to tell you what to do. But you and I both know that bumbaclaat man-”

A knock interrupts her, and she gives you an irritated “tuh!” as you go to open the door. The sight of Simon on the other side nearly evaporates your irritation. You hate to admit it, but you can see the appeal of a man at the door with three full grocery bags and two cases of water bottles. Convenient indeed.

He doesn’t even let you take a bag, just toes his shoes off and strides into the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Necie’s a decent cook,” B says. “Burns the rice every time, though.”

“Take it off the heat!” you yelp, dodging around the big man to turn off the burner. Luckily, it’s not actually burned, just a bit brown at the bottom. “Why do you try me? Next time don’t tell me to make dinner.”

“Set the table,” she says imperiously. “Simon, put the groceries away and go wash up.”

“Yes’m,” says the giant. And then he just does what she says.

Whatever. You clear the table enough for three place settings and set to serving up dinner. Auntie B gets a couple of Red Stripes from the fridge and pours you a lemonade, then sits and waits for you to set her plate in front of her. You grumble when she pulls your face close to press a hard kiss to your cheek, but return the gesture anyways. Simon reappears from where he’d taken a case of water into the hall and washes his hands before sitting to B’s right, leaving you to sit at the head of the table.

“So, how long do I have you this time?” B asks.

Simon reaches out to pop the top of B’s bottle, then does his own. “Couple ‘f months, maybe. Not sure. Goin’ back to Hereford tomorrow, be back by midweek.”

“They shouldn’t have you runnin’ around.”

The conversation goes like that, B asking questions and imperiously declaring the answers unsatisfactory. Simon, for his part, answers direct questions but mostly just eats. You try not to stare at his scars, his crooked nose, the tattoos you didn’t see earlier because of his jacket. He looks like trouble, bent low over his plate. He must fall somewhere between a guest and not-guest, though, the way B keeps poking fun at him. That makes it easy to fall into the easy banter that make up evenings with your aunt.

Simon is solidly not a guest, you realize, when he stands to take your plate when you’re done eating. He arches an eyebrow at you before taking the dishes to the sink and cleaning up. When you look at her with your eyebrows raised, B smirks and sips at her beer.

“Family Feud tonight, Simon?”

“Don’t ‘ave a choice, mu’m,” he says, like he’s said it a million times before.

“Come sit when you’re done,” B says, standing and pulling you from your chair. “You work too hard.”

And the rest of the evening is… easy. Simon sits at the end of the couch, pulls out his phone, and reads, just like B said. B makes almost raunchy comments about Steve Harvey and his male guests, like she always does. And you… relax. The tension in your shoulders lessens with every survey, and you find yourself leaning into your aunt by the end of the first episode.

Of course, that’s when you make the mistake of looking at your phone. Or maybe the mistake was not looking before now. You have two seconds to realize how many texts you’ve missed before a call from Brandon lights up your screen. Cringing, you stand and slip down the hall to the guest room.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” your boyfriend mocks. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering my texts?”

You rush to speak before he can get any more worked up. “Sorry, I’m sorry, my aunt has a guest over, I was making dinner, we just finished eating a little while ago-”

“Oh, you make dinner over there,” he scoffs.

“My aunt wanted me to make brown stew, you don’t even like it,” you point out. “Last time I cooked-”

“Whatever,” he interrupts you. “When are you home? We’re out of papers, pick some up on your way.”

“I just bought those,” you protest. “And I told you, I’m staying here tonight. Literally just go down the street and get some.”

“You’re coming home tonight.”

The audacity of this man. “No.”

“The fuck d’ you mean, no?” His voice gets quiet.

Your stomach drops. “Sorry. I mean that I can’t tonight, my aunt still needs my help cleaning up. It’ll be late by the time I can get out. I can grab papers on the way tomorrow.”

“Not much fuckin’ use to me now,” Brandon grumbles. “Whatever. Tell your aunt I said hey. If she’s got any more of those chocolate covered biscuits, you should bring a pack home.”

A pack? You can hear B’s voice cussing him out in your mind. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, distracted. “See you tomorrow, yeah? Love ya.”

He hangs up before you can reply, which used to hurt but now just makes you roll your eyes. You send him a heart emoji, then step back out to the living room.

***

When you climb out onto the fire escape around 2am, you’re surprised to see Simon already out there, sitting on the steps across from his window. He salutes you with his cigarette, then watches silently as you settle on a throw blanket with your e-reader and a bottle of soda.

“Can’t sleep,” you explain, though he never asked.

“Me neither,” he says, exhaling smoke. “Better’n usual, though. Good food.”

“Thanks.”

“Mm. What’re you readin’?”

“Oh,” you say, hugging the e-reader to your chest. “It’s just a, uh, romance novel. Stupid.”

“If it helps you sleep, it’s probably not that stupid,” he surprises you saying. “Romance is probably better than… horror.”

“The story doesn’t usually make me more tired,” you admit. “Usually I would be having a glass of wine with it, help me relax, but… I’m trying to cut back.”

Simon nods. “Fair.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so you tuck your head to start reading. When you sneak a peek at him, a few minutes later he’s looking out over the city. Eventually, you stop expecting him to talk again, and it’s easy to fall back into the easy drama of romantasy land.

Eventually, he stands, startling you to almost drop your e-reader. But he just nods at you before ducking back into his apartment.

***

Simon leaves the next day, and so do you. After breakfast, you make sure you have everything you need for work and slip on your shoes. B makes the usual noises about being left alone like she doesn’t have two boyfriends, a “close friend,” and a spades club to keep her busy.

“Oh, and this is for your library,” she says, slipping an old paperback into your purse. “Let me know what you think of it.”

“Okay, Auntie, but I have to go or I’ll miss my tram.” You press a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Next week,” she commands.

“I’ll try,” you say, slipping into the hall. The elevator is out, again, and the landlord still hasn’t fixed the top stair on the landing, so you call back to her, “Don’t try to take these stairs by yourself!”

“Then you better come back!” is her retort before you hear her door shut.

Getting to work is fine. Brandon keeps getting on you about getting a car, but you don’t need another bill and you like taking the tram and the bus. You like the five minute walk from the bus stop, the local bakery on the way. Having a car would be more convenient, you can’t deny it as you open your umbrella, but a part of you loves the romance of the rain.

When you’re staring at a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom, later, you wonder if you’re too much of a romantic. Pram on the tram, your mind says, making you huff an almost amused breath from your nose. The levity is short lived. Being pregnant is… less than ideal. Brandon isn’t exactly going to be over the moon. Things have been better between the two of you, but if the last pregnancy was any indication, the next couple of months will be miserable, unless you’re lucky enough to miscarry again.

That thought makes your whole body freeze up and go cold. You barely have enough time to get down so you can vomit into the toilet instead of onto yourself. It’s so abrupt that you can’t stop yourself from sobbing.

Your aunt, your friends, everyone had assured you that it happens. Still, losing the baby had been so scary. You had been heartbroken and ashamed, had cried non-stop for days, hadn’t been able to really smile for weeks. It had been one of the worst experiences of your life.

And in the context of Brandon? Lucky.

Flushing the toilet, you wrap the pregnancy test in toilet paper and stick it into the pocket of your purse. A part of you is kind of grossed out, but a bigger part of you wants to keep the reminder so you can look at it again. Because you have to break up with Brandon if he’s going to make you think like this, feel like this. Positive. Lucky.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Spreadsheets, a late meeting, cake for someone’s birthday. You almost miss the bus back to your place because you decide to walk to a further stop, give yourself some time to move.

When you finally arrive home, you’re equal parts relieved and frustrated to see Brandon in his usual spot on the couch, playing video games. His eyes are bright when he sees that you’re home, and he hurries to tell his friends he’s logging off.

“Hey, babes,” he calls, tossing his headphones on the coffee table and standing for a hug. “So glad you’re finally home, I got good news!”

“O-oh,” you say, going with it when he rocks you from side to side.

“Yeah, I got that promotion I was tellin’ you about,” he says, and his grin gets bigger. “Retroactive, a bit of extra money on the next check. And I got a call back from that place I applied, Cloudstone? They like my portfolio, I’ve got an interview next Tuesday.”

“What? That’s amazing,” you cry, throwing your arms around his neck. “Congratulations, baby, I’m so proud of you!”

His happiness is infectious, and when he suggests takeaway and a movie to celebrate, you can only agree. It’s not until he’s cracking a beer for himself that you remember - you shouldn’t… you can’t have any wine. Because you know you’re pregnant, it’s not just a possibility anymore. Thankfully, Brandon doesn’t notice you biting your lip through the entire movie, just laughs and jostles you the way he does when he’s excited about something.

Near the end of the movie, he puts his hand on your thigh and leans in to kiss your neck. Your heart jumps, and suddenly your stomach is in your throat. You push his hand away and run to the bathroom just in time for the palak paneer and and Sherry’s cake to evacuate your stomach.

“Ugh,” you groan.

“That’s the second time you’ve thrown up this week,” Brandon says, from the doorway. It’s actually the fifth, but he hasn’t been around for the other times. “Do you think you might be sick?”

“I’m…” God, you’re too tired for the fight you know would come with the truth. You rest your forehead on your arm. “I think I ate something bad with lunch. I thought it was a one off, last time, I’m not going to that cafe again.”

“Can I get you anything? Pepti-calm?”

Can you take that when you’re pregnant? “No, I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”

He murmurs something else, shuffles his feet, and walks away. In a few moments, you hear the Duty Calls startup theme. That’s fine. You need space, time to think. You decide to take a shower and wash off the stress of the day.

Brandon doesn’t hear you crying.

You’re exhausted when you climb into bed, half an hour later. Your eyes are hot and swollen, but you’re all out of tears for the day. Everything feels heavy. So you lay in the dark and just breathe for a while.

When Brandon comes to bed, he climbs in behind you quietly. His hand, when he touches you, lands on your hip, then creeps toward your inner thigh. You catch his wrist before he can get very far.

“I still don’t feel good,” you croak.

Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.

Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.

Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.

He blinks.

He studies them again.

The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.

“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.

The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”

“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks back at the photograph.

Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.

There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.

“Right,” Price says.

The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.

You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.

Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.

Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.

Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.

Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.

The next report arrives shortly before lunch.

“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.

Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.

“Forensics?”

“Lorazepam, sir.”

“What dosage?”

The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”

Price stares at him.

The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”

“I know what lorazepam is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.

It doesn’t.

“Zero point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”

“No, sir.”

“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.

The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.

Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.

In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.

Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.

“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.

You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.

You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.

After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.

Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.

Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”

Price says nothing.

“Do you want us to assemble a team?”

“No.”

There is a pause.

“No, sir?”

“No.”

“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”

“Has he?”

The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.

“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”

“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.

He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.

The operator watches him. “Sir?”

Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Administrative work.”

“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”

Price checks the box beside personal leave.

“He’s been missing for two days.”

Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.

“Sir.”

Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.

The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.

“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”

“But- ”