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"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you're getting." I put the mop in the bucket. "How was your trauma call?"

"Twenty-six hours. Fuck I need a bed." She's still looking at my hands. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Show me."

So I hold my hands out and she turns them over under the light, pressing along my knuckles. She does it so nonchalantly. Nobody has ever looked at my hands to see if I'm hurt. If anything, they’d want to know what I've done with them.

"A person broke into our house. Our sanctuary," I explain. "That's what I've been doing down here all night. Dealing with that. It wasn’t the one who was in that chair, but he’s connected to whoever is."

"You'll find them." A simple answer, delivered with a certainty that should set my mind at rest.

"I know I will." I look into her eyes. "I'd like it to be sooner."

She lets go of my hands, then crouches down before I can stop her to examine a wet patch by the man’s chair leg, one spot I haven't gone over yet. She licks her finger, reaches out and touches the patch.

"Manon, what are you doing?"

She stands up, her fingertips red, her gaze dark and heavy. Her mouth is slightly ajar, and fast, shallow breaths escape her lips, sounding like she’s just come up ten flights of steps.

Fuck.

"Don't," I say.

She puts her hand flat on my chest and drags down my shirt.

"That area still needs cleaning. Do you know how long the rest of this floor took me?" I ask her, but she keeps smiling, rattling me.

"Probably a few hours, knowing you." She's swaying on her feet but apparently still has the energy to wind me up. "I could tell you missed it. Just want to rile you up a bit. It’s my new hobby…"

Grabbing her wrist, I lift her hand off my chest and hold it out to the side, away from both of us. Then I reach past her and pull the strap off the arm of the chair. Of course she knows exactly what I was doing in here an hour ago.

"Take your clothes off," I demand.

"But Laszlo, we should go."

"Now."

She started playing this game, might as well finish it. My wife, who argues with me about everything, pulls her sweater over her head and drops it on the floor without a word. Then the rest of it. I watch her strip in my prep room at an ungodly hour, and I can’t wait to bury myself inside her.

"Turn round."

She turns round.

I bring her wrists together at the base of her spine and buckle the strap over them, then slide two fingers underneath to check it isn't tight. It isn't. She's been on her feet since yesterday morning and I'm not having her lose the feeling in her hands over this.

Then I lift her onto the prep table and step back.

My wife. Naked on my steel, hands strapped behind her back, and she’s not complaining. I look down at the blood stain on my shirt, then return to studying her, from head to toe.

"You're staring," she says.

"I've been staring at you for a long time. You're only just noticing."

"That's not funny."