Chapter 8: The Dog

"Five minutes!" I called, in a voice I didn't recognise.

Jonas was already out of bed.

He moved faster than any man that size had a right to, snatching his trousers off the rug and his shirt off the lamp.

"Window?" he whispered.

"It's the second floor."

"I've done worse."

"Jonas."

He stopped, one boot in his hand, and looked at me.

I was sitting up in the tangled sheets with my curls in my face.

I started to laugh.

He tried not to.

He lost.

He put his forehead against the wardrobe door, shoulders shaking, and said, "Your father is going to kill me."

"He's making pancakes."

"That's how he'll do it."

By the time I opened the door, I was in a robe and Jonas was in his shirt.

Neither of us had a single believable thing to say.

Dominic stood in the hall in an apron that read WORLD'S OKAYEST COOK.

He looked at me.

He looked at Jonas, who was buttoning a cuff.

He looked at the holster on the dresser.

His face went through four separate expressions.

"Good morning," he said, in a perfectly level voice. "Jonas. Kitchen."

"Sir."

"Now."

He went downstairs.

Jonas gave me a look that said I told you so, and followed.

I stood at the top of the stairs.

I waited a few moments, and then I tiptoed down after them in my bare feet.

I stopped on the landing, where the banister hid me.

The kitchen smelled of burnt butter.

"She's twenty-two," Dominic was saying.

"Yes, sir."

"You've worked for me six years. You are the one person in this city I trust with her life."

"Yes, sir."

"Did she ask?"

A pause.

"She asked," Jonas said. "Twice. I said no both times and meant it, and then I couldn't hold the line. That's on me, not her."

"It's on both of you. You're adults."

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