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“No.” Her voice is small and fragile. When I look closely, I see her hands shaking.
If I keep pressing her, I might very well get Netti to come forward. I might also upset Seri so much that she has some kind of breakdown. What if Seri freaks out and “goes to sleep,” as Netti put it, but is too upset to wake up again?
r /> Seri has to be protected.
I don’t want to upset Seri. As much as I might like to speak with Netti right now, I need to think of Seri first. I can get my answers later.
I get up into a crouch and pick Seri up off the rug.
“What are you doing?” she cries out.
“Taking you to bed,” I say. “You need the rest so you can recover.”
I walk her over to the bed, lay her down, and then crawl in behind her.
“Now what are you doing?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
“Making sure you stay warm.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her close to my chest.
“Bishop, this is hardly necessary. You don’t have to force me to take a nap.”
“I usually spend half the winter asleep,” I tell her as I settle my head on the pillow. “I need a nap, too.”
She sighs loudly and then lays her head on my shoulder. She’s quiet for a little while as I watch the fire with half-lidded eyes. She looks at me and reaches over to run her fingers across my jaw.
“Should we talk?” she asks suddenly.
“About what?”
“The other night,” she says, “before I got sick.”
I’m pretty sure she’s talking about having sex, but I have become used to her denials, and I’m not sure what she wants to say now.
“What do you want to say about it?” I ask.
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret it?” I furrow my brow. “No. Why would I regret it?”
“I don’t know.” She looks away from me. “You haven’t said anything about it, and I just wasn’t sure.”
“You’ve been sick.” I’m not sure why she needs the reminder. I have no idea why she thinks I would regret having sex with her. “Was I supposed to jump you again while you were hovering over the toilet?”
“Fair point,” she says with a blush. “I wasn’t sure how you felt about it though.”
I reach up and brush her hair off her forehead, slowly tucking it behind her ear.
“I thought it felt pretty amazing,” I say. “Do you disagree?”
“Not at all.” She glances away. “It was wonderful. Making love on a bearskin rug in front of a fire… That has to have been from one of your romance books.”
“Now you know my secret.” I snicker softly, but the words “making love” are running through my head and making me sweat a little. Is that what we did?
Margot never called it that. It was always just sex when she brought it up, and I wonder why. I run through the terms “making love” and “having sex” for a little mental compare and contrast. The act is the same, but certainly the meaning is different. I think there has to be more emotion behind making love, but I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what that means.
Maybe this is one of those times when I shouldn’t think too much.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind that also changes the subject. “Maybe you’ll be up for an actual meal after you rest.”
