Instead of going for your gun, you go with your first instinct. And that’s to push the woman away. It works and she stumbles to one side, missing Walter entirely. But her knife still catches you. A sharp line of fire scores across your arm, the blade slicing through your shirt and into skin. Surprise more than pain makes you gasp and you jerk back as blood trickles down your skin.

Walter fires his gun, sending the woman reeling backwards towards the precinct and the (not dead, not dead) body of one of your colleagues.

Your husband grabs your shoulder in a vicelike grip and drags you towards the car. He opens the passenger door and bundles you into the seat, strapping you in like you’re a child. Then, he swiftly gets into the driver’s seat, puts the car into gear and all but tears away from the precinct.

Shame spears you and you hunch over, not able to even look him in the eye. “Walter, I….”

“Save it.” His voice is harsh as he cuts you off. “Soon as we get someplace safe, I’m bending you over and tanning your ass with my belt.”

You swallow, hard, face burning nearly as hot as your ass will once Walter gets through with you. Your arm’s no longer bleeding, but the scratch stands out vividly against your skin, a clear sign of how much you screwed up.

Walter is quiet and you don’t say anything either, keeping your head down and staring at your hands. You don’t react until your husband parks the car on the side of the road. Then, you raise your head, glancing out of the window and then at Walter. “Are we being followed?”

“No.” Walter’s hands go to his belt and he turns a grim look onto you. “We’re dealing with this now. Before we do anything else. Get out of the car. Bend over the hood.” He pulls the belt free. Doubles it over in his hand.

You want to argue. To protest. To tell him that it’s not fair; that you were only reacting to the danger he was in.

But none of those protests reach your lips. Because you know, deep down, that he’s right. You shouldn’t have done something so foolish and dangerous as to use your bare hands to push away an armed suspect.

So you get out of the car. You walk round to the hood and lean forward over it, stretching your hands as far along as they’ll go to grab onto the far edge.

You keep staring ahead as you hear the driver’s door open and then close. You can’t help but tense up as you listen to him stepping to your side. You don’t look away, not wanting to see the rise and fall of the belt. It’s bad enough hearing it as the leather whistles through the air.

It impacts hard across the fullest part of your backside and you suck in a sharp breath, clenching your fingers tight so you don’t throw them back. The belt slaps down a second and third time, each strike landing just below the previous, but still managing to overlap with the pain of each strike.

You still have two layers of clothing covering your backside, but they don’t offer much protection as the belt bites into your ass. Two firm strokes to your thighs elicit matching yelps and your eyes begin to water.

And then the belting starts over from the top, the leather impacting skin already tender and burning from the punishment.

By the time the leather impacts your thighs for the second time, your whole backside feels like it’s on fire. You shift from one foot to the other; forcing yourself to stay in position for the punishment. Hot tears spill out of your eyes, over your cheeks, as your husband stokes the fire in your backside, making sure you regret the stupid decision you made.

By the time the belt stops landing, your whole body is slumped and shaking. Your bottom throbs in time with your heartbeat, from the very top down to mid-thigh. You want to say you’re sorry. You want to ask for forgiveness. But you’re crying too hard to get the words out.

It takes a while for you to realise that Walter’s rubbing your back, easing the tension from your shoulders. You half-turn, as he’s standing to the side, and wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against his stomach. “I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

Walter rubs your back. Hugs you tight. Presses a kiss into your hair. “I know you are, Ray,” he murmurs into your ear. “I love you. I just don’t want to lose you.”

“Forgive me?” you can’t help but whisper.

“Always.” Walter presses a sweet, tender kiss to your lips and then helps you to stand up.

You lean on him for a few moments, taking support and comfort from the man you love. Finally, you straighten up, wipe at your eyes and give him a tiny, trembling smile. “Where are we going now?”

“The only place I can think of,” Walter admits. “Back to where that statue was buried. Maybe we can get some answers there.”