Her mother filled the kitchen with chatter, words tumbling one over the other about the food festival on the high street, the farmer's market, and thatboy,Kai, who had been calling and she swore was a good lad. Rune had been smiling when he walked her home that night. She listened with half an ear, hand drifting to her belly. There was the faintest swell there now at week ten, though the baby still felt abstract. She hadn't even had an ultrasound yet. There had been delays and rescheduling. They had confirmed a date for the following week. For a moment, her thoughts slipped unbidden to Dorian. Not the man he had become in her mind, cold and untouchable, but a memory she couldn't quite shake.
That trip to Prague was about two years ago. The air was sharp with winter, the cobblestones slick underfoot. He had taken his time with her that night bringing her to the edge with his body before retreatingand then starting the whole process all over again. Afterwards, when they were lying in bed, he had suddenly asked if she wanted to go for a walk. She'd gone, still sore and sleepy, padding along beside him through the lamplight because he was never impulsive and she did not want to lose this opportunity. She'd forgotten her gloves, and without a word, he had taken her hand and tucked it into his pocket. Then they had walked on in a comfortable silence.
She had been startled by the gesture. By him. That was a different Dorian. He would give her hope with one hand, only to take it away with the other.
Chapter eighteen
Chapter 18
The mountains closed in around him as Eli drove Dorian into Blaenau Ffestiniog, the slate town crouched beneath low clouds. The road had been choked with traffic blocks-an accident outside Betws, a tractor stalled on a bend-so that by the time they arrived, the day had already soured.
Eli had come along, insisting that Dorian needed him, while Tom had made quiet arrangements for rooms at the local B&B. Even those bookings had required persistence; the town, it seemed, was not the most hospitable to strangers. Once settled in the adequate room, despite the ancient furniture and peeling wallpaper, Dorian wasted no time. He made his way to the address Tom had extracted from Rune's paperwork. The house was narrow-fronted, painted a cheerful blue, with stubborn flowers spilling over the window boxes despite the chill. He drew a long breath and rang the bell.
The door opened to a woman who might have been Rune's reflection in another life, dark hair, the same fine-boned features, only shorter and rounder in frame. Her gaze lifted, wary and assessing, over the man who stood on her step. More than six feet three, broad-shouldered, pure muscle encased in a perfectly tailored suit, blonde curls gleaming under the weak Welsh light, eyes dark and fixed on hers.
"My name is Dorian," he said evenly. "I was Rune's boss. I was in the area."
He watched the change in her face, the smile that began to bloom vanished as though abruptly cut away.
"Who is it?" A male voice floated from inside, Irish and edged with impatience. A moment later, a man appeared, heavyset with a jaw like stone. "And who may you be, lad?"
"My name is Dorian. I was Rune's boss," Dorian repeated.
The man's whole demeanour changed in a breath, as though some private wall had slammed down. His stance squared, his voice clipped and eyes which were exactly like Rune’s turned cold with the kind of unfriendly finality that dared him to press further.
"Well, Rune doesn't live here anymore," the man said flatly.
"I was told she does."
"Then you were told wrong. If you've a message, we'll pass it on."
And with that, the door banged shut.
But in the instant before it closed, Dorian caught the flicker in the woman's face, the way her eyes lingered, wide and uncertain, as though she wanted to speak. Her lips parted, almost ready to form words, but the man's hand was firm on the door, his expression resolute as their eyes met in an unspoken message. Her gaze immediately dropped. The latch clicked home.
Dorian stood on the step as a muscle in his jaw ticked in frustration. That look told him more than words would have. Dorian stood on the step for a long while, before turning back down the path. From next door, a sweet little woman leaned over her garden fence, eyes bright with curiosity. He had noticed her creeping closer, trying to listen in on the conversation. Her terrier, more rat than dog, barrelled through the gap and sank sharp teeth into his trouser leg. Dorian tried to shake him loose, grimacing as the fabric tore.
"Oh, he's just a wee puppy!" the woman trilled, taking her time as she rushed over and tugged the animal free. The dog wriggled, snarled, before finally retreating. She smiled sweetly up at him. "I never did trust folk who don't like dogs."
Dorian glanced down at the ragged hole in his trousers and grimaced harder. The message was clear enough, in this place, everyone knew everyone's business. And no one was inclined to help him.
Over the next few days, he made inquiries about places Rune had once mentioned in passing. At the school she'd attended, the receptionist was an attractive blonde with warm brown eyes and a wide, flirtatious smile. She looked him up and down, lashes lowered, as though weighing her chances with the tall stranger in the suit.
"I'm looking for Rune O'Connor," Dorian said, voice clipped, precise. "I was her employer in London."
The smile froze, the warmth draining in an instant. Her eyes sharpened, the flirtation snapping shut like a trap.
"Never heard of her," she interrupted crisply, as if his words carried the odour of death.
Dorian's gaze narrowed. "You answered before I'd even finished her name."
She leaned forward slightly, that frost-bitten smile returning with new edges. Then, with a singsong cadence, she slipped into Welsh. "Cer i grafu, Coc oen."
The sweetness of her tone was at odds with the insult, but the glint in her eyes told him all he needed to know.
"What did you say?" he asked, his voice low.
Her face smoothed into innocence. "I said you might try the council office. They'll have records."
