There was silence before he said in a deliberately casual tone, "I was going to drop by."
This was his way. He would drop in a couple of days a week, always letting her know ahead of time. And he never ever stayed overnight.
Rune turned slowly, her hands weighed down by files that needed to be returned before she clocked out.
"I won't be in."
It was a lie. Did she care? No.
She knew exactly where he'd be, at the theatre with Eva Grayson. Rune had bought the tickets herself, booked the dinner reservation after, and arranged for the car service. And yet he had the gall to ask if he could come over, as if that entire plan hadn't been executed under his instruction. Because he was a creature of habit. And he had this deathly fear of contracting an STD. But why blame him when she was the one who had consented to be his dirty, dirty secret?
From the corner of her eye, she watched with perverse satisfaction as his jaw locked.
"Fine, I am sure Eve will be better company," he ground out, cold and clipped. And that was the end of that conversation.
Rune felt her stomach churn. It wasn't jealousy anymore. It was exhaustion, bone-deep and bitter. The death of a dream she had held for more than a decade tasted like ash.
He would go out with polished, elegant Eva and then come to her after. She had come to accept that it would never progress beyond the temporary relief of his urges. He did it because he could. She had prepared the file on Aria five years ago a year after she had met Crispin. At that point, she had mentally classified Crispin in the same category as Dorian, rich and vain, with not a trace of human decency.But the last sliver of romance in her heart had applauded Crispin for finally doing right by Aria.
She thought of Aria, her soft, golden eyes gleaming like gold ingots in the low light as she looked up at Crispin, while the PI took the photograph surreptitiously from a corner table in the restaurant. How did Crispin resist for so long?
All these men. Users. Every last one of them.
Later that night, Rune was curled beneath a fleece blanket, an old paperback in hand, though her eyes had read the same line four times. She wondered if Dorian had shelved his OCD in exchange for sexual relief today. She had a file on Eva Grayson. She was a celebrity of some repute and a drama queen. She wondered if Eva would agree to an STD panel on short notice.
She wasn't going to cry. She did that yesterday. She had promised herself that it would be the last time.
But there was a heavy gloom to the silence of her small apartment that even her books couldn't drown out. And her imagination led her to the times when Dorian was less cruel. When his hands explored and lingered. When he groaned as he held her skin to skin. Even thinking of how he had humiliated her yesterday made her want to rub herself raw again.
Tomorrow would be the second morning in three years when she wouldn't wear heels at 7:00 a.m. She wouldn't press espresso into a machine that hissed like a dragon. She wouldn't follow him with her eyes. Dorian had already replaced her. Why should she play faithful Penelope?
Yesterday, he'd asked her, with clinical detachment, to purchase a necklace for Eva Grayson. Rune had obeyed, as she always did, withno expression or hesitation. This was not her first time buying gifts for another woman. Or noticing lipstick on his neck when he came to her. Or fielding calls from a date unceremoniously dumped with a tennis bracelet and no explanation.
He had reminded her he was taking Eva to the theatre in London.
Classic Dorian. Polished, charming, and predatory when he wanted to be. Sliding the sharp knife smoothly into the gap between her ribs and watching carefully for the crimson flow.
She imagined he was at Eva's right now, taking what he wanted while resisting the urge to rearrange her apartment. For all his silk suits and tailored polish, Dorian Albury was basic underneath. He didn't make love; he conquered and controlled. Sometimes sex with him felt like a game of chess.
Rune had long since learned how to separate her mind from her body when Dorian got like that. And he didn't like it when she did that. But he didn't realize, that was the only way she'd survived loving a man like him. But even that had turned to dust.
She finally turned page. Then the doorbell went off, jolting her. Once and then again, sharp, precise and impatient. Her stomach twisted in knots. Who could it be at this time of the night? Not...
She rose slowly, barefoot, the blanket slipping off her shoulders. She approached the door and looked through the peephole.
Her blood turned to ice.
Dorian stood with his hands braced against the door, eyes on the peephole. A very unhappy Dorian. His hair was mussed and his jacket undone. A Dorian who was not immaculate was a wildcard she had yet to meet. Something about the way he leaned into the frame was… off.
He looked...unmoored.
She didn't open the door.
"What do you want?" she asked through the wood.
His voice was low. "Open the door, Rune."
"I'm tired. Go home."
