Page 50 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

Tess reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. "Then maybe stop trying to solve it before anything has actually happened."

"That sounds suspiciously healthy."

"I hate it too."

I smile, but the uncertainty stays with me.

By Thursday evening, I've managed to convince myself that booking the extra session wasn't completely unhinged. I wanted to see him, so I booked time to see him. There are worse decisions I could make, and at least this one comes with excellent aftercare.

I arrive twenty minutes early because emotional growth does not extend to my pathological need to be everywhere before everyone else.

I stay in the car rather than inflicting my punctuality on the rest of the house, checking my phone while I wait. I'm halfway through an email when the front door opens, and movement at the top of the steps catches my eye.

A woman comes out, and for a second I can see Soren standing behind her in the open doorway. He says something I can't hear, and she looks back at him with a smile before stepping outside. He stays there until she reaches the bottom of the steps, then closes the door.

She looks around forty, maybe a little older, dressed in a soft gray coat with dark hair still damp at the ends. I wouldn't have thought anything of her if it weren't for the way she moves. There's a looseness in her shoulders, an ease in her steps that I recognize immediately because I've felt it in my own body every time I've walked out of that house.

My attention drops to her damp hair.

Something unpleasant twists low in my stomach.

Of course Soren has other clients. I know that. I have always known that. The man has been doing this for centuries; I wasn't under the impression he spent all that time sitting upstairs waiting for me to discover the website.

Knowing it is very different from watching one of them leave.

The woman crosses the parking lot and gets into the car beside mine. She's close enough that I turn my face toward my phone before she can catch me staring, but a few seconds later I glance back.

She checks herself in the mirror and smiles.

Not at anyone. Just a small, private smile that makes my stomach sink because I know that one too.

I've worn it all the way home from here.

The last time, I could still feel Soren's purr against my cheek. I'd spent half the drive replaying things he'd said to me, smiling like an idiot whenever I remembered Angel.

I look at the woman beside me and wonder what she's replaying.

Maybe he ran her a bath. Maybe he washed her hair and wrapped her in a warm robe afterward. Maybe he remembered some tiny thing she told him weeks ago and had it waiting when she arrived. Maybe she has her own version of Angel, some word that sounds different in his voice and makes her wonder whether he means it more than he should.

I have no reason to believe any of that.

That doesn't stop my brain from supplying every detail.

Her car pulls away, and I watch it cross the gravel toward the gates.

All the little pieces I've been collecting as evidence suddenly look different.

The bath. The praise. The flowers. Dinner. The way he watches me. Even mine.

Soren is very, very good at his job. I knew that after the first session. I just hadn't considered what being good at his job must look like with everyone else.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe every woman leaves feeling special.

The thought hurts far more than it has any right to.

I sit there staring at the empty parking space beside me, feeling stupid for the extra booking, for the conversation with Tess, for every second I've spent wondering whether Soren calling me Angel means something when I have absolutely no idea what he calls anyone else.