Chapter 33
Five days before her parents were due to leave, Dorian had quietly taken over the guest bedroom at the end of the hall-officially "to help out," though everyone and their donkey knew it was just another excuse to hover.
Every morning, he was up before Rune, somehow managing to charm her mother into letting him near the stove.
The kitchen smelt of toast and coffee when Rune padded in, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand, long hair piled into a lopsided, messy bun that looked ready to collapse.
Her mother was at the stove, humming as she stirred something fragrant, while Dorian hovered nearby, dutifully taking her instructions like an apprentice chef.
He was so intent on not burning the toast that he didn't even notice Rune's bleary glare.
"Honestly," she grumbled, voice rough with sleep, "you're like an opportunistic infection. Give you a warm host and you spread."
Her mother hid a smile. "He's just helping, love."
Rune snorted. "That's how it always starts with parasites."
Dorian, without looking up, said mildly, "You know, parasites usually don't cook breakfast," as he flipped the buttered toast on the pan.
"Mm. They do take over the host, though," she mumbled, reaching for a mug to make tea. "And you're getting real comfortable in this house."
He glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching. "You know all my best tricks."
Her mother set down the spoon and turned with a sly smile. "Don't you worry, Dory. I know exactly what she's capable of, and she'll chuck you out on your ear if you forget where the boundaries are."
He only inclined his head solemnly and didn’t even seem to notice the pet name. "Crystal."
But despite Rune's best efforts, including leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, he refused to leave. At seven sharp, there was a soft knock, followed by his low bass rumble through the door. "Tea's ready."
Sometimes she was already awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to decide if she could face another day of nausea. Sometimes she wasn't. But either way, when she opened the door, there he was, his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, holding out a steaming peace offering.
When the sickness hit, he didn't back off like she expected him to.
He held her hair back, rubbed slow circles on her spine, murmured something awkwardly useless but weirdly soothing.
Then he'd disappear and come back with a pack of crackers and a fresh cup of ginger tea, setting them on her nightstand without a word.
Rune didn't know when he worked. She only knew that Tom was around, she'd heard his voice on the phone in the evenings. Yet somehow, Dorian was always trailing her, quietly efficient, irritatingly calm, and, she hated to admit it, exactly what she needed.
He'd taken note of every aversion. No cheese.
The smell alone was enough to send her running.
So, no pizza, no cheese on toast, no pasta with sauce.
Once, her mum had made macaroni, and Dorian had practically leapt across the kitchen to intercept it.
"Not unless you fancy redecorating the walls," he'd said dryly, earning him an eye-roll from Rune and an approving smile from her mum.
It was odd, she thought one afternoon, watching him chop vegetables with quiet focus.
Dorian had once been the man who made lists of people to destroy before breakfast. Now he was standing in her mother's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, learning the correct ratio of ginger to honey for her morning tea.
And the strangest part? He looked... content.
Dorian's presence became as dependable as the sunrise.
Her parents did not look the least bit worried when they stepped into the chauffeured car that Dorian had arranged for their trip, though her Da did whisper that she only had to send him a message if Dorian was being an arse and he would take the next train over.
Every morning, he was at the door before she could protest, car keys in hand, ready to drive her to the office.
He brought her lunch at exactly noon, usually something mild and bland but thoughtfully chosen.
Then, when the day was done, he was waiting outside again, leaning against the car like some overqualified chauffeur.
Dinner, somehow, always appeared. Rune never asked how.
Dorian wasn't exactly a chef. He'd once burned toast so badly the smoke alarm had gone off, but he had learned enough to keep them both alive.
"Basic cooking for basic survival," he'd muttered one evening, presenting her with grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and precisely three boiled potatoes.
"Gourmet," Rune had teased.
"Cooking is a lot of work," he'd countered, wiping the sweat off his brow.
She couldn't argue. Eggs, once her easy fallback, now turned her stomach, a new and unwelcome aversion.
Dorian had quietly banished them from the house.
After dinner, their evenings fell into a rhythm.
She'd curl up on the sofa with a book while he sat beside her, brow furrowed over a stack of guides on pregnancy and newborn care or on his laptop, typing away.
She tried not to smile at the sight of him taking notes like he was preparing for an exam.
She used to do that. She had offered to help but he only responded by autocratically pulling her feet onto his lap and rendering her boneless with a foot massage.
She had tried to protest at the ‘unwelcome’ liberties he was taking, but he had retaliated by stopping the foot massage.
So that was the end of that minor rebellion.
One evening, she heard his low voice from the next room. When she peeked in, he was on a video call with Crispin. Curiosity on high alert, Rune eavesdropped shamelessly. Crispin, it turned out, was in Wales. The two men were deep in a discussion that made her blink in disbelief.
"So, how do you even hold a baby?" Crispin was asking.
"You support the head," Dorian replied, flipping through one of his books. "Apparently they can't-uh-stabilize it
for weeks."
Crispin frowned. "And then what?"
"I suppose you... keep holding it," Dorian said grimly.
It was, Rune thought, like the blind leading the blind.
But he was earnest, worried even, and when she caught sight of his notes later, pages filled with diagrams and bullet points, her chest fluttered in a way she couldn't quite deny, even to herself.
It was hard to hold on to her grudges when he was trying so hard to change from an ogre into a prince.
He was endlessly patient...except for that one time.
He was driving her home from work and she had been in bad mood since morning.
It was lonely stretch of road and she knew she was behaving like a brat, but she just couldn’t help herself.
Suddenly he parked on the shoulder, and before she knew it, he was unbuckling her seatbelt.
She gasped as he hauled her backward, momentum stealing her balance, her body colliding with his front in a way that stole all the air from her lungs.
“Don’t,” she whispered, panic flaring too late.
He didn’t answer.
He pulled her onto his lap in one swift motion, locking her there. His arm banded across her middle, pinning her against him, every inch of her suddenly aware of how little room she had to move. The strength in his restraint shocked her — not violent, but definitely not letting go.
“Alright, we are going to talk this out like adults,” he murmured, voice low and tight with frustration barely leashed. “Tell me what is wrong. Don’t hide from me.”
Her pulse thundered as she struggled instinctively, then froze, realizing her skirt had ridden up.
His chest rose sharply behind her, heat seeping through layers of fabric, his familiar scent overwhelming her senses.
His other hand slid to her hip, holding her still when her body betrayed her with a shudder.
Anger rolled off him in waves — controlled, simmering, dangerous. It terrified her how quickly it tangled with something else entirely.
“Stay still,” he whispered against her ear, softer now, the command threaded with something that made her hild her breath. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her thoughts scattered as awareness narrowed to sensation: his breath at her neck, the tension in his arms, the way he held himself rigid as if restraint cost him something. Her body responded despite her fear, despite the humiliation burning her cheeks.
A strangled sound escaped her before she could stop it.
“What was that?” he asked as he tried not move his hardness against her soft buttocks.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
“Rune, are you okay?”
Panic flooded her, choking her ability to form words. She was too aware of him behind her, too aware of how impossible it was to pretend nothing was happening.
His arms tightened around her as his hips moved in helpless thrust.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.”
She didn’t know how he could sound so composed when they were out here on the road where anyone could see them.
His hand skimmed her him to cup her between her thighs and rub her clit unerring through thin cotton.
Her head fell back as his fingers worked their magic.
Within seconds, her inner muscles were spasming over nothing, the wetness seeping into the fabric of her panties.
He pressed one large finger into her opening through the cotton into her opening as she came, as if enjoying her pleasure.
Then, he was gently settling her back in her seat and reaching around her to click her seatbelt in place. Still in a daze, she watched as he started the car and drove home without another word.
From that point, he kept his distance because he could sense she was not ready to let go of her hostility.
Sometimes she wondered if she had dreamt up what happened in the car because he carried on as if it never happened.
On the sofa, there was always space between them unless she offered her feet.
But slowly, that gap closed. One evening, she must have drifted off mid-sentence because she woke to find herself being carried.
He moved carefully, opening her door with his hip, then tucking her beneath the covers with a tenderness that had her blinking back tears.
His hand lingered at her temple, then he bent and pressed a soft, wistful kiss to her forehead.
For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. And then, almost as if against his will, his lips brushed hers, gentle, uncertain.
Both unfamiliar territory for Dorian. Rune stirred, half-asleep, instinctively leaning into him.
Her hand found his collar and tugged him closer.
He broke away, breathing hard, his expression conflicted.
"As much as I'd like to stay," he said quietly holding her sleeping hands in both of his, "I need you to forgive me first." Then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving her staring into the dark with her pulse racing and her thoughts in chaos.