16. Rune #3
Rune took it. Tilted it toward the light.
And somewhere between Harrison’s Wharton diploma and the locked cabinet, the lion receded and the collector surfaced—not the alpha performing composure, not the CEO navigating a social minefield, but the version of himself he recognized from empty stores at closing time and vaults underground and the back office at three in the morning, with spectrographic data and a cold cup of coffee.
They went through the entire collection.
Edition by edition. Harrison asking questions with the eagerness of a man who had spent thirty years wondering and had never had anyone to ask.
Rune answering with the thoroughness of someone who had spent twelve years burying this part of himself in public and had forgotten how good it was to let it surface in a room that smelled like leather, old paper, and Dominican coffee.
They lost track of time. When they emerged from the study fifty-three minutes later, the dining room had been cleared, the Brunello was nearly finished, and the women were arranged in the living room with the collective expression of people who had been waiting precisely this long and were not surprised.
Vivienne, from the sofa, wine in hand: “He won over my husband with comic books.” A sip. “I’m not sure if I’m impressed or concerned.”
Lark, cross-legged on the floor with a cup of coffee and her phone in her lap, looked up at Rune.
Her curls were loose around her face. Her shoes were off.
The emerald dress pooled around her legs, and the candlelight from the dining room caught the gold in her earrings and the brightness in her eyes, and she was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen from her—not teasing, not challenging, not the business mask or the witty deflection.
Tenderness. Unguarded, specific, aimed directly at him.
“You were in there for an hour.” Her voice was soft. “Was the collection good?”
“Exceptional.” He meant Harrison’s editions.
He meant the room. He meant the family that filled a brownstone with noise and scrutiny and food and love, the father who hid his passion in a locked cabinet and the mother who guarded the secret like a vow, the brother who protected with theater, and the best friend who protected with observation.
He meant all of it. He didn’t say all of it.
Oliver’s phone chirped from across the room. He checked the screen. Grinned. “Update for the group chat: Lion King spent an hour in Dad’s study. Dad is now calling him ‘mijo.’ Mom hasn’t cross-examined anyone in forty-five minutes. We may have lost her. Send backup.”
“Oliver.” Vivienne’s voice carried the mild warning of someone who had raised two children and a legal career simultaneously and was unimpressed by both.
“It’s journalism.”
“It’s family dinner.”
“Same thing in this house.”
Sybil caught Rune’s eye from the armchair. Smiled—the genuine version, stripped of assessment. “You survived. For the record, most people don’t make it past the tostones.”
Harrison reappeared from the kitchen with cafecitos for the table and a hand on Rune’s shoulder that communicated, in one squeeze, everything the study hour had established. “You’re coming back next Sunday. Bring that portable authentication equipment. I have questions about Spider-Man’s history.”
Lark walked him to the door at nine-thirty.
The brownstone was still glowing behind her—noise and candlelight and her family’s voices carrying through the hallway.
She stood on the stoop in bare feet, her curls lifting in the June night air, and looked at him with that expression again.
The tender one. The one that bypassed every defense he’d built and landed in a place he’d walled shut twelve years ago.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for the invitation.”
“My dad is going to talk about you for weeks. You realize that.”
“He has a remarkable collection. The Fantastic Four alone—”
“Rune.” She stepped closer. The stoop put her two inches higher than usual, closing the gap between them.
Her scent cut through the June air—her signature candle and the lingering heat of her family’s kitchen.
“Thank you for being kind to my dad. About the collection. He’s been hiding it for years and you treated it like it mattered. ”
“It does matter. The provenance is—”
“Not the provenance.” One step closer. Her hand came up, and for a moment, he thought she was going to touch his chest, his arm, his face.
Instead, she straightened his tie. A small, domestic gesture.
Her fingers brushed the fabric at his collar, and his hair lifted and his lion surged forward and every nerve in his body narrowed to the half-inch of air between her fingertips and his throat.
“The person.” She smoothed the tie. Released it. Stepped back. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
She disappeared into the brownstone. The door closed.
Rune stood on the stoop on a Sugar Hill street in June with his tie straightened and his hair disobeying and his lion roaring an opinion he could no longer pretend to disregard.
His phone vibrated. A text from Dekel, who was on security detail in the car at the curb: You’ve been standing on that stoop for ninety seconds. Get in the car or I’m texting your sister.
He got in the car.
Dekel didn’t say a word for the entire drive downtown. He didn’t need to. His grin said everything.