Of course he did.
Despite every instinct screaming not to, I turn.
He’s at the entrance, shaking snow from his coat, dark sunglasses still on indoors like the arrogant Alpha he is. My breath catches before I can stop it.
He looks maddeningly good in a black sweater that fits like it was made for him, hair slightly tousled from the wind.
Fuck.
Is he here to haunt me?
I whip back around, pretending to study my plate.
“He’s coming this way,” Wren mutters.
My chest tightens. Every nerve in my body sparks in protest.Run, my instincts hiss, but my body won’t move.
“Hey, ladies.” His voice carries too easily.
“Hey, Dorian,” Wren answers, polite but wary.
I stay silent.
“Can I talk to you in private?” he asks, eyes fixed on me.
I shake my head, but Wren’s already standing, squeezing my hand before announcing that she’s leaving for the restroom. “Don’t kill him,” she murmurs before slipping away.
Dorian takes her seat. His legs are long, and when he settles in, they brush against mine beneath the table. The contact sends an unwanted shiver crawling up my spine.
He takes off his sunglasses, and I see it. Bruised skin under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept or maybe cried. The sight unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.
“Norah.”
I fold my arms. “Like I said, Dorian, we don’t have anything to talk about.”
He rubs his jaw with his thumb, that familiar habit he has when he’s choosing his words. “Considering I’ll be in town for the foreseeable future, I was hoping we could come to some kind of truce.”
My chair scrapes slightly as I lean back. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why the hell would you be in town? And why do you think I would even care?”
His gaze meets mine. “It’s my mom.”
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. “Margaret?”
He nods. “She’s not doing great, Norah.” Something in his voice shifts—low, raw, not the confident tone I remember.
“What’s wrong?”
His throat works before he answers. “She was diagnosed with MS.”
I blink. “What’s that?”
“Multiple sclerosis. It affects her nervous system. She’s been having trouble walking, with her balance. There’s treatment, but it’s… complicated. I came back to stay with her.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of it. Margaret James, the strong and practical woman who baked me cookies the first Christmas I dated her son, now sick?
“Shit,” I whisper. “When did that happen?”
“Couple months ago. She didn’t want anyone to know until they were sure.”
