Page 58 of Temporary Vows

I drag a hand over my face, then pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Dorian Vale is the last man I ever thought I’d need, yet when everything went to hell, he was the one I turned to. And he helped me.

The fact that I’m here, that it’s morning, and that nothing more has happened so far means he saved me. I fell asleep before anyone could tell me what happened after Dorian went to see Marcus.

I need to find him.

I just hope the nightmare is over. That nothing else happened. That Dorian didn’t get hurt.

I glance at the clock on the wall across from me. It’s eight. Hopefully, he’s still here and hasn’t left for work yet.

Carefully, I slide out of bed, ignoring the pain. My feet sink into the fluffy cream carpet, and the room tilts.

I steady myself, then head for the door.

I make my way downstairs, taking in the pristine décor. The place has a less-is-more, cosmopolitan look that screams billionaire recluse. It suits Dorian.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I look around, wondering where I should go.

The soft sizzle of something in a frying pan answers the question for me.

I look toward the kitchen and follow the sound. The aroma of breakfast meets me halfway; it smells delicious. I stop in the doorway.

Dorian is standing by the stove, his big, broad back facing me with a wolf’s head inked into his skin.

He’s shirtless and all muscle and ink.

Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and the sight of him in such an ordinary, domestic setting throws me.

For one ridiculous moment, my brain goes blank and I forget myself. Or rather, I remember the version of me who used to call him her Dorian Gray.

It’s odd watching him while he cooks. I would have thought he’d have live-in house staff waiting on him like his family. Someone was here last night. An elderly man. Perhaps he was only around for the day.

Dorian moves the food around in the pan. Eggs and strips of bacon come into view.

With a subtle tilt of his head, he glances over his shoulder, sensing me standing there.

He sets his spatula down, and his eyes find me, his expression hardening as he settles on my face.

Damn it. I should have probably looked in the mirror before I came down here. God knows what I must look like. I know my face is still swollen and probably bruised worse than last night. Oh well, too late now. I’m here.

I stand straighter and try to school my thoughts, but those eyes of his pin me in place like nails.

“Morning,” I speak first because I should.

“Sit.” Typical Dorian. Straight to the point.

I move toward the kitchen island and sit on the stool opposite him.

For a moment, he stares at me, then turns back to the stove.

“I’m making breakfast,” he says after a beat. “Do you want some?”

“I’m not that hungry.” It’s true. I can’t eat when there is so much going on.

“Well, I’m serving you a plate.” He flips a slice of bacon in the pan. “You look frail. You need to eat.”

I don’t argue. He’s right. And there’s something about him noticing what I need that gives me comfort.