Seven Rules for Thursday Evenings

In courtrooms Marcus spent fifty hours a week interrupting powerful men before they finished their second clause. On Thursdays at 20:00 sharp, he knelt on cool parquet inside Elena's entryway until the click of her heels paused two inches from his knees.

Rule One: the phone, the steel chronograph, and the keys remained in the black lacquer tray until Friday morning. Rule Two: eyes stayed at the level of her silver collar clasp until invited higher.

Elena reached down, her cool fingers tilting his jaw upward with unhurried certainty. She wore dark burgundy silk, hair pinned high, looking at him with that piercing, half-amused scrutiny that stripped away every layer of courtroom armor in three seconds flat.

"Forty-two seconds early," she noted smoothly. "Were you impatient, or simply eager to be useful?"

"Eager to be useful, Mistress," Marcus answered, keeping his palms resting neatly against his thighs as taught.

"Good. Tonight the table is set for two, the Burgundy needs twenty minutes to breathe, and afterward you will wait at the foot of the chaise while I finish my correspondence—without shifting your weight." Her thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, softening the strictness with a glint of unmistakable affection. "Show me how still a man of your temperament can be when someone finally takes the reins out of his hands."

Three hours of absolute precision left his mind cleaner than a week at sea. When Elena finally unclasped the narrow leather band from his throat at eleven and drew his head into her lap, combing slow fingers through his silvering hair, the silence between them needed no translation at all.