She had considered going at once—marching to his door and demanding he stop retreating, stop hiding, stop pretending the ice was anything other than fear. But caution prevailed. Not for herself—she was well past that—but for him. For the fragile progress they had made. For the boy upstairs who needed them both whole.
When she knocked, the answer came at once.
“Enter.”
He was at his desk. Not behind it, but seated on the edge, arms crossed, his expression controlled. The lamplight caught the sharp line of his cheekbones, the scar at his brow, the tension held tight in his jaw. He looked, Lorraine thought, like a man braced for impact.
“You wished to discuss the lesson schedule, Your Grace.”
“No.” His voice was rough. “I wished to apologise.”
She blinked. “Apologise?”
“For my behaviour this afternoon. I was—” He broke off, uncrossed his arms, then folded them again. “I was inexcusable. To you, and to Julian. There was no cause for it.”
“There was a cause.”
He went still.
“You were jealous.”
She said it without accusation, without softness—only as fact, laid plainly between them.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Julian is my friend. He meant nothing by—”
“I know what Lord Julian meant. And I know whatyoufelt.” She held his gaze. “You need not explain it. Only decide what it means.”
Silence gathered between them, close and charged. The fire snapped softly in the grate; the wind moved against the panes. Lorraine heard her own heartbeat, far too loud.
“It means,” Dominic said at last, his voice low, “that I cannot bear it. To see another man stand where I would stand. To see him touch you where I—” He stopped, his grip tightening on the edge of the desk until his knuckles blanched. “It means that I have no right to feel as I do—and that I feel it nevertheless.”
“You have every right.”
“I do not. You are in my employ. Under my protection. Any declaration from me would be—”
“Honest.” She stepped closer and saw the breath catch in him, the effort it cost him to remain still.
“I am not a child, Dominic,” she said, softer now. “I am not some naive girl who does not understand the risks. I know what I stand to lose. I have already lost it once.” Her voice steadied. “And I am still here. Standing in your study. Asking you to stop running.”
His gaze dropped, just for a moment, to her mouth.
The movement was small. Devastating.
When his eyes lifted again, something in them had shifted—darkened, deepened, the control thinning to something far more dangerous.
“Lorraine.” Her name was not a word so much as a breath. “If I stop running…”
He pushed away from the desk without seeming to mean to. The space between them closed. Half a step, no more, but enough that she could feel the heat of him now, could feel the pull of it like gravity.
“I do not think I shall be able to stop at all.”
The admission landed between them, heavy and irrevocable.
Her pulse leapt. She was suddenly, acutely aware of everything—the closeness, the warmth, the way his hand had lifted, almost unconsciously, as though drawn toward her and then held there, suspended.
“Then don’t,” she whispered.
For a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time, neither of them moved.
