Dorothea sat in the corner of her bedchamber, knees drawn to her chest, her gaze fixed on the moonlight spilling through the tall windows. It was well past midnight, yet sleep eluded her as it so often did lately.
She should have been in bed. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, and the house had long since gone silent. But something inside her felt unsettled—tight in her chest, like she couldn’t quite breathe.
Why did she feel so desperately alone?
The townhouse was filled with people—servants, maids, footmen—all moving quietly through their appointed roles. But none of them knew her. None of them saw her. Dominic had rescued her from her brother’s household, but in doing so, he had placed her in another prison. One with silk curtains and quiet hallways instead of locked doors, but a prison all the same.
She tilted her head back and rested it against the wall. At least here, she was safe from harm. Dominic could be cold and short-tempered, but he didn’t frighten her—not the way her brother had. Still, there had once been something gentle between her and Dominic—hadn’t there?
Or had she imagined it?
Their acquaintance during the war had been limited. He had been polite, certainly, but distant. It wasn’t until after he was wounded—broken and burning with fever in that makeshift hospital—that her father had encouraged her to spend time with him.
She hadn’t minded. She’d sat at Dominic’s bedside, reading from whatever book she had nearby, while he listened—or sometimes just slept. He would ask her questions when he was lucid, and she had filled the silences with chatter about anything and everything. He had never told her to stop.
And when her father had died, she had confided in Dominic about the truth of her life. Her brother. Her fear. Her helplessness. It was then that he had offered to help.
So why was he so angry now?
He had wanted to help her. He had been the one to offer marriage as a shield against her brother’s guardianship. And yet, he now looked at her like she was the source of all his burdens.
Am I the problem?
The thought pierced her heart. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. How she wished her father were still alive. He wouldn’t have stood for this—this coldness, this rejection. He had always made her feel safe, protected. Loved.
The mantel clock chimed once, marking the hour. She should crawl into bed and at least try to sleep, but her stomach twisted with hunger. Dinner had ended in shouting—Dominic’s shouting—and the ache in her chest had chased away any appetite she might’ve had. Now, the hunger gnawed at her with sharp persistence.
Sighing, she stood and slipped her arms into a warm wrapper, tying it around her waist. Perhaps there was something left in the kitchen—a bit of bread, some cheese. Anything.
She walked into the corridor, her bare feet cold against the polished wood, then down the staircase. The marble floor of the entryway was colder still, and she winced with each step as she made her way towards the narrower servants’ stairwell.
She held her breath as she descended, careful not to lose her footing. The steps were steep, narrow, and twisted. How the maids managed to carry trays up and down these stairs without toppling over she would never know.
When she stepped into the darkened kitchen, a small wave of relief washed over her. It was still warm from the ovens, and a faint scent of herbs lingered in the air. She moved towards the counter and lifted a cloth to find a modest loaf of bread. Her stomach growled softly in approval.
She began looking for a knife and some butter when the sound of approaching footsteps made her freeze.
Someone was coming down the servants’ stairs.
Panic fluttered in her chest.
Without thinking, she reached for the nearest knife—small and blunt, but it was all she had—and crouched behind the counter, her heart pounding as she stared towards the staircase.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows, broad-shouldered and silent. Moonlight filtered through the windowpanes and caught his profile.
Dominic.
Relief flooded through her, and her grip on the knife loosened. She felt foolish. Utterly foolish. Of course it was him. She’d been absurd to think otherwise.
He didn’t notice her right away. He moved to the counter, tearing off a hunk of bread with one hand and chewing absently, his gaze fixed on the dark windows as though lost in thought.
Dorothea remained where she was, half-hidden, unsure what to do. The longer she stayed silent, the more awkward it became. But announcing her presence felt equally humiliating. He had made it clear he didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to speak to her.
She shifted slightly, and the floor creaked beneath her.
Dominic turned sharply. “Who’s there?” he demanded, eyes narrowed. “Show yourself.”
