“Does it ever stop feeling like something you failed to protect?”
The question lingered, and her hope that he would ease her concern dwindled.
“No, it does not stop feeling like that. I wish that I could say something more optimistic, but I believe you would rather have the truth.”
“Indeed,” she agreed, even though a lie would have brought more comfort. “At least this way, I will not feel like an outlier when it never goes away.”
The fire shifted, settling lower as the room darkened slightly around them. Anne drew her knees closer beneath her, folding inward in a way that was less guarded than it had once been.
“There is something I have not said aloud before,” she admitted after a moment. “I am afraid of happiness, not because I do not want it, but because everything that has ever mattered to me has been taken away. It makes anything good feel temporary, as though I am only waiting for its end, and it makes me enjoy everything less.”
Dorian did not respond immediately, but his gaze seemed to grow more intense. There was no denying that he often looked at her, nor was there any denying that it unsettled her more than she dared admit.
“That is not a conclusion you should accept as truth,” he said eventually.
“It is not something I chose to believe,” she replied. “It is something I have learned.”
He shifted slightly, leaning on one hand. “Then it is something you can also learn to unlearn.”
Her gaze held his for a long moment before she spoke again. “You make it sound simple.”
“I do not think it is simple,” he said. “I think it is possible. If it were easy, I would have managed it by now, but that does not mean it is impossible.”
He moved slightly closer, until the space between them had narrowed. Anne did not move away, though her breathing quickened at his proximity.
“I used to think attachment only created loss,” he murmured. “After my sister died, I convinced myself it was safer to avoid it entirely. It made life easier in some ways, or at least it made it feel less dangerous.”
Anne listened without speaking. It was her turn to stare, and her eyes flicked to his as he spoke. There was an honesty in him that she rarely saw in people. It was captivating.
“But it does not actually protect you,” he continued. “It only delays the moment when you realize you have been avoiding everything that makes life worth anything at all.”
The fire snapped softly, the sound filling the silence that followed. Dorian shifted again, closer still, until he was seated beside her rather than opposite her. His arm rested near her, not yet touching but close enough that she did not wish to move. Then, his other hand lifted with a deliberate slowness. It came to rest on her waist, though he did not pull her closer.
Anne did not move away. Her breath hitched as his other hand rose, hesitating only briefly before brushing lightly against her cheek. The touch was gentle, almost uncertain, but he did not withdraw.
The room suddenly felt smaller than it had moments ago. Anne’s hand lifted without clear intention, resting against his wrist as though confirming he was real and not imagined.
“I should not be doing this,” he said quietly.
“And yet you are,” she replied softly.
It was just as it had been that morning. They knew there was intimacy there, no matter how much they denied it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.
For a moment, Anne hoped that they might live by his words and not miss out on life by being afraid of living it, but then she told herself to be more sensible.
Dorian leaned in slowly, as though giving her the opportunity to stop him. But she did not lean back, and her hand remained where it was. His breathing slowed as the distance between them shrank, the crackle of the fire behind them fading.
The moment held at the edge of completion, suspended just before it could cross into something irreversible.
And she really wanted it to.
CHAPTER 11
The library door opened abruptly, the sound of it breaking through the quiet with enough force to pull them back into awareness at once. Dorian did not know whether to feel grateful for the second interruption or furious.
A footman stepped inside hurriedly, clearly unaware of what he had walked in on.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said quickly, his eyes flicking between them. “More letters have just arrived. Several people have responded to your invitation to the ball, and we expect more people now than before.”
