“Yes,” he said quietly. “Indeed.”
He stepped closer then, stopping just two feet from her, not intruding but no longer holding back. For a moment, heseemed to hesitate, as though considering something he had not intended to say, then he spoke.
“If anything had happened to him,” he said slowly, “I think it would have broken you.”
Anne’s hand stilled. He was totally right, and she hated that he was. He was not supposed to know her that well, and that had been his own choice.
She did not look at him. “That is a very confident assumption.”
“It is not an assumption,” Dorian replied. “I have been watching you for long enough to know what he means to you.”
Anne swallowed, not wanting him to know her anymore. It was for the best that he did not.
“He is a horse.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And you and I both know that he means a great deal to you.”
That made her turn toward him fully.
Dorian held her gaze. There was a brief silence in which the only sound was Tempest’s slow, uneven breathing.
“You have already lost enough,” he continued. “More than you say. More than you allow anyone to see.”
“You do not know what I have lost.” Anne’s voice sharpened slightly.
“I know enough,” he replied. “And I know what it looks like when someone believes they cannot afford to lose anything again.”
He held her gaze until she looked away. He did not move closer. He just remained where he was as the silence returned between them.
Anne wished that she were not angry with him, for she needed him more than ever at that moment.
And yet he was not hers.
CHAPTER 15
Race day arrived, and Dorian had scarcely slept.
That was not unusual before a race, but this time the restlessness had little to do with strategy or expectation. It had begun the moment Tempest had collapsed and never quite resolved itself afterward, lingering in the background of every decision he made.
The horse had recovered enough to compete. That was what everyone kept repeating: he had recoveredenough. He had not fully recovered, and that meant the situation remained uncertain.
On the morning of the race, Anne was already in the stables before the sun had properly risen. Tempest stood in his stall, calmer than he had been since the incident but still under close observation.
She remained beside him without interruption, one hand resting lightly against his neck as she checked him repeatedly for any sign of lingering weakness. Every few minutes, she would pause, studying him for signs of ailment that only she seemed to notice.
“He is fine,” one of the senior trainers said carefully for what felt like the third time.
Anne did not look up. “He is stable. That does not mean he is fine.”
There was no argument after that, not because she had convinced them, but because no one in the stables felt confident enough to contradict her when it came to Tempest.
Dorian was dressed for the day, his presence drawing immediate attention even among those trying to focus on the final preparations. He paused at the entrance of the stables, taking in the scene before stepping inside.
As always, his gaze went immediately to Anne. After Tempest’s collapse, something unspoken had settled between them, a kind of careful restraint that neither of them had yet managed to break.
He stopped a few paces away from her. “Is he ready?”
Anne nodded once without turning fully. “He is alive.”
