“You love her.”
This time, Dorian did not argue at all.
The fire crackled softly between them, casting shifting shadows over the library walls. He stared into the flames, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass, while Tristan watched him with an unusual somber expression.
It was perhaps the first time all evening he looked entirely serious.
“You know,” he said quietly, “for someone who spent years pretending not to care about anything, you’ve become remarkably transparent.”
Dorian let out a faint laugh. “I dislike this conversation.”
“You dislike every conversation that requires honesty.”
Dorian glanced toward him.
Tristan straightened slightly. “Do you know what I find interesting? You act as though the danger is falling in love with her. Dorian, the danger has already happened.”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you are treating this like some future problem. As though one day you might wake up and discover you have become attached to your wife. You are already attached, you fool.”
Dorian opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. “I dislike it when you look pleased with yourself.”
“I am rarely more pleased than I am right now.”
Dorian rubbed a hand over his face.
“The real danger is not loving Anne,” Tristan continued. “The real danger is waiting so long to admit it that you convince yourself there is still time.”
Dorian’s chest tightened because he knew exactly what his friend meant. There was always time until there wasn’t. He had spent years living with that lesson, years carrying it.
“You could not save Lily from what happened,” Tristan said, as if he had read his thoughts. “You know that, even if you refuse to forgive yourself for it.”
Dorian looked away, refusing to acknowledge the truth.
“But Anne is here,” Tristan continued. “She is alive. She cares about you. God knows why, but she does. Every person in this house can see it.”
Dorian laughed softly. “Except me, apparently, but what if I am right? What if I have imagined things that are not there? I will look like a fool for not understanding, and it will push her away entirely.”
Tristan stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.
Dorian frowned at him. “I fail to see what is amusing.”
“It is more than merely amusing. It is astonishing. Dorian, that woman looks at you as though you personally hung the moon for her.”
Dorian snorted. “That is absurd.”
“It would be,” Tristan relented, “if I had not watched her do it.”
Dorian stared into his glass. The warmth of the whiskey had long since faded. His thoughts drifted upstairs again, to the floor above them.
To Anne.
He thought of her standing on the front steps when he had arrived home, the way she had challenged him, had laughed with him. The way Ashford itself seemed brighter simply because she moved through it.
A slow realization settled over him. It was entirely undeniable. Every road led back to her. His every thought began and ended with her. Every part of Ashford he loved most now carried her presence somewhere inside it.
Tristan rose from his seat at last, setting his empty glass on the nearby table. “I think I shall leave you alone with that revelation.”
