“No,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no one in the room to hear him.
The word was not directed at anything in particular, only at the increasing certainty that had begun to form where calm should have been. He forced himself to read the letter again, focusing on the phrasing rather than what it reminded him of.
None of it should have been enough to cause alarm on its own, and yet every line felt dangerously familiar in a way that made his pulse sound too loud in his ears. He pushed back his chairabruptly, the legs scraping across the floor as he stood too quickly for composure to remain intact.
Anne was ill, but she was at Rosemere. She was resting, supervised, and safe. That was what the letter said, but what he saw beneath every line was something far less stable, shaped entirely by memory and fear he had never fully learned how to set down.
This time, he did not remain seated long enough for doubt to settle into anything resembling calm.
Before anyone could stop him, he had already given the order for Tempest to be saddled. The stablehands hesitated only long enough to register the urgency in his voice, before moving. But by then, he was already pulling on his riding coat and allowing no space for discussion.
The weather outside had worsened since dusk, rain sweeping across the grounds in heavy sheets, the wind driving against the windows.
Tristan appeared in the doorway just as Dorian crossed the corridor.
“You are not seriously riding out in this weather,” he said sharply.
Dorian did not slow down. “Move.”
“Dorian,” Tristan tried, stepping into his path. “It is pouring. The roads will be?—”
“I said move.” His tone made further argument pointless.
Tristan’s expression darkened. Dorian stopped only long enough to look at him.
“You want me to do what feels right as a husband?” he bit out. “That is what I am going to do.”
Then he was gone.
The stables were already in motion by the time he arrived, Tempest being led out with more urgency than caution, tack being tightened in hurried movements as rain lashed against the open doors.
Dorian swung himself up into the saddle without waiting for final adjustments, taking the reins before anyone could question him again.
The moment Tempest moved, he urged him forward hard. He did not entirely trust the safety of it, but Tempest was the fastest horse he owned, and he did not want to risk being too late.
The gates passed behind him almost immediately, swallowed by rain and darkness as they broke into the countryside at reckless speed. Wind whipped at his face, cold and relentless, but itbarely registered compared to the tight, rising pressure in his chest that had not eased since he read the letter.
Images of Lily flashed through his mind again, and he forced them away, only for them to return more vivid each time Tempest’s hooves struck the ground.
By the time Rosemere House emerged through the rain, the world had narrowed to breath, reins, and the single certainty that he had not been fast enough.
He dismounted before Tempest fully stopped. The ground was slick beneath his boots as he crossed the drive and reached the front door, rain soaking through his coat and shirt until he felt entirely drowned in it.
He did not pause long enough to be announced or recognized, his fist striking the door with a force that echoed through the entrance hall.
“Open the door,” he demanded, his voice rough with exertion and something closer to fear than anger.
A moment later, the door opened. Anne stood there, wrapped in a thick blanket, her hair slightly disheveled, her expression shifting instantly from confusion to shock as she took in the sight of him drenched, breathless, and clearly unsteady.
“Dorian?” She blinked as rainwater dripped onto the threshold. “What on earth are you doing here?”
He tried to answer, but the first attempt failed entirely, his breathing still uneven from the ride and the fear that had driven it. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to be steady enough to speak.
“I was told you were ill,” he managed.
Anne stared at him for a moment longer before softening, understanding dawning almost immediately.
“Oh,” she murmured, stepping aside as though the urgency itself had startled her into movement. “No, it is only a mild fever. I am fine. My mother insisted I remain here for a few days, but it is nothing serious.”
