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“You.” His eyes turn to me, two dark bullets boring into me with deadly intent. “The filthy dog who defiled my daughter.”
Everything falls into place then.
Theodora, in Year 9, declining my invitation to the Summer Ball and telling me she wasn’t allowed to date.
Iakov, in Year 12, mentioning in his deadpan tone that Theodora’s father had a bounty on anyone who touched her. At the time, I had assumed he was just joking, maybe as a way to keep the idea of Theodora being off-bounds when it came to the bet.
Theodora, after we slept together, making me vow I would never tell a soul. Theodora, telling me she was as free to make her own choices as a prisoner. Theodora, always so pale and sad and broken, and that terrible fear in her face when Mr Clarke came to take her to Mr Ambrose’s office.
“Is this it?” I ask, meeting Mr Dorokhov’s gaze head-on, refusing to look away. “You would sacrifice Theodora’s education—why? Because she didn’t obey some archaic, misogynistic rule you set her?”
Mr Dorokhov steps forward sharply, and I notice the staff that surround him suddenly step back, fear flashing on their faces. Blackwood staff, in the heart of the Blackwood house, should have nothing to fear from this man—and yet they do.
I remember telling Theodora that she couldn’t be a prisoner because there were no walls, or locks, or guards keeping her imprisoned. Shame bubbles through me, thick like tar. How cold and insensitive I must have sounded to her.
How despicably little I understood what she was trying to tell me.
“My daughter,” Mr Dorokhov hisses, “is mine to do with as I please. And you, boy, have made her into little more than a whore.”
I descend the rest of the steps in a surge of anger like I’ve never felt before. I stand in front of Mr Dorokhov, and I push back the wave of my fury. I turn myself to ice, just as Theodora was forced to do all these years.
“You will not speak of her like this in front of me again,” I say, my voice low and deathly calm.
“I’ll speak of her however I please,” Mr Dorokhov hisses. “I am her father. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the man who loves her. The man who’s going to spend his life making sure she’s safe from harm—safe from you. And one day, Mr Dorokhov, I’ll be the man who marries her.”
He lets out an ugly laugh. “I’ll be cold in my grave before I let that happen.”
“That can be arranged,” I reply.
He raises his hand to me, but violence is stupid and predictable. I catch his arm, stopping his blow, and look him in the eyes.
“Theodora deserves better than to haveyoufor a father.”
Mr Dorokhov snatches his arm from me, letting out a vile string of curses.
A booming, steady voice interrupts him.
“There is no need for such language in my house.” I turn to see my father appearing from a doorway. He’s slowly lowering his rolled-up sleeves and buttoning them up. “Good morning. Mr Dorokhov, is it?”
Mr Dorokhov turns to my father and spits out, “You know exactly who I am.”
“Then letmeintroduce myself. I am Lord Blackwood, and you, sir, stand in my house. You will show respect to me, my family and my staff, or else be escorted off the premises.”
“Respect?What respect do I owe the people who have stolen my daughter from me? What respect do I owe the boy who debauched her?” Mr Dorokhov turns back to me. “What respect did you show my daughter when you used her like a whore?”
“Mr Dorokhov, that’s enough.” My father’s voice is the deep, calm rumble of distant thunder. It brokers no denial. “I have expressed my expectations to you—you are incapable of meeting them. I will now ask you to remove yourself from my house.”
“I’m not leaving without my daughter!” Mr Dorokhov bellows.
My father and I exchange a split-second glance. Mr Dorokhov thinks Theodora is here. My father doesn’t know whether or not she’s here—she could be. But I know she’s not here. And she’s not with her father either.
So where is she?
Mr Dorokhov shouts in the direction of the stairs. “Theodora! I know you’re here!” He turns back to my father, pointing an accusing finger. “I know she’s here, and you have no right to keep her from me. Bring her to me now, Blackwood, or I will—”
My father raises a hand, effortlessly interrupting Mr Dorokhov. My guts clench with terror. Is he going to tell Mr Dorokhov the truth?
