June glared at Dominic, droplets of rain clinging to her eyelashes like tiny crystals. "I will come back here," she declared, "and neither of you will stop me."
Her eyes held Dominic's in challenge, and he felt something electric ignite inside of him—something dangerous and thrilling, like lightning seeking ground. In that moment, soaked through and fuming, she was more alive, more compelling, than any woman he had ever known. And God help him, he wanted herwith a ferocity that threatened to consume whatever remained of his carefully constructed defenses.
Fourteen
Dominic woke to sunlight streaming across his bed, dust motes dancing in the golden beams like spirits caught between worlds. For one blissful moment, he existed only in the comfortable warmth of half-slumber, his mind mercifully blank. Then, as consciousness fully claimed him, memories of yesterday's rain-soaked retrieval of June from the ruins flooded back. Her fury, her defiance, the weight of her across his shoulder—all of it returned with painful clarity.
He smiled despite himself, recalling her indignation. No doubt she would avoid him entirely at breakfast, or perhaps skewer him with that razor-sharp tongue. Either prospect held a strange appeal.
Throwing back the coverlet, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood?—
The world tilted violently. His vision swam, darkening at the edges as if a black fog had crept into the chamber. Dominic'shand shot out, finding the bedpost and gripping it with such force his knuckles turned white against the carved mahogany.
His heart slammed against his ribs, not the pleasant acceleration of anticipation but the desperate, panicked pounding of a creature sensing danger. Each beat felt wrong—too hard, too fast, then sickeningly slow.
This is it.The thought crystalized with terrible clarity. It'sbeginning.
His father's face appeared in his mind—ashen, lips tinged blue, eyes wide with the knowledge of what was happening. Dominic had been just fourteen when he'd found him collapsed in his study. Too young to understand, yet old enough to recognize death when it stared back at him.
"Breathe," he commanded himself, the word barely audible. His lungs burned as if he'd been running for miles, yet he'd only taken two steps from his bed.
He forced himself to draw air in slowly, deliberately, while his pulse thundered in his ears. One breath. Another. The bedpost beneath his fingers was the only solid thing in a world gone suddenly unstable.
Not yet. Please, not yet.
The moment stretched, his mortality pressing against him like a physical weight. Then, gradually, the darkness receded. Hisvision cleared. The violent hammering in his chest eased to merely concerning rather than terrifying.
Dominic straightened, though he kept one hand on the bedpost. A cold sweat had broken out across his brow, and his nightshirt clung damply to his back. In the aftermath of fear came anger—at his body, at his bloodline, at the unfairness of it all.
Twenty-four years since he'd watched his father die. How many times since then had he imagined this moment? How many nights had he lain awake, wondering if he would rise again with the dawn?
A soft knock preceded the entrance of Hastings, his valet, bearing a silver tray with morning tea.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Hastings said, setting the tray on a small table by the window. He paused, his keen eyes taking in Dominic's pallor, the uncharacteristic disarray of his appearance. "Are you quite well, sir?"
Dominic released the bedpost, willing his hand not to tremble. "Perfectly," he replied, summoning the easy smile that had charmed ladies across three countries. "Though I believe I may have overindulged at dinner. The wine was particularly excellent."
"Indeed, sir." Hastings's expression remained carefully neutral, though the slight tilt of his head suggested he was not entirely convinced. "Shall I prepare your bath?"
"Later, I think. Just help me dress for now." Dominic moved toward the washbasin, relieved when his legs obeyed without further betrayal. "I understand we're riding to the village this morning."
"So I've been informed. Lord Stone has arranged it." Hastings moved to the wardrobe, selecting garments with the solemn attention of a general planning a campaign. "The blue coat, I think. It suits your complexion particularly well."
Dominic splashed cold water on his face, hoping it might restore some color to his cheeks. The phantom ache lingered in his chest—not pain, precisely, but a wrongness he could not ignore.
"The blue will do admirably," he said, drying his face on a linen towel. "Though I doubt the villagers will care what I'm wearing."
"Perhaps not the villagers," Hastings remarked with delicate emphasis, laying out a pristine white shirt. "But there are others who might appreciate the effort."
Dominic knew precisely who "others" referred to. June Vestiere, with her clever amber eyes that saw too much, with her sharp tongue that cut through pretense like a blade. What would she see if she looked at him now?
He reached for his shirt, dismayed to find his fingers still trembling slightly. The fine linen betrayed each small tremor as he attempted to fasten the buttons. After a moment of struggle, Hastings stepped forward.
"Allow me, Your Grace."
Dominic surrendered to the valet's assistance, hating the weakness yet grateful for the man's discretion. Hastings worked quickly, skillfully hiding any evidence of his employer's diminished dexterity.
"Is there anything else troubling you this morning, sir?" Hastings inquired as he arranged Dominic's cravat in an elegant knot. "You seem... preoccupied."
