He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t even know she was sick. I had to hear it from my sisters’ letters after it had already happened. They said Mother didn’t want to worry me. She didn’t want me to feel obligated to come home. There were…reasons I was sent to school abroad.”
I think I know what he means by that, but still I ask, “What reasons?”
“My father died when I was ten.”
“Oh, my condolences.” My tone holds far less apology than I expressed over his mother’s fate. Because I feel none in my heart. It serves as a reminder of why I’m here, whywe’rehere. Together. Dorian is the son of a killer. He’s a killer himself.
As we take a few more slow steps down the sidewalk, I allow some space to grow between us, no longer running the risk of brushing his shoulder with mine.
But his next words almost stop me in my tracks.
“I’m not sure I am.” They come out cold.
I whip my gaze to him. “Why do you say that?”
“My father was not a good man. At least, he wasn’t the hero I once thought he was. When he died, I learned things about him that broke my heart, but I still saw him as a good father. Then after Mother died and I found out he’d cut her and my sisters from his will…only then did I see who he really was.”
“Your father cut his wife and daughters from his will?”
“They’d been separated for three years before his death. My mother left him. She had good reasons, ones that took me years to fully comprehend. Still, cutting her from his will I could almost understand, but my sisters…” He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “He left me a sizable fortune and a trust for my education. He left nothing for them. Nothing. He gave them a weekly allowance when he was alive, but after he died, they were left to fend for themselves. My mother saw how difficult things were for me at home. I was dealing with some trauma that revolved around Father’s death, and I was bullied by my peers just for being his son. That’s why she sent me to Bretton for school. I left before I could see them slip into poverty. While I was comfortable at an elite boarding school, sitting in the lap of luxury thanks to my trust fund, my mother worked herself to the bone to care for my sisters. And when she died, I was busy wasting said trust fund, drinking, smoking, and fighting. Instead of being home, I chased a stupid dream to be a famous boxer. A dream I quickly came to despise when I realized how differently things would have been had I graduated on time and come home.”
I’m at a loss for words as I take in everything he’s told me. That his mother left his father. That Dorian left the isle because he was bullied. That he feels so much guilt about the privilege he was gifted when his mother and sisters had nothing. My throat feels tight as I look at the pain etched in his features.
He speaks again. “She never asked me to come home. She never told me she was sick. My sisters’ letters claimed Mother thought it was better if I stayed in Bretton and never came back to Faerwyvae. They said it was because she remembered how hard life was for me before I left for school. They insisted she didn’t tell me she was dying because she loved me too much. But I can’t help thinking it was something else.”
“What?”
“That she was afraid of me. That she thought I’d be just like my father.” He lets out a dark, humorless laugh. “Turns out she was right. She would hate me if she saw me now.”
I open my mouth but I don’t know what to say. I want to ask what he means by thinking his mother was right. Is it guilt that makes him think he’s just like his father? Or does he harbor the very darkness the Alpha Council thinks he does?
My desperation to know the answer crawls up my chest, squeezing my lungs tight. It shouldn’t make a difference. I shouldn’t want to know the answer.
If Dorian lives, I die. It’s as simple as that.
But what he’s told me tonight has twisted my perception of him. Or perhaps it was twisted before and now it’s just beginning to straighten out and become clear. Whatever the case, it sends waves of dizziness through my head, pulling me in every direction like a violent current. The realization that I might not be able to do what needs to be done, that I’m unwilling to save my own life…
It’s too agonizing to bear.
32
When we reach the church, we make our way to the alley door and quietly enter. Pausing in the dark hall, we take a moment to ensure no one else is around. When we hear no footsteps, hear no sounds, we proceed through the next door and into the courtyard garden. My attention is so focused on the other side—on getting back to my room and sorting through my tangled thoughts—that I jump when Dorian’s fingers come around my wrist. I halt and face him.
“I’m this way,” he says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder toward the door I helped him through last night.
“All right,” I say with a flat smile. “Goodnight then.” I take a step, but he doesn’t release me.
“Wait.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. He takes a small step closer. His hand slides from around my wrist but instead of pulling it back completely, he draws his fingers down my gloved palm, then laces them through mine. “Thank you.”
My heart hammers at the contact. It’s so intimate, so vulgar by human standards of propriety. He’s human. He should know this. And yet, we already broke those strictures tonight when we collided in an embrace at the boxing match. Not to mention, accidentally sleeping in the same bed. After too long of a pause, I say, “For what?”
“For tonight,” he says with a smile. It’s a kind smile. A sweet one. One that has my knees feeling like they might melt off my legs and send me tumbling to the earth. “I…I think I needed that more than I realized.”
“It’s no problem,” I say, and the words come out stiff. I’m torn between tugging my hand from his so I can flee to my room…and staying perfectly still. Because now he’s slowly dragging his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand. Even through my gloves, the caress is enough to send a shiver down my spine.
His lips part as if he’s about to say something else, but the sound of a door opening has his mouth snapping back shut. Alarm flashes in his eyes. Neither of us are supposed to be caught out this late, much less together.
“Shit.” He pulls me to duck down as we scurry off the path behind a row of hedges. The sound of slow, quiet footsteps approach, and they’re coming from the door we just entered the garden from. The footsteps draw nearer, weaving along the garden path. Dorian tugs me farther from the sound, and we creep silently over patches of grass and flower beds. We stop when we reach the boughs of the enormous willow—the one I can see from my room. When the footsteps draw nearer still, we tiptoe farther under the tree and around the trunk until we’re on the opposite side. I press myself close to the trunk with Dorian behind me. I’m only half aware that the length of his body is touching mine. The rest of my attention is focused on the figure I glimpse between the shrubs. With the dark sky above and so many plants between us and the garden path, I can barely glimpse more than black robes and a hint of a face that looks like it might be Brother Billius. I furrow my brow. If he was coming from the alleyway door…did he see us? Whatever the case, it seems Dorian isn’t the only brother who sneaks out at night.
