But Lloyd is moving, too, racing after him. He darts in front of Dorian, blocking his path. “Let him go.”
“Out of my way, Lloyd.”
“He’s already gone. It’s over. You handled it.”
Dorian’s ringed hand flashes, a hard shove to Lloyd’s chest. “He almost killed her. I’m killing him.”
“Dorian, come on,” Sibyl begs.
A flicker of “yes” snakes through my heart—vindictive approval of Dorian’s threat. Delight that he’d kill a man for scaring me.
But that would be wrong.
It’s wrong to want a man dead, just like it was wrong to glory in Vane’s jealousy.
I can’t necessarily help what I feel, but I do have choices.
Slowly I pace forward and lay my fingers on Dorian’s back. He turns away from Lloyd, toward me.
“I need to end that gun-toting bastard,” he says softly. “He can’t hurt me, and I won’t feel a trace of guilt. It’s the perfect system.”
He’s done this before. I can hear it in the cruel nonchalance of his tone.
And I see it, too—the travesty of him, written in his eyes. Soulless beauty. Merciless youth.
“Dorian,” I say. “Let it go.”
He’s breathing hard, his jaw clenched. Then he tilts back his head, and his eyes start to close. The realization of what he’s doing darts through me like a sizzling bolt of lightning. He’s pushing his negative feelings along the tether, into the portrait, wherever it is.
“No!” I hiss, seizing his wrist. “Don’t do that.”
His eyes flare open, startled.
“Feel it,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”
“Don’t push it away. You have to start feeling things again, uncomfortable things.” I keep my voice low so Sibyl and Vane can’t hear. “Dorian, if you hope to convince me to do what you want, I have to know you’ll try to be good. You can’t be this person.”
“And you can’t have it both ways,” he hisses. “I can feel it and go kill him—or I can push it away and let him live.”
“No.” I catch both his hands. “You’re stronger than that. You can be furious and choose not to act on it.”
His white teeth are bared at me, his eyes blue flame. I stare into them, feeling bolder and stronger than I ever have in my life.
He doesn’t pull away. His fingers close convulsively around mine, as if he’s drawing some of my strength into himself.
Slowly he nods.
“This is really cute, guys.” Sibyl’s voice is fragile at the edges. “But I’d like to go. And Vane’s a mess.”
Vane is leaning over, gripping his knees like he might puke, sobbing huge gasps of terror and relief. He’s shaking visibly, probably from whatever he took tonight as well as from the trauma.
“She’s right. We should go,” Lloyd says, and I’m suddenly conscious that he was watching us the whole time. Quietly observing, like he did when the gunman threatened us. Like he did in Scoundrel.
Dorian seems calmer, so I release his hands, and we all continue into the parking garage, heading for the car. I don’t suggest calling the police, because obviously that would start a whole series of questions Dorian can’t answer.
“His sister wasn’t my fault,” Dorian says in a tight undertone to Lloyd-Henry as we walk. “I told her not to take as much as I did. I warned her she couldn’t handle it.”
