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“It was not your fault, Evander.”

I lift my gaze to him.

“You were nothing but a child.”

“A haughty child.”

“Still a child.”

“Whose fault is it then? The rain? The servants? God?”

Nausea has risen in my throat.

I’m going to be sick.

He stands, seizes my chair, and rotates it to face him in a fluid motion.

“Not yours.”

Dorian interlaces both of his hands with mine. The look in his eyes grows darker, opaque, but he remains motionless, fixed on me.

I pull away from his hands, slowly, then stand up without turning back, the blue robe sliding along my shoulders.

“I have to go.”

“Viscount.”

I keep going.

“Evander.”

The tone is lower, more urgent.

“I said I am leaving, Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

His hands seize my arm, his grip firm, his brow furrowed.

“Stop for a second, damn it.”

I bite my lip, holding back the tension tightening my stomach.

“Dusha.”

I turn, clenching my hands around his throat. The skin is warm, the pulse beneath my fingers throbs.

“Say it again.”

“Dusha.”

I feel the vibration of the sound flowing beneath my hands.

Dorian repeats it again, more slowly. “Dusha”

I squeeze his throat more decisively, following the rhythm of his muscles beneath my pressure.

“Dusha.”

I squeeze again, feeling him swallow beneath my fingers. I look up and meet his gaze, he is already staring at me, intense, motionless. I feel my eyes begin to sting.