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Chapter Twenty-Five

“ I ’m losing my mind,” Dominic muttered to the dogs as he left the stables early.

The mist still clung to the trees, and the air was crisp and sharp, the sun nothing more than a pale whisper on the horizon.

When he mounted his horse, Beowulf ran alongside him, eager and restless, while Achilles followed at a slower, measured pace—the steady guardian he always was.

It was rarely humid in this part of England, but this morning, the air felt thick, clinging to his skin—and that suited his mood perfectly.

Something else clung to him, too—an invisible weight he desperately wanted to shake off. He wanted distance from the house, from Perseus’s chaos, and most of all, from her.

“I have to get away from her,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. “Because I can’t think straight when she’s near.”

The dogs regarded him with soft whimpers, as if expecting a treat or a secret. Their attention only broke when the wind picked up, ruffling the leaves and stirring the branches. Beowulf barked sharply at the gust, his tail high and bristling, while Achilles maintained his quiet, stalking pace.

Dominic nudged his horse forward. “That woman drives me mad. Utterly mad. And here I am, talking to animals.”

Deeper into the forest he rode, the trees growing dense, their branches weaving overhead to form a canopy.

At first, the shade was comforting, but as the shadows deepened, isolation crept in—the very solitude he sought.

He breathed in the scent of moss and damp earth, the faint decay of rotting wood far preferable to perfumed soaps and stifling drawing rooms.

“I am getting in too deep,” he murmured, ducking beneath a low bough. His horse neighed, and the dogs barked in response. “And that won’t end well. Not well at all. I should keep my distance.”

Beowulf let out a disapproving huff.

“Don’t tell me you’re on her side,” Dominic grumbled.

A sharp bark from ahead drew his attention. Achilles had surged forward again. Dominic followed at a steady pace, letting the dog lead for a moment before gathering the group back together.

He slowed to a trot, the familiar rhythm of the forest calming his restless mind.

Marianne might see him as a predator, but beneath that, he was a protector. He needed his dogs near him, like anchors in the storm she stirred within him.

“She gets under my skin,” he admitted quietly. “Without even knowing it.”

At a thick cluster of trees, he stopped and dismounted, the forest floor solid beneath his boots. The quiet of nature eased his breath, but not the ache in his chest.

What was I thinking?

The memory of their kiss—the hunger, the possessiveness—returned in a sharp rush.

Why do I torment myself like this?

Beowulf panted beside him, his tongue lolling, his eyes wide and watchful.

“Yes, I know, Beowulf. I’m losing my mind,” Dominic muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Birds squawked overhead. A fox hid in the bushes nearby.

A moment later, Achilles returned, proudly dropping a squirrel at Dominic’s feet. The dog’s chest swelled with pride at his catch.

“Well done. Good boy,” Dominic grumbled with a smile, and the hound wagged its tail giddily.

Perhaps it was time to return. Enough exercise, enough talking—for now.

He whistled, signaling the end of their outing. The group moved as one—horse, dogs, and man—in the familiar rhythm that had soothed him since childhood: the stillness before the strike, the focus, the hunt.

But even as the forest faded behind him, his thoughts drifted back to her.

Marianne.

He’d left her to face Perseus’s chaos alone, choosing self-preservation over confrontation. A coward’s retreat. But the truth was clear: if he spoke or touched her again, he might say too much, reveal too much.

And that was a risk he wasn’t ready to take.

Back at Oakmere, Marianne sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—silent proof of a night spent wrestling with restless thoughts. Sleep had abandoned her long ago, only returning just before dawn, pulling at her in reluctant, half-hearted waves.

She tugged at a loose strand of hair that had escaped her plait, letting it fall unbothered over her cheek.

“Not even my hair wants to behave today,” she muttered to herself, brushing it away with a sigh.

Last night had been strange, unnerving in its sudden shifts. She and Dominic had arrived at Lord Cheswick’s event as husband and wife, what with the world watching. Yet he seemed determined to keep other men at bay, pulling her close, seducing her with a fervor that left her breathless.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the vivid memories—the way he had buried his head between her legs, hidden beneath her skirts, his fingers tracing, his tongue exploring. Every touch and caress were exquisitely skilled, familiar yet intoxicating.

But then chaos had intruded. Perseus’s arrival shattered the mood, and Dominic had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. It was like nothing had happened between them at all.

He disappeared.

Though they didn’t share a room, Marianne would have heard him if he’d gone to bed. He always made noise—shuffling footsteps, quiet sighs. But she had heard none of that last night.

She bit her lip.

He doesn’t owe me any explanation. We’re married in name only, a contract between him and my father.

Still, she had hoped for something more—a creak of his door, a sigh that spoke of restlessness, regret, or even desire.

The night passed in near silence. Marianne told herself she didn’t care, but her tossing and turning told a different story.

Her stomach twisted as hunger gnawed at her, mingling with exhaustion to sour her mood. She had faced Perseus alone after that heated encounter in the carriage. Dominic had made her question the nature of their marriage, planting seeds of doubt that took root in the dark.

Descending the stairs, she glanced toward the windows. The sky was bright, uncaring of her inner turmoil.

In the breakfast room, Mrs. Alderwick hovered nearby, her eyes flicking toward Marianne with quiet concern. She bobbed a polite curtsy and placed a plate of jam tarts near Marianne’s spot.

The scent of fruit and pastry brought a small comfort, but it didn’t quell the unease twisting in her chest.

Then, the air shifted. Marianne knew before she turned that Dominic had entered the room, his presence announced by the creak of the garden doors.

His breeches were stained with mud, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, clinging damply to his chest. His hair was tousled, still wet, and his gloved hand gripped a brace of birds tightly.

Their eyes met.

Dominic froze as if caught off guard. His gaze was haunted, shadowed by sleepless nights, but it held something else—surprise, hesitation, maybe even regret.

Why did he look at her as though she was an inconvenient interruption?

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted politely.

No greeting came. No word. No sign that last night’s fire had ever existed. Only a nod.

Marianne’s confusion turned into anger. She looked down at her breakfast, her appetite gone, and pushed back her chair.

“I’m not hungry,” she said sharply, rising.

Without another word, she walked out of the room. He did not follow.

Silence stretched between them like a chasm she couldn’t cross.

She flopped onto a garden bench, burying her face in her hands.

“Stupid,” she muttered, her voice thick with frustration. “Stupid and dramatic.”

Her chest ached with the sting of perceived rejection. She wasn’t the type for romantic ideals, yet?—

Why does it hurt so much?

The future stretched bleak and uncertain before her.

Being trapped in a loveless marriage was far worse than she had ever imagined.

The brief reprieve hunting gave Dominic was just that—a brief reprieve. It tired his body but left his mind buzzing. Talking to the animals was a small comfort, a momentary joy stolen from the chaos. Yet, returning to the house reminded him why unease clung to him like mud to his boots: Marianne.

It had been two days since he’d last seen her face, and just a bit longer since he’d been between her legs—tasting her, teasing her, bringing her to the pinnacle of pleasure. The memory was vivid as ever, but the feelings had faded, evaporated like smoke in the morning air.

I should stop thinking about her.

He pushed open the heavy door to his study, hoping to drown out thoughts of her with the dull monotony of doing the accounts.

The study was his sanctuary. While he tolerated the company of Achilles and Beowulf well enough, there was nothing like the solitude of a locked door.

When the oak door clicked shut behind him, he let out a long sigh of relief and rubbed his head, still foggy from sleepless nights.

That click? It made him feel safe.

Safe from Marianne’s wiles, her subtle insistence, and the way she had somehow burrowed into his head—and his life.

Who even insisted on marrying her anyway? He might have been safer with Elizabeth, the timid younger sister who looked like a startled rabbit at every sound.

He let himself believe for a moment that he could finally get some rest—away from the gentle footfalls and the soft voice she used with the servants.

That illusion lasted precisely two seconds.

Because of the cat.

“ Off, ” he barked, using his most commanding voice. The kind that usually had servants and business partners quaking in their shoes. Except Lord Grisham.

Serafina, however, gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. Marianne’s grey menace looked far too comfortable sprawled across his neatly stacked documents. The estate ledger was perilously close to becoming a cat playground.

“I said, off ,” he repeated, trying to sound sterner, though he was careful not to raise his voice too much.

No point in encouraging further rebellion.

The cat stretched luxuriously, knocking over an inkwell with a graceful swipe of her paw.

Ink began spreading like a small, black lake over his carefully penned papers.

Frustration welled up inside Dominic. He would not ask for help. He was a duke, after all. He couldn’t be undone by a mere feline, could he? Still, sudden moves would only worsen the disaster.

“You may just regret that, Serafina,” he warned, speaking as if he were negotiating with a very demanding—if utterly indifferent—sovereign.

His dogs and stallion obeyed him without question, but this cat? She was an agent of chaos, sitting smugly atop the estate ledger, blinking at him like she owned the place.

“I said off, foul creature,” he growled.

She responded by pushing a heavy paperweight off his desk with a lazy paw. It hit the floor with a dull thunk, mercifully avoiding a loud crash.

Dominic closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, then letting the air out slowly through his mouth. Once. Twice. Thrice.

This is not working, he thought bitterly. Not like it did when he dealt with infuriating investors.

“I will not negotiate with you,” he warned again, moving closer, but tiptoeing as if the cat might explode if startled.

He almost called for a maid—or Marianne—but he stopped himself. He could practically hear his wife cooing from somewhere nearby, “Oh, my naughty girl. Come down from the desk this instant.”

With a resigned breath, he sat down and gently pulled the documents from beneath Serafina, easing her onto the floor.

She meowed in protest, clearly miffed at being displaced.

He sighed and turned back to the mess on his desk, tossing ink-splattered pages into the waste bin and focusing on the work he’d planned. The cat, however, settled by his boots, purring as if she hadn’t just threatened his livelihood.

“You really can’t leave me alone, can you?” Dominic murmured. He gave her a gentle nudge with his boot. “Stop.”

Why he bothered, he didn’t know. The cat had already proven herself a master of disobedience.

Still, after a few rounds of this ridiculous game, Serafina finally settled, curling up on the rug, pressed against his boots.

“Fine,” he muttered. “If that’s how you want it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you—no funny business, or else the grass outside will be your bed tonight.”

He didn’t move his feet after that.

At least one of us will get a good night’s sleep.

He felt oddly comforted by the small, stubborn creature, who refused to leave him alone.