Page 14 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

Lord Gabriel clears his throat and continues his mild conversation about the Runners and the town’s condition, as well as members of the ton, whom they’ve already interviewed.

“We’ll know more by week’s end.”

“I’ll be speaking to the captain at dinner on the morrow.”

An hour into dinner, a fork scrapes against porcelain. Dorian stills, and his head cocks at the noise. ‘Tis his own.

My heart stops.

Dorian…no…

He sniffs the air, shoulders taut, with the fork gripped tight in his hand. Dread pools hot over my scalp and into my hollow stomach, enough to make me nauseous.

“Dorian?” I whisper, touching his hand. He peers down and awareness returns to his eyes. They flicker green and hazel once more.

“Yes, I am here,” he says under his breath.

I release an anxious breath.

As the last course is cleared and the wine decanter stands nearly drained, Dorian sets down his glass.

“You’ll stay here, of course,” he says, addressing Gabriel without looking up. “The townhouse is better suited than the inn, and you’ll be closer to the courthouse. After we depart for Ashwood Castle, you are welcome to it.”

Gabriel inclines his head and returns to his wine. “That’s generous, Your Grace.“

Dorian nods once. “Williams will have your chambers readied.”

Gabriel stands and the legs of his chair scrapes over the rug. “Thank you for the hospitality.” He turns to me. “Your Grace.”

“Good night, my lord,” I reply with a smile.

With that, he departs.

The room falls into silence, save for the tick of the mantle clock.

Dorian does not rise.

For a long moment, we sit there, with him lost in his deep internal silence, and I too wary to disturb it.

At last, he speaks. “Come. We’ve earned the fire.”

We retire to the library. It is a dark and towering room of carved walnut shelves and high windows, the curtains drawn tight against the night. A fire burns in the grate, throwing orange light across spines of bound volumes in half a dozen languages.

The fire inside the library is already dancing and burning hot when I finally collapse into the armchair. My whole body aches. The sheer tedium of the day is enough to make my head pound as though ‘tis stuffed with cotton.

Dorian sinks into a worn leather armchair facing the hearth, one hand splayed against his chest as if trying to still whatever madness pounds beneath.

I say nothing.

We are alone now.

Across from me, Dorian rubs the heel of his palm against his brow, ruined in his crumpled shirt with the cuffs rolled back. The Duke is in command of nothing. Not even himself. Brandy sits between us. Without a word, he nudges it toward me.

I take it, drink and pass it back.

After a few more rounds, he reaches inside his coat and draws out a cigar. He doesn’t ask permission, only lights it with a match. When he’s done, he glances at me.

“Princess?”

I hesitate. Then, to my surprise, I extend a hand.

“Your Grace.”

He passes the cigar over. There is the lightest brush of fingers. It is quite ridiculous, how even that ignites something inside my heart. Perhaps I am an animal — a soulless Demon, too?

I clumsily pull the smoke into my mouth the way Nora showed me once, back when we were wicked little girls playing inside the orchard, pretending to be men.

I cough. “Ooopph!”

“Careful,” Dorian says, “Ash yourself and the scandal sheets will weep for the Duchess’s ruined gown.”

I exhale smoke. “Let them weep. I’m tired of pretending.”

The fire crackles. The brandy burns. I stretch my legs my slippered feet brush the edge of the hearthstone.

It warms me from beneath. Across from me, Dorian watches.

Not with hunger, nor anger. He stares as though he might discover panacea, then leans his head against the back of the chair to glare at the embellished ceiling.

“I know you hate me for everything I have done to you.”

His silhouette dances inside the hearth’s flames. His words shock me. I expected more cowardice .

“You’re right. I should,” I eventually reply with the cigar still wedged between my fingers. “I should hate you for yelling and frightening me.”

He turns at my brutal honesty, nevertheless, I continue. “But I don’t hate you, Dorian.” I return the cigar and he accepts it. “I am afraid for you. You see, I am no Alchemist. I cannot save you.”

“Tis alright,” he grins. “I will save myself.”

Fire hisses as a log collapses into the flames.

William emerges from the room’s corner to throw in another piece. I had almost forgotten he was there. As brandy warms my throat and smoke burns my lungs, I wonder if I can trust William, and then, consider Dorian. He trusts William, which must count for something .

Dorian is the rope binding me, and one I do not know how to sever. And somehow, against all reason, when he passes me the bottle, I take it and stay. I stare mindlessly into the flames.

This silence is different from the last.

For the longest time, silence, smoke and brandy play. And then the bottle is empty.

When I glance over once more, Dorian has fallen asleep in his chair, with his head resting to one side of the overstuffed seat and the empty bottle in his lap. I watch his face in the light. It’s the first time I’ve seen him rest since we were married.

He is beautiful to look upon, with dark hair falling over his eyes, slightly curled at the fringe. Shadows accentuate his hollowed cheeks, lightly stubbled, and a jawline that meets in a way that makes me smile. My heart squeezes and that melancholy, returns.

Dorian…you must be cold.

“William,” I call out. “Fetch His Grace a blanket.”

But William, he is already there with his arms overflowing. Curious, I ask him. “This is a frequent event?”

The footman nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”

I collect the blanket. “That will be all, William. ‘Tis late. You may return to your chambers.”

William nods and departs.

I remove the bottle and stand over Dorian, watching, with the blankets clutched in my hands. It drapes over his shoulders, and I know I must go, but I…I can’t help myself.

He cannot hurt me in this state…

I lean in closer, to observe the thing that is my husband. I have witnessed the monster within and survived.

But he cannot be dangerous in his sleep, can he?

It is then a sharp rap comes at the door, it thuds through the entire place.

Dorian’s eyes burst open, and his hand is already at my wrist. My heart beats fast, hammering, as his face hovers mere inches from mine.

Voices soon come. The butler answers the door.

His voice carries. And then I hear another familiar voice.

“It is an emergency, we must speak with His Grace at once. ”

Lord Gabriel. What is he doing here?

Dorian turns at the sound — he has been asleep for no more than an hour. We do not have to wait long. The butler soon arrives at the library, with Lord Gabriel tailing him.

Dorian releases me, and as I stand, my cheeks go hot. Dorian throws off the blanket and hangs it over the armchair.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Your Grace, but I’m afraid we have an unfortunate matter on our hands. It is quite serious.” He pauses to find the right words. “We have discovered…”