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“At least I,” he mutters, “will be under someone’s skirts tonight.”

My throat goes dry.

“Perhaps,” I reply, “or perhaps not.”

I cannot stay to argue. I rise slowly from the chair.

“Viscount,” Lord Dorian calls out to me, his voice vibrating behind me.

“I need air.”

I leave the glass on the edge of the table and move away.

I don’t want him to follow me.

I don’t want him to touch me.

I don’t want him to speak to me.

I don’t want him to exist in my presence.

Opening the side door, the smell of wet wood and rain washes over me. I breathe in deeply, trying to calm myself, but the frustration doesn't yield.

What an absurd man.

An arrogance that weaves into the mind without permission. It was a terrible idea to come here. If I had known that arrogant being would be present, I would never have accompanied Richard.

Vasiliev Ashford... even the name sounds pretentious.

Raindrops trace trails on the pavement, I walk among them, trying to hide the tremor of the hand that still feels the minimal contact with his. One step after another, trying to distance myself from the chaos of his eyes and his irritating scent.

9

Fire Poker

Dorian

The wind tears a few dry leaves from the branches, swirling them around my black boots, the woods before Mekhovaya House stretch out with tight trunks and twisted roots.

I have always preferred this stillness to the opulence of Ashford Manor. This residence once belonged to my mother. My father had it built for her, for those moments when she wished to be alone, when she longed for Russia, for her family.

My falcon was the last gift she gave me.

I stand still with my arm extended, the thick glove covering an ivory forearm marked by use and time. Zver’ alights delicately, his talons sinking slightly into the leather; his slate-gray back catches the meager morning light, his black-hooded head rotating as he scans every detail with deep, attentive eyes.

My fingers slide through the rough and smooth feathers of his barred chest, and the tremor running through his body is a shiver I feel as my own. I let him go, with a powerful beat of wings, Zver’ breaks from my arm and soars into the sky, circling among the branches.

Still watching the sky, I perceive a rustle among the boughs; a twig snapping under a footfall.

My body reacts.

In a flash, I draw the revolver from the inner pocket of my waistcoat, the cold metal pulsing between my fingers, and I raise it toward the figure emerging from the shadows of the trees.

“Dorian, have you lost your mind!”

The voice is familiar, but my heart does not yield. I fix my gaze on Lucien before me.

“Brother,” I respond in a steady voice, “it is you who has lost his senses, coming up behind me like that.”