Chapter Sixteen #2
He nods, seeming pensive. “You know you can, though, right? You can talk to me about whatever you want.”
I’m sure I could, but I have no guarantee that any information I give Dorian will actually stay with him. I don’t think he’s one to gossip, I don’t get that vibe from him, but even so, I also don’t want to give him more ammunition against me.
“Thanks,” I say noncommittally.
Dorian nods. “Yeah. Why is it you want to get so far ahead?” His eyebrows furrow as he contemplates me. “Is it because you want to get away from me?”
It takes all of my control not to stiffen. I need to choose my wording carefully to avoid his suspicion.
“No,” I say blandly. “It’s because I want to get ahead in life, like I said.
Besides, you didn’t give me a solid timeline for how long I’d be staying with you.
You mentioned end of semester, but didn’t reiterate it when I asked again.
In any case, what does it matter? I don’t assume that I’ll be spending next year as your guest, will I? ”
He doesn’t respond for long moments, which makes me swallow harshly. “What if you did?” he asks. “What if I told you that I want to keep you? Not as my prisoner or guest, but as my woman?”
I force a laugh. “Then I’d tell you you’re completely insane.”
He doesn’t get offended; instead, he nods. “Fair enough.” He pauses. “You could be, though. Mine. If you wanted to be.”
Despite myself, my thoughts wander in a direction they shouldn’t. I see a clear image of Dorian and I together, some time in the future. Me coming home from a long day at vet school, him smiling softly and welcoming me back with a kiss.
But then… it wouldn’t just be us. I have to keep Connor and Seamus in mind.
I wouldn’t be returning to Dorian, I’d be returning to his crew—legion, as he calls it.
Seamus can be okay, sometimes, but Connor is a non-starter.
I don’t want anything to do with him; I loathe being in the same house as him.
If it were just Dorian, if he weren’t part of some gang or mafia gig, things might be different, but they aren’t.
I’ve already gotten plenty of experience with one gang member; I don’t need more.
“We’re not compatible,” I tell him. “The life you lead is triggering to me. I might seem like I can hold my own, and I can, but that doesn’t mean that I want to. I don’t want to live in fear.”
“Contrary to what you might’ve gathered the other night, my life is no more or less dangerous than the average person’s,” Dorian remarks.
“That was an odd-out situation. One I’m working to ensure won’t repeat itself.
I might have dealings in the dark, but that’s not the whole of my identity.
I won’t always be working solely in illegal circles.
I intend to go into legitimate lines of business. ”
“That’s wonderful for you,” I say. “It doesn’t change things. Even if I wanted to like you, I couldn’t. You stress me out.”
“What if I worked to change that?” He asks. “I know you don’t like living in a house with the others. How about we get a place away from them?”
I blink slowly. He’s saying a lot of extravagant things, even talking about us moving in together separately, theorizing about a future exempt from criminal work.
"Dorian," I say slowly, “why are you talking about all of this? What’s with all the what ifs? What’s with the we shit? Do you really like me that much?”
He glances to the side before once again meeting my gaze.
His is uncommonly open and unguarded, allowing me to see the stark desire and longing that it holds.
More, there’s something lonely there. Some untold yearning for connection to replace a sense of emptiness.
I feel in his energy the same thing I see in his gaze; a soul-deep desire.
A want, a need for something between us.
“I feel a connection to you,” he admits, his expression sober and tone sincere. “More than I’ve ever felt with another girl. I want to explore it. I really want to explore it, Mira.”
The stark honesty and openness of his admission is touching. So touching it almost makes me want to lean in and kiss him. Almost, but not quite.
“Can’t you see that we’re wrong for each other, though?
” I ask quietly. “I feel something for you, too. There’s a pull between us, but it’s superficial.
It can’t possibly stand the test of time and life.
” I shake my head. “You only know snippets of what I went through with my stepfather, Dorian, things I had to tell you under duress. My life with him was bad. Bad enough that at fourteen years old, I knew I had to learn to defend myself, or I would never make it away from home. I did, but only just. I beat so many odds by getting out of there. I worked my ass off to get a scholarship, to get my freedom, and I gathered so much blackmail on my stepfather that he had to let me go. I spent years mowing lawns and doing other unpleasant odd-jobs to save just enough money to be able to support myself at Greywood. Money that I had to hide from my stepfather, or he would’ve taken it from me.
I—” I cut off with a sigh, looking back to my laptop.
There’s no point in ranting or rambling; it won’t get me what I want.
It won’t get me to where I want, need to be.
Dorian reaches across the desk, placing his hand over mine. His palm is calloused and rough, but his skin is warm. The touch is unexpectedly soothing. I’m tempted to lean in, to cover his hand with my free one, to climb onto his lap and let him help me forget all of my difficulties.
Instead, swallowing, I pull my hand away. I fold my arms over my chest, thinning my lips and looking at my keyboard.
“I’m not your stepfather,” he says quietly. “I don’t get off on hurting innocents or children. I don’t have a boss that would demand or condone such behavior. In fact, my boss is known for routinely killing people who deliberately target those who can’t protect themselves.”
“You might not be my stepfather, but you’re in the same line of work as him,” I say, a bit sadly.
I start drafting an email regarding a meeting to my guidance counselor.
“That means there can never be an us. We can never be together.” I shoot off the email, then switch over to my virtual classes for the day.
Most of my work today can be done online—I have an option to attend the classes through zoom, but I can also listen to pre-recorded lectures and do the accompanying assignments.
Dorian withdraws at my words. He resumes typing away at his laptop, and the angry clicks on his keyboard fill the ominous, tense silence.
I can’t help but feel like I hurt him—no, I know that I hurt him.
He was open, vulnerable, and I shut him down.
Guilt steals across my chest, making each breath I take heavy with regret, but I remind myself that I’m doing what I have to.
I’m doing what almost nobody in my life has done since the death of my mother; choosing myself.