Chapter 2 #2
Dorothea turned towards the doorway, blinking past the burning in her eyes and throbbing in her cheek.
A tall man stood in the threshold, his shoulders broad and his presence commanding.
Dark hair framed a chiseled face, and across one cheek ran a jagged scar—a scar she had seen before. One she knew.
Her knees buckled.
That scar... it was the same one Dominic bore after a dagger slashed him on the battlefield. But it was his eyes that confirmed the truth to her. His steely gray eyes—so unusual, so unlike any she had seen before—locked on to hers with unmistakable intensity.
It can’t be.
But it was.
“Dominic?” she whispered.
He took a step towards her, and she saw the familiar line of his jaw, the exact tilt of his brow when he was angry—or afraid. There was no mistake.
Her husband—her dead husband—was standing in her brother’s study.
The room tilted suddenly. A ringing filled her ears. And then, the edges of her world went dark and she felt herself falling.
The instant Dominic saw Dorothea being struck, a fierce surge of protectiveness roared through him.
His fists clenched at his sides, and the memory of his mother’s tear-streaked face flashed before his eyes.
He had been too young then, too powerless to shield her from his father’s wrath—but not now.
This time, he could do something. Would do something.
He had sworn long ago that he would never stand idle in the face of cruelty again.
He watched Dorothea sway unsteadily on her feet, the color draining from her face, and he closed the distance between them.
He caught her before she fell, cradling her gently in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and his heart clenched.
She was far too pale, far too fragile. Gritting his teeth, he carried her to the nearby settee and eased her down with care, his eyes never leaving her face.
A scornful voice broke the silence behind him.
“And what gives you the right to be so familiar with my sister?”
Dominic didn’t bother to turn around. “She is my wife,” he growled. “Now send for a doctor. At once.”
“You do not get to dictate terms in my house,” the man snapped, his tone brimming with arrogance.
Dominic’s patience snapped like brittle glass. He turned slowly, facing the man squarely. The resemblance between him and Dorothea was unmistakable—the same red hair, the same bone structure—but his eyes were colder, devoid of compassion.
“And you do not get to strike a woman and walk away unchallenged,” Dominic shot back. “How dare you lay a hand on your sister! Have you no decency, no shame? I should challenge you to a duel for your ill treatment of my wife.”
The man’s lip curled. “How I discipline my sister is no concern of yours.”
“It is now,” Dominic responded. “She is coming with me and away from you. And don’t you dare try to stop me.”
The man stepped forward, his posture bristling. “And just who do you think you are?”
Dominic arched a brow. “Forgive me, you seem remarkably dim-witted,” he said with biting sarcasm. “I am Lord Warwicke. Dorothea’s husband.”
A gasp came from the corner of the room. A blonde-haired woman, young and striking, who had until now watched the scene unfold in silence, clasped her hands together. “You must be mistaken. Dorothea’s husband is dead.”
Dominic’s expression didn’t waver. “Then I must be a ghost,” he said dryly. “I am Dominic Stevens, Baron Warwicke.”
The woman’s mouth fell open. “That’s… impossible,” she whispered.
Before he could answer, a soft voice called from behind him. “Dominic? Is that really you?”
He turned instantly. Dorothea had opened her eyes. Her gaze locked with his, wide with disbelief.
“It is,” he said, stepping closer.
Tears welled in her eyes. “How… how is this possible? They carted you away with the dead. I never even got to say goodbye.”
“I was mistaken for dead,” Dominic explained. “But I survived, and I’m here now.”
Her eyes scanned him, as if trying to confirm the miracle. “You were shot… stabbed… I thought I’d lost you forever.”
“I was many things,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her brow, “but not gone. I’ve come to take you home, Dorothea. Where you’ll be safe.”
She hesitated, glancing towards her brother. Fear flickered in her eyes, subtle but unmistakable. “I am safe here,” she said weakly, the lie heavy in her voice.
Dominic extended his hand. “Come. Let us go.”
She didn’t move. “But… my things. I should pack a trunk.”
“There’s no need,” he said. “We’ll get you all new things. Whatever you are in need of.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere!” her brother snapped. “You show up out of nowhere, claim to be a lord, and expect us to believe this story?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. “Your sister recognizes me, and that’s more than enough. But if you insist on verification”—he turned to Dorothea—“you never knew. The king honored me with a title for my service in the Royal Army. I am known as Baron Warwicke now.”
Dorothea’s lips parted in astonishment. “You’re a lord?”
He nodded. “Which makes you a baroness. You no longer have to live under this roof, or wear mourning gowns for a man who isn’t dead.”
She took his hand slowly. “This… this is unbelievable.”
Her brother scoffed. “And I, for one, do not believe it.”
Dominic looked him squarely in the eyes. “Fortunately, I don’t require your permission. Dorothea will be leaving with me.”
“No!” the blonde woman suddenly burst out. “Dorothea can’t leave! She’s—she’s family!”
Dominic’s assessing gaze flicked to her. “I’ve seen how you treat your family. Heaven help your enemies.”
Matthew stepped forward, fists clenched. “Dorothea, you don’t want to leave, do you? Tell this man you don’t know who he is.”
Dorothea faltered, her shoulders drooping slightly under her brother’s command. But then, slowly, she raised her chin. “I’m sorry, Matthew. But this is my husband. And I want to go with him.”
Matthew’s expression darkened. He took another step, but Dominic stepped in front of Dorothea.
“If you ever touch my wife again,” he said in a low, warning tone, “it will be the last thing you ever do.”
Matthew’s face twisted in fury. “Then go. But know this—if you walk out that door, Dorothea, you are no longer welcome here.”
A brittle laugh escaped Arabella’s lips. “Matthew is being dramatic. You can always come back—”
“Stay out of this, Arabella!” Matthew barked.
Dorothea clutched Dominic’s arm and leaned into him. He turned his head, his voice soft for her alone. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” she said with relief in her tone.
As Dominic led Dorothea out of the study, his heart pounded with a strange, conflicting rhythm—half-disbelief, half-resolve. He hadn’t planned this. He had arrived with a purpose, clear and simple: confront his wife and demand an annulment. It should have been quick, clean. Emotionless.
Instead, he was taking her home.
A thousand questions clamored in his mind, but only one truth rang clear: he couldn’t walk away.
Not from her. The thought of leaving her in that suffocating house with a brother who wielded cruelty like a badge of honor—it turned his stomach.
No, he hated bullies. Always had. His father’s voice still echoed in his nightmares and Dorothea’s brother was cut from the same cloth.
He glanced down at her as they crossed into the corridor. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, and he gave it a gentle pat. She looked up at him, and what he saw in her eyes stopped him cold.
Trust. Quiet, unwavering trust.
It hit him like a punch to the chest.
Some faces carried the weight of memory so deep, so ingrained, that simply seeing them felt like coming home.
That’s what Dorothea was to him. Home. And in that instant, his mind began to unlock—rusted doors creaked open, long-forgotten moments pouring in like warm light.
Hushed conversations by his bedside. Stolen glances.
The way her smile had managed to anchor him during the torturous haze of recovery.
His steps faltered as the memories swelled. So much he had buried. So much he thought he’d lost.
Behind them, boots struck the floor with purposeful strides. Matthew’s voice rang out across the entry hall. “Fine! Go, then! Do as you please. I don’t care what you do—not anymore!”
Dorothea stopped and turned slowly to face her brother, her chin lifting just slightly. “Goodbye, Matthew,” she responded. Her voice was calm, but there was an undeniable tremor in it.
Before she could move again, Arabella stepped forward quickly, her expression conflicted. She threw her arms around Dorothea, the embrace stiff despite the sentiment.
“We shall miss you, dear sister,” she said. “I will see to it that your trunks are packed.”
Dominic stepped between them the moment Arabella released her. “We’ll send a coach to collect her things. She will not be setting foot in this house again.”
Arabella nodded her understanding and took a step back. “Yes, my lord.”
The butler opened the main door with a quiet creak. Cold air spilled into the marble-floored hall, and Dominic paused, letting Dorothea take her time. She turned slightly, her eyes sweeping across the familiar space. He said nothing, allowing her the moment. Some goodbyes could not be rushed.
Finally, she met his gaze. “I’m ready.”
He offered his arm again and guided her down the front steps, helping her into his waiting coach with care. Once she was seated, he climbed in and settled across from her. The interior was quiet, insulated from the world outside. The thrum of tension between them was almost tangible.
Dorothea stared at him for a long moment, as if studying every line of his face, every subtle shift in his expression. “Is this truly happening?” she whispered.
Dominic leaned back slightly. “It is,” he said. “But you should know… the man you once knew… he didn’t come back from the war. I did, but I am not the same.”
She didn’t flinch. “You saved me,” she remarked softly. “Just as you promised you would.”
A furrow creased Dominic’s brow. “I… I don’t remember making that promise.”
The confession hung between them, heavy and uncomfortable. And yet, it wasn’t just the words. It was the way she was looking at him now. Not with fear or hesitation, but with something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Dominic looked away. He wasn’t the man she remembered. Not entirely. And he wasn’t sure he could become him again. But for now, he was all she had.