Chapter 6 Dorian
DORIAN
Dorian walked back through the square with his hands in his pockets and his mind on copper hair and carefully guarded smiles. The mist had returned, beading on his lashes and making the lanterns look like watercolor smudges in the darkness.
He should go home. Should climb the stairs to his apartment above the old bakery and fall into bed like any sensible person would at this hour. Instead, he found himself taking the long way around the square, his route curving back toward the inn.
Just checking the perimeter. Perfectly reasonable behavior for someone who'd volunteered to help with festival security.
The fact that Ivy Lane was staying at the inn had very little to do with it.
"Right," he muttered to himself, pausing near the oak tree where she'd sat the night before. "And I'm volunteering for tech support because I love folk music."
His panther prowled restlessly under his skin, unsettled by the evening's revelations.
The way Ivy had gone perfectly still when that blonde had touched his arm.
The careful distance she maintained even while laughing at his jokes.
And that comment about magic being turned against you, delivered with a bitterness that spoke of personal experience.
Someone had hurt her. Badly.
The protective instinct that rose in response should have alarmed him. Dorian Vale didn't do protective. He did charming and casual and commitment-free. He specialized in women who knew the score, who wanted exactly what he offered and nothing more.
Ivy Lane was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her fae magic.
A light flickered on in one of the inn's upstairs windows, and Dorian found himself studying the yellow glow like it held answers. Was she settling in for the night? Reading? Writing music?
Thinking about their evening together?
"Pathetic," he said aloud, but his feet carried him around the inn's perimeter anyway. Just once. Just to make sure everything looked secure.
The back garden was quiet, Diana's herb patches neat rows in the darkness. The side entrance that led to the kitchen showed no signs of disturbance. Everything exactly as it should be.
So why was he walking the circuit a second time?
"Because you're an idiot," he answered himself, but kept walking.
The front porch came into view again, and Dorian slowed his steps. The same warm light spilled from the windows, the same sense of peaceful security that made the inn a haven for travelers.
He was being ridiculous. Ivy was perfectly safe behind the inn's wards and Diana's protective instincts, as well as her mate Rowan’s. Whatever had put that careful wariness in her amber-green eyes, it couldn't reach her here.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
Dorian turned to find Miriam Caldwell descending the inn's front steps, her silver hair catching the porch light and her half-moon spectacles reflecting his sheepish expression.
"Evening, Miriam. Lovely night for a walk."
"At this hour?" She adjusted her knitted shawl and fixed him with the kind of look that had probably terrified generations of misbehaving children. "It's nearly midnight, young man."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
"Mm." Miriam's sharp gaze took in his position near the inn, his slightly damp hair from the mist, and the fact that he was clearly lingering rather than actually going anywhere. "And I suppose you just happened to be wandering past the inn. Twice."
"I was checking the perimeter. Festival security."
"Of course you were." Her tone suggested she believed that about as much as she believed in spontaneous combustion. "Nothing to do with our new guest, I'm sure."
"Who?"
"The young woman with the guitar and the carefully guarded heart. The one you've been circling like a tomcat who's caught an interesting scent."
Dorian felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."
"Dorian Vale, I've known you since you were sixteen years old and convinced half the town's daughters to sneak out of their houses for midnight picnics." Miriam's expression was fond but exasperated. "You've never been subtle about your interests."
"This is different."
"Is it?"
The question hung in the misty air between them. Was it different? The attraction was certainly stronger than usual, and there was something about Ivy's combination of strength and vulnerability that called to parts of him he'd thought safely buried.
But different enough to matter?
"She's leaving after the festival," he said finally.
"People change their plans."
"Not people like her."
"And what type is that?"
Dorian considered the question. What type was Ivy Lane? The kind who carried her life in a guitar case and lied about where she was headed next. The kind who flinched when strangers touched him and spoke about magic being turned against you with the voice of experience.
The kind who was running from something that had taught her not to trust charming men.
"The smart type," he said.
Miriam studied his face for awhile, then nodded slowly. "Well, at least you're aware of your limitations. That's progress."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"You're welcome." She pulled her shawl tighter against the mist. "Now, since you're so concerned about security, perhaps you could walk an old woman home? These streets can be treacherous in the dark."
Dorian glanced back at the inn, where Ivy's window still glowed with warm light, then offered Miriam his arm. "It would be my pleasure."
"I thought it might be."
As they walked through the quiet streets toward Miriam's cottage, she said, "You know, sometimes the smartest thing a person can do is admit they're not smart enough to handle something on their own."
"Cryptic advice is my favorite kind."
"I'm not being cryptic. I'm being practical." Miriam's voice carried the weight of years and hard-won wisdom. "That girl has been hurt, Dorian. Badly. She doesn't need another charming man making promises he can't keep."
"I wasn't planning to make any promises."
"No, I don't suppose you were." They reached Miriam's front gate, and she turned to study his face in the lamplight. "You might begin to wonder though what are you planning to do when she decides to trust you anyway?"