Chapter 14 #2
Dorian ordered the stables locked before anyone had fully recovered from the shock. His voice carried across the yard with a finality that left no room for argument, sharp enough that even the senior trainers moved without hesitation.
Gates were secured, doors checked, and every remaining worker was accounted for under his direct instruction. No one was allowed in or out without his permission.
Anne barely registered any of it. She remained with Tempest.
The horse had been moved carefully into his stall, his breathing uneven but no longer ragged. He stood with difficulty, his head lowered. Every so often, his legs shifted slightly, as though uncertain whether they could fully support him, and each movement ratcheted up her anxiety further.
“It is all right,” she soothed, though it was unclear whether she meant it for him or for herself. “You are safe. I am here.”
The words did not fix the situation, but she said them anyway.
The stables emptied gradually as the remaining staff were dismissed or reassigned under Dorian’s strict instructions, until only a few lanterns remained lit and the sound of movement outside faded entirely.
Anne did not leave. No one asked her to, and no one would have been able to convince her even if they had tried.
By the time the light outside had given way to dark, she was still there, sitting on the edge of a low wooden stool near Tempest’s stall, rigid with exhaustion she refused to acknowledge. Her gloves had long since been removed, placed carefully on a nearby ledge.
She was still watching him, listening for any change in his breathing. The sound of footsteps at the entrance of the stables broke the silence. She did not look up immediately; she already knew who it was. Dorian’s presence registered differently from the others, even when he tried to move quietly.
He stopped a short distance away from the stall. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tempest shifted slightly in the stall, then settled again.
Dorian’s gaze moved from the horse to Anne and stayed there.
“You have not left,” he said.
Anne’s eyes remained on Tempest. “Was I expected to?”
“No,” he replied. “But I would have understood if you had.”
“I would not have understood, not when he is like this. He might be a racehorse to you, but to me, he is—” She broke off, not wanting to show too much emotion.
Dorian stepped into the stall, closing the door behind him.
“He is stable,” he said.
“For now.”
He glanced at Tempest again before speaking.
“We have increased security. Every feed store is being checked. No one will enter the stables without being accounted for. If someone did this, they would not have the opportunity to do it again.”
Anne finally looked at him. “That does not undo what was already done,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“He could have died.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged.
The simple answer made something in her stomach tighten. She looked away again, refocusing on Tempest as though he alone could anchor her.
“I thought it was my fault at first,” she admitted after a moment.
Dorian frowned slightly. “Your fault?”
“I thought I had missed something,” she explained. “Or that I had not noticed the signs of sickness quickly enough.”
“That is not what happened.”
“It is what I thought.” She did not want to say that she thought she might have missed something because she had been distracted by him.
Dorian studied her for a long moment. “You were the first to recognize what was wrong.”
“That does not mean I was not too late.”
“It means,” he countered firmly, “that without you, we would still be guessing.”
Anne did not respond. Her hand moved again over Tempest’s neck, slower, grounding herself in the repetition of a familiar motion.
“I should have been here sooner,” Dorian sighed.
“What matters is that you are here now and that someone thought they could do this inside your own stables.”
A brief silence followed.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Indeed.”
He stepped closer then, stopping just two feet from her, not intruding but no longer holding back. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as though considering something he had not intended to say, then he spoke.
“If anything had happened to him,” he said slowly, “I think it would have broken you.”
Anne’s hand stilled. He was totally right, and she hated that he was. He was not supposed to know her that well, and that had been his own choice.
She did not look at him. “That is a very confident assumption.”
“It is not an assumption,” Dorian replied. “I have been watching you for long enough to know what he means to you.”
Anne swallowed, not wanting him to know her anymore. It was for the best that he did not.
“He is a horse.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And you and I both know that he means a great deal to you.”
That made her turn toward him fully.
Dorian held her gaze. There was a brief silence in which the only sound was Tempest’s slow, uneven breathing.
“You have already lost enough,” he continued. “More than you say. More than you allow anyone to see.”
“You do not know what I have lost.” Anne’s voice sharpened slightly.
“I know enough,” he replied. “And I know what it looks like when someone believes they cannot afford to lose anything again.”
He held her gaze until she looked away. He did not move closer. He just remained where he was as the silence returned between them.
Anne wished that she were not angry with him, for she needed him more than ever at that moment.
And yet he was not hers.