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“You are obstinate,” I hiss.

“Are you not?”

“It is you who insists—”

“You keep running from me.”

He lowers his gaze to the spot where his hand grips me.

“And yet, you were the one who fled the exhibition. You ran away as if my presence were no longer tolerable to you.”

His eyes widen slightly. “It is so... it was not tolerable at that moment.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

He moves closer still, and with a slow gesture, tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear.

“Viscount...” His gaze does not waver.

I reach out my hand, and his shoulders rise slightly, caught by surprise.

I will not be the only one left exposed in such an unseemly manner.

I brush the hair from his face, then tap lightly on his forehead, pinching the wound with my fingernail.

Pain flashes through him. I feel his hand falter for an instant, his warm skin against mine. I withdraw my finger, taking a full breath.

“I don’t understand you,” he whispers with hesitation.

“How can you expect to understand anyone,” I reply, “if you do not even understand yourself?”

“What do you mean by that?"

I take a step back, but I strike the door, the cold wood stops me abruptly. He approaches, pressing his broad hand against the door beside me. I see him struggling with himself, that dark gaze wavering between control and something else I dare not define.

Two knocks thunder against the wood behind me.

“Viscount?”

Étienne’s voice filters through the door. “I have brought what is needed.”

The handle vibrates, then remains blocked against the combined weight of our bodies. I hold my breath. He, however, inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring. His fingers, still resting against the wood near my face, betray a slight tremor.

“Ty lishayesh menya kontrolya nad soboy,” he breathes through parted lips.

I hate it when he speaks Russian. Those harsh sounds give me goosebumps.

“What did you—”

“Viscount?” Étienne insists.

That tremor breaks. He pulls away with a brusque movement, taking two steps back, turning his face away while quickly adjusting his shirt collar. I push off the door just enough to breathe again and open it. My valet enters with his usual measured step, his gaze sliding between me and Lord Dorian.

“Sir, if you wish to be seated. It will only take a moment.” In his other hand, he holds an orderly tray.

Dorian does not say a word, he sits in the armchair. Étienne takes a linen cloth and carefully dips it into a bowl of hot water. The steam rises thin; with slow touches, he removes the dried blood from Dorian’s forehead, following the edge of the wound. Then he sets down the first cloth and takes another, clean one. He soaks it generously in spirits of wine, the pungent scent pricks my nostrils.

When he places it on Dorian’s skin, the effect is immediate. A twitch of the jaw muscles, an imperceptible flinch of the head.