By the time she has packed up Dorian’s paint supplies and carried them inside the house, the sun has set and the stars have begun to shine. She can’t stop thinking about her encounter with Dorian, about the moment she pressed herself against him in a burst of courage, about his look of surprise, his arm instinctively wrapped around her, and that tiniest pressure she felt through his khaki shorts… Did I imagine it? Was it real…?
She can’t shake the image from her head; she replays it over and over, sending pinpricks down her arms. She wraps a hand around her tender wrist, notes the spreading inkling of a bruise…
Another wave of bravery washes over her, lifts her to her feet, and drives her up the manor’s great oak staircase as if possessed.
Her heart pounds in her chest as she slowly, silently makes her way down the hallway towards Dorian’s quarters. What the hell am I doing…? She hesitates for the briefest second. Why can’t I stop…?
The door to his bedroom is ajar. As quietly as she can, she extends an arm and lightly knocks on the wood.
No response. The heavy door swings inward a tiny breath.