Page 45 of Knot By Design
He nods. “I figured. But I was heading the same way.”
“Dorian—”
“Relax,” he says, voice low, that damn half-smirk ghosting his lips. “How about I’m walking, you’re walking, and we don’t have to talk?”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
He falls into step beside me anyway. The space between us feels charged, like the air’s holding its breath.
His scent drifts on the wind—bergamot and cedar—and I hate that my body reacts before I can stop it.
We walk in silence for a few minutes. The crunch of snow fills the gaps. The wind carries faint laughter from the hall behind us.
Finally, he says quietly, “My mother wanted me to tell you she’s sorry.”
I blink. “What?”
“For that day,” he says. “For how she treated you. She regrets it. I… wanted to tell you sooner, but it was complicated.”
“Complicated,” I echo, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I wanted to apologize too,” he says. “In person. But you made it clear you didn’t want to hear from me.”
“I still don’t.”
He nods once, his breath curling white in the air. “Fair enough.”
“Then keep your distance now,” I say, stopping at the corner near my street.
He looks at me for a long moment, eyes shadowed, unreadable. Then that damn smirk returns, softer this time.
“How about I keep walking,” he says, “and you happen to be going the same way?”
I roll my eyes, but I keep walking.
He matches my pace without another word. The silence between us hums—not comfortable, but not jagged either. Just… there.
By the time we reach my gate, the chill has sunk deep enough that I can see the pulse of my breath. The moon’s silver light spills over the snow-dusted fence, and every sound feels muffled, like the world’s holding its breath.
I stop, turning toward him.
“This is where I live,” I say unnecessarily.
“I remember.”
Of course he does.
I grip the fence post, trying to steady myself, the iron cold beneath my palm. “Goodnight, Dorian.”
He studies me, eyes glinting under the porch light. “Goodnight, Norah.”
Then his gaze drifts down my body.
I suddenly remember what I’m wearing.
The corseted black bodice feels tighter under his stare. The tulle skirt, layered with lace and tiny pressed flowers, moves with the wind. My shawl has slipped down to my elbows, baring the line of my throat and shoulders.
I tied dried heather and witch hazel into my curls earlier—Wren called me a “woodland witch,” and I guess that’s exactly what I look like now, standing in the snow at midnight.
