Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(31)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Dominique heard the words she was saying but refused to believe it, the pain he felt in his chest was too real, too raw. His own mother had betrayed his father and he was just like his father. In the end it made perfect sense. “You helped, selfishly, to get close to Hunter, is that it?”

A single tear slid down Isabelle’s cheek. “After all this time? Our conversations? Our lessons? Is that what you think of me? That I would lie to you in order to obtain your best friend? Very well.” Isabelle began to pace in front of him. “I’ll give you the benefit that you do not know me as well as him. But to accuse your own best friend of such betrayal is ridiculous. You need not look any further than the mirror to see who the real liar is in this room.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” he yelled, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward him.

Her eyes narrowed. “You are the liar. You lie to yourself, which is worse than lying to others. The betrayer is you. You’re a walking contradiction, projecting all your insecurities onto others until you push everyone who loves you away! I won’t stand for it.” Isabelle pulled away and walked over to Hunter. “It has been a pleasure knowing you, Hunter. And thank you.”

“You are not leaving!” Dominique bellowed at Isabelle.

Her head turned just slightly, acknowledging him. “I’m quite aware that I’m stuck here, Dominique. Your friend, however, is not. If you would take a moment to think and stop acting like a fool, you’d realize that Hunter is the one leaving, on assignment.”

She stormed out of the room leaving the scent of lavender in her wake.

Hunter groaned into his hands. “I swear to you, it’s like breast feeding a small child. I give you all the nurturing and care you need and you still can’t suck from the tit.”

“What?” Dominique roared. “Did you just compare me to a—”

“Yes, yes I did. Now before you get angry and start throwing things, allow me…” Hunter rose, slowly from his seat and walked calmly toward Dominique.

It was the worst sort of waiting. Hunter was never one to mince words when he was well and truly angry. Dominique hated the silence; he much preferred when his friend acted the fool rather than the predator and killer he truly was.

Hunter lifted golden-flamed eyes toward Dominique and smiled coldly before pulling his hand back and punching him in the face.

Falling to the floor in a thud, Dominique swore up and down as the throbbing intensified on his right eye. “What the—”

“Listen.” Hunter grabbed the lapels of Dominique’s coat and pulled him to his feet with one big swoop. “I swear by all that is holy, if you don’t go fix the damage you just did, I will not only take her away from your bitter presence, I’ll marry her myself. Anything would be better than being constantly vulnerable and then betrayed over and over again. As a gentleman, I refuse to stand by and watch. And as your friend, I cannot allow you to kill the one good thing in your life. Now go before I lose my temper.”

Speechless, Dominique nodded his head and walked out of the room. What was happening to him? One minute he felt a slight moment of happiness and the next was filled with so much fear and anger he thought he might explode. And it all had to do with Isabelle. She made him feel things, she made him…

He stopped dead in his tracks.

She made him feel.

He didn’t like it. Too unpredictable and terrifying. At least when he was a recluse he could pour himself into his music and cut himself off from the world. But now, now he found himself wanting things.

Silly things, like more light in the practice room.

A rose garden for Isabelle.

His past continued to pull him into the darkness, but Isabelle, she was his future. Her goodness pushed him into the light, but the light represented vulnerability. He wasn’t so sure he would survive what she represented. For it was hope.

****

Isabelle threw her first vase, much like Dominique had demonstrated over the past few days.

It didn’t help alleviate the pain in her chest, nor did it make her feel any better about her current situation. She felt hot and cold all at once, as if she couldn’t make straight lines with her emotions. One minute she was blissfully happy just being near Dominique, the next she was so angry at him she could kick him in the shin.

Repeatedly.

She tried swearing, but all that did was sound silly on her lips. She never was good at cursing. Finally, she sat in the middle of the gallery and cried.

Quietly at first, and then her sobs grew louder. She missed her sisters, needed her mother even though something told her that her mother would never be the same, considering she had been having continual fits of illness and madness when Isabelle was given to Dominique.

At a total loss, she could only continue to cry and pray for strength. Each time she thought she was making progress with Dominique, he would shut her out, or worse, yell and accuse her of things she never entertained in the first place.

“She was beautiful,” Dominique said behind her.

Isabelle lifted her eyes to the paintings on the wall, the gallery of his ancestors. She just so happened to be sitting near a picture of a woman with striking dark hair and blue eyes.

“Go away.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes you can! Just move your feet back toward the door and close it.”

Dominique sighed. “I do not lack the intelligence, just the will to do so.”

“Then be silent,” Isabelle sniffled.

“As you wish.” Dominique took a seat next to her on the floor.

Tears continued to stream down her face. He handed her a handkerchief, and then pulled her tightly into his arms. Odd, that the same one who had hurt her would be the one to comfort her. The only one who could right the wrong.

“What do you want?” Her voice was muffled by his coat.

Dominique tilted her chin toward his face. “Are we speaking now?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” His eyes held pain and remorse, a hint of a shadow was visible on his cheekbone.

“What you want to speak about.” She shook in his arms, unable to stop herself from the emotional response she felt.

“I cannot bring myself to say everything that needs to be said, but I will say this…” He paused.

She waited, anxiety pricking her neck.

“I am sorry. For my temper, for my behavior, truly there is no excuse for it. I cannot even blame the circumstances of my upbringing, though I try to use it as a crutch. I imagine it is because it is much easier to justify one’s actions when they are wrong than it is to be responsible for them.”