“The roses!” Dorian shouted looking around me and then at my poor terrified horse. He was looking for the roses I cut? “Where are they?” he then demanded.
That confirmed what I thought he was asking. He wanted them back.
“I cut them and gave them to the village florist, Fay.” I whispered too afraid of him to say more.
Every time before we meet, I think I am prepared to stand up to him. I do not think I will have built the strength inside me necessary to do so. My shaking hand on the reins of Zina shows my physical distraught reception to him without being able to hide it at all. Terror and fear rise and I can’t even contemplate what he might be capable of. Is this the horrid feeling that his victims have the moment they realize that they are going to die? If so, I feel wretched for e
