Page 16 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

She knows it’s forbidden, but she doesn’t want him to jerk in his sleep and knock over the candle. It seems like a good reason to disturb his privacy. Taking care not to look over the papers spread across his desk, she tiptoes into the room and snuffs out the candle, turning to leave.

She pauses before she reaches the threshold, and returns to Dorian’s side. If she was really his wife, she might marvel at the shapes the shadows make as they dance over his cheeks, or admire the splattering of freckles across his nose.

But she isn’t his wife, and it is wrong for her to watch him like this.

She doesn’t think it’s wrong to gently tug his glasses from his nose, however, or drape her shawl around him so he doesn’t get cold. Ariella would surely do the same thing.

She picks up her candle again and heads towards the door.

“Selene?” Dorian murmurs. “Is that you?”

Selene freezes. “I’m sorry, I know you said not to come into your study, but the door was open and I didn’t want you to tip over your candle—”

“No, no, it’s quite all right.” Dorian sits up, stretching. “It’s not a complete ban, more of a ‘don’t come in without knocking’ or ‘try to limit interruptions whilst I’m working.” He rubs his eyes wearily. “What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.”

“Why are you still up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Right.” He hesitates.

“Shall we… get you up to your bed?” she offers.

His stomach rumbles in response. “Ah, maybe I ought to feed myself first.”

“I can get Rookwood to—”

“Don’t be daft,” Dorian responds. “I’m perfectly capable of sourcing myself something to eat.”

“Right.” Selene hovers by his side. “I’ll just… go back upstairs then.”

A pause.

“Would you like some warm milk?” Dorian suggests.

“Come again?”

“Warm milk,” he repeats. “If you’re having trouble sleeping.”

“Oh! Yes, actually. That sounds wonderful.”

Dorian stands up, her shawl dropping to his seat behind him. He picks it up, frowning.

“Ah!” Selene says, snatching it back. “This is just—I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want you to get cold, either, so…”

Dorian stares at her as she wraps the shawl around her own shoulders again, suddenly feeling awfully foolish. The shawl is far too flimsy to be of much use, anyway.

He picks up his own candle and tilts it against hers, flooding the room with light. He doesn’t look at her again as they make their way down to the kitchens.

Selene hasn’t been down to the kitchens in Roselune Abbey since she was a child.

Dorian probably comes down here every day.

She’s not forgotten the ‘we’ Dorian spoke of when she first arrived, the implication that ate his meals with his servants.

Although, by the looks of things, Dorian doesn’t eat his meals with anyone.

No wonder he’s so skinny.

“Sit,” Dorian instructs, pointing to one of the wingback chairs beside the hearth.

The fire is out now, but the embers remain.

Selene snuggles into her seat while Dorian sets about heating her milk.

He must be ravenous, but he ensures she has a warm cup in her hands before turning to source any food for himself.

Selene sips her milk. Finally, Dorian joins her, tearing into his plate of food with reckless abandon.

She’s never seen a noble eat like that. Her mother would have been disgusted.

Selene, however, finds it strangely endearing, though she’s also a little jealous.

She could never eat like that. What must it be like, not to care what others think of you?

At first, she thinks that this must mean Dorian is comfortable around her, but then she realises he’s most likely like this with everyone.

Her mother said the Nightblooms were mannerless, but having seen Dorian with his people, Selene cannot help but think that Dorian and his father—and the rest of his family—have a different idea about what manners are.

Her father would never have rolled up his sleeves to help a man fix his roof, and would have thought himself generous if he’d arranged to have it fixed .

Of the two of them, she knows who’s the better lord.

“Are you happy with Marta?” Dorian asks between mouthfuls.

Selene startles, almost surprised to be addressed. “Yes, very.”

“That’s good.” He swallows another piece of cheese. “And… your room? It’s to your liking?”

“It’s very comfortable.”

“It’s outdated,” Dorian admits. “You don’t have to be so polite, you know.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

Selene exhales, and finds the courage to be honest. “You’ve done me a great service,” she says. “Don’t think I’m unaware of that. I couldn’t possibly repay your kindness with ungratefulness.”

“You don’t need to be grateful,” Dorian insists. “I won’t pretend to fully understand your reasons, but you were clearly in a difficult spot that you should never have had to be in in the first place. You shouldn’t have to be grateful to someone because they got you out of it.”

Selene swallows. “Then what am I supposed to be?”

To this, Dorian has no answer. Selene doesn’t either. The truth is that she has no idea how she’s supposed to feel, or what she’s supposed to do.

Dorian finishes his mouthful. “Ebonrose is your home now,” he tells her.

“I want you to be comfortable here, if such a thing is possible. We can find room in our budget to decorate your room however you wish. And do not thank me for that. You’d be doing me a favour, updating the place, and you are mistress here. Do with it as you will.”

Selene looks down at her lap. She isn’t sure that there is room in the budget for that, and besides, yes, she is mistress of the manor, but only in name. She is Lady Nightbloom, but she isn’t his wife.

“What do you want from me?” she asks him.

Dorian puts down his plate. “Come again?”

“You must want something—someone always wants something—”

“Not me,” he insists. “I promise you.”

Selene wants to believe him, but it just seems so unlikely.

“You say I’m mistress here, that this is my home, but you don’t want marital relations.

I’m trying to understand why. Are we going to live like this forever, strangers in our own house, exchanging empty pleasantries when we meet each other in the hallway? ”

Dorian goes very red, and then takes a deep breath. “If we, er, consummate the marriage, then neither of us will be able to marry again,” he tells her. “You’ll be trapped here forever.”

Selene was fully prepared to pay that cost to save her from the Duke. It didn’t occur to her that she might have another option.

Or that Dorian would, either.

He’s right. If they don’t consummate the marriage, they can seek an annulment later on if either of them find someone they truly want to marry. It can’t happen yet, of course, but if the Duke marries, if he dies…

Then Selene will be safe, free to return to society, to do whatever she wishes.

And Dorian can find someone he truly loves, who’s as kind and as generous as he is.

Finally, things start to make a degree of sense.

“You’d… grant me an annulment?” she says.

“If that’s what you wish.”

“And… and in the meantime, we’d be… what? As familiar as cousins? ”

Dorian bites his lip, stifling a smile. “How about friends?” he offers.

“Friends,” she repeats. It seems a strange word for him.

She has friends. She knows them much better than this.

“Then, as friends, we really should make an effort to get to know each other better. I understand that you’re very busy, but maybe…

maybe we could make an effort to share at least one mealtime together? ”

Dorian considers her words, gaze lowering to his plate. When he looks up again, something in his expression has softened.

“That seems reasonable,” he says.

“Good,” she says. “Breakfast, then?”

He tilts his head. “You strike me as someone who rises late.”

“You strike me as someone who doesn’t sleep at all.”

That startles a laugh from him. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “Lunch, then. Dinner, if for whatever reason I can’t make it.”

There’s a weight to the agreement, something more than a simple meal arrangement. This is a peace offering, a truce, a small bridge between two people who are still feeling their way through this strange arrangement.

She reaches for her cup, fingertips brushing against the rim, and the motion draws his attention. When she glances up, she finds him watching her hands. His own are resting on the armrest, fingers curled slightly, as though resisting the urge to move.

She isn’t sure what compels her, but she reaches out, skimming the back of his hand with the barest touch of her fingertips. His palm turns instinctively, a silent question, an opening. She almost pulls away, uncertain, but he doesn’t move.

Selene lets her hand rest there, just for a moment. “Goodnight, Dorian,” she says at last, drawing her hand back .

His fingers twitch as if he might reach for her, but he simply nods. “Goodnight, Selene.”

She rises first, leaving him at the table. As she ascends the stairs, she presses her fingertips into her palm, holding onto the ghost of his warmth.