Page 32 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

W hen Selene stirs the next morning, she finds herself lying against Dorian’s chest. One arm is curled around her, his hand in her hair. The other one—his injured one—lies across her hip. Their legs are tangled together.

For a moment, Selene doesn’t move. She likes this far too much. She doesn’t want it to shatter. She doesn’t want to wake him and have him pull away. She stays where she is, inhaling his warmth, basking in the smell of his skin, the feel of his flesh so close to hers.

Eventually, though, she grows uncomfortable.

She inches back, propping herself up on the pillows, careful not to disturb him.

She watches his chest rise and fall, his dark lashes fanned against his pale, freckled cheeks.

Strands of his copper hair have come loose from his ponytail in the night, framing his face.

He looks different this way, like a painting. Has he always been this attractive?

How many times had the Duke stayed the night with her? Usually, he’d come to her chambers, enjoy his marital pleasures, and leave again almost as soon as he was finished. Sometimes he’d stay, if he was tired. Sometimes he’d stay and they’d talk and drink together.

He was almost always gone by morning.

Sometimes, she feels more married to Dorian than she ever felt married to the Duke.

Her mind wanders back to the frenzied kisses they’d shared the night before. They didn’t mean nothing to her now. She definitely doesn’t regret them. Yes, she’d been sad and confused, and maybe he had to, but… the kissing was the only part that made sense to her.

She watches his sleeping mouth. If I kissed him now, would he welcome it?

The door opens before she can gather the nerve, and in walks Marta with the breakfast tray. She stalls as soon as she enters, noticing the two of them in bed. Selene places a finger to her lips.

Don’t wake him up.

Marta places the tray down with all the care of a mother laying her newborn down in a crib, and scuttles away just as silently.

Dorian stirs. His brow furrows before his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. Selene watches as awareness slowly seeps into him, the shift in his breathing, the subtle tensing of his fingers still resting in her hair. His grip on her slackens, though he doesn’t pull away entirely.

For a moment, he just looks at her, and Selene wonders if he’s remembering the night before as vividly as she is. The warmth of his mouth, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the way he had kissed her like he’d been waiting for it for years.

She should say something. Should acknowledge the intimacy they woke up tangled in.

“Good morning,” she murmurs instead.

Dorian clears his throat, his voice rough from sleep. “Morning.” His gaze flickers down to where their legs are still entwined, and for a moment, neither of them move. Then he shifts. “I—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” She glances at his arm, the one draped over her hip, and trails a fingertip lightly across his knuckles. “And you?”

He exhales through his nose, a breath that feels almost like a laugh. “Surprisingly well.”

There’s something in the way he looks at her then, something unreadable, and Selene’s heart stumbles in response. She should pull away, she knows that. But she doesn’t.

“I—”

A sharp knock at the door startles them both, and this time Dorian does pull away, sitting up with a wince as his injured arm protests the movement.

“Dorian?” comes Soren’s voice. “The constable is here to speak with you again.”

Dorian gets up, pulling on his boots and picking up his glasses.

“Do you really need those?” Selene asks him. “All the time, I mean.”

“My eyes tend to ache without them,” he tells her. “And I find I like to see everything with as much clarity as possible.”

He picks up the suit jacket from where Selene left in the night before, frowning at the arm. Confused, he tries the second sleeve as well. “You didn’t have Greta make two jackets, did you?”

Selene laughs. “No, I just fixed your one from last night. ”

Dorian looks just as confused as before. “This is excellent work,” he remarks.

“Thank you.”

She expected him to ask her why. It seems silly now, and she’d expected light teasing at best. The Duke would have said she was wasting her time if she’d done something like that.

She presented him with an embroidered handkerchief once, stitched with a dog that resembled his favourite hound.

He’d patted her head like she was a child presenting him with a simple drawing, and told her that he had plenty of handkerchiefs.

But this is Dorian, and he was made for surprising her in a myriad of tiny ways.

Dorian smiles, pulling on the jacket, wincing slightly as he lifts his arm. Selene crosses the room to assist him, helping him into it and smoothing it down. Dorian catches her hand as she moves away.

“Thank you.”

He kisses her palm, and for a minute, Selene thinks he might kiss her again, but Soren bangs loudly on the door, and the spell is broken.

A short while later, Marta comes to help her dress. She’s selected a simple, dove-grey gown with minimal embellishments, which suits Selene’s mood. Her hands shake slightly as she raises her teacup, and she can barely eat her breakfast.

Dorian is back before too long. He smiles at her—a little too brightly—and sinks into the opposite chair, tearing into a piece of buttered toast she’s left out for him .

“Good news,” he says, in-between mouthfuls.

Selene had almost forgotten such a thing could exist. “Oh?”

“It seems that the arrow came from a poacher. It wasn’t an attempt on my life at all.”

“They’ve found someone?”

“Young lad came forward and confessed. He was very apologetic about the whole thing. Poaching is illegal, of course, but Fairmont is being swayed toward leniency since the poor boy confessed. A fine and a period of servitude, no physical punishment.”

Selene wants to believe that this is all there is to it, that she overreacted. She wants to be wrong.

But she cannot shake the feeling that the Duke is covering this up. He hired someone to fire that crossbow last night, and now he has paid someone to confess to take attention off himself. It was a poor attempt, a spur-of-the-moment decision.

It doesn’t mean it won’t be the last.

Dorian looks up from his plate. “You don’t seem convinced.”

“It’s too…” Easy. Convenient. Unlikely. “Strange.”

“It’s easier to believe that someone tried to kill me?”

Selene swallows. He doesn’t know, of course, how awful the Duke is. What he’s truly capable of. “I’m being silly,” she says, dismissing her fears—at least to him.

Dorian almost seems to take offence to this. “You aren’t,” he assures her. “You’re being cautious, and I’m touched by your concern—truly. I just don’t want you to worry.”

Selene is very much afraid that that’s no longer an option, and she’s going to worry about Dorian Nightbloom until the day she dies, but she decides against telling him that.

It’s too… much, especially after last night.

She knows that Dorian cares for her. He is almost certainly attracted to her.

If she speaks too seriously, he may feel obligated to make their marriage official, and she doesn’t want to force him into anything.

Again. She wants to give him the freedom she never had.

It’s the only thing she can give him.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll do my best.”

Dorian flashes her another smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says nothing more.

After the debacle of the night before, everyone is keen to get home.

The road back to Ebonrose Hall is long but pleasant beneath the clear, pale blue sky.

The carriage wheels crunch over the dirt road, their rhythmic sway lulling them all into a comfortable quiet.

When Selene suggests stopping for tea, no one objects.

The day is fine, and the journey is far from over.

They settle on a patch of grass beneath a great oak, its sprawling branches casting dappled shade. Marta lays out their provisions—bread, cheese, sweet preserves, and a well-sealed tin of tea. The scent of dried lavender and bergamot curls into the air as she pours.

After a time, Dorian excuses himself to check the horses, disappearing behind the carriage. A few moments later, Marta tuts under her breath and stands.

“Left the napkins in the carriage,” she murmurs, brushing off her skirts as she goes.

That leaves Selene alone with Soren.

She glances at him cautiously, uncertain of what she will find. The scowl is still there, but, like Dorian’s smiles earlier, it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He’s still gripping his teacup like a man expecting a fight .

Who is this strange boy before her—why does he appear from nowhere, and dislike her so much, and adore Dorian with the same passion?

Actually, that last part isn’t too hard to answer. Dorian has done much to earn adoration from many.

Selene hesitates, in the same measured tone she uses for uncertain horses, says, “It’s a fine day for travel.”

Soren’s gaze flicks to hers. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales, almost a huff, but not quite.

“For once,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Less like a sword, more like the distant roll of thunder. “Wouldn’t count on it holding.”

Selene arches a brow. “Do you make a habit of expecting the worst?”

Soren huffs again, this time unmistakably amused, though the expression never quite reaches his mouth.

“Experience has taught me it’s a safer bet,” he says.

Selene takes her chances, hedging her bets on the fact that Soren is just as skeptical as to the validity of a poacher being the culprit as she is. “I’m worried,” she admits.

Soren nods his head. “Me too.”

“I don’t think it was a poacher.”

“Neither do I.”

“I think Dorian might be in danger.”

“I agree.”