Page 36 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene wants to ask Dorian about Lu or Luna and whatever the history is between them, but she doesn’t know how to. She reminds herself that no part of her arrangement with him includes fidelity. He can do whatever he likes with Lu. It isn’t a betrayal. It isn’t allowed to hurt this much.

It does anyway.

She keeps herself busy. The renovations on their suite are finally finished.

Her new room is everything she had imagined—a bright, sunny space, with soft floral wallpaper that makes the morning light feel golden.

Jon’s bed, at last completed, stands proudly at its centre.

The polished wood gleams, carved with roses and irises in exquisite detail.

It is a work of art, warm and welcoming, nothing like the cold, impersonal furniture she had once known .

She has even converted the former dressing room into a receiving room—a small, private parlour where they can enjoy their nightly games.

Dorian is surprised when he sees it. “A receiving room?” he says, eyeing the arrangement of comfortable chairs, the low table set for their games.

“For us,” she had said simply.

It had made sense when she planned it. But now, with how brief their games have become—how distant Dorian has been—it seems foolish.

She’d even papered the walls with floral sage, something between his tastes and hers, and had a small fireplace back onto the bathing room’s chimney to keep the room warm in the winter.

She’d prepared this space for a future that doesn’t feel hers anymore.

Dorian smiles at the space. “It’s lovely.”

He says nothing more.

She waits for him that evening, as she always does, but the night stretches on, and he doesn’t come. The unease that has been sitting in her chest hardens into something colder.

The wax in the candles sinking inch by inch. She shuffles the cards between her fingers, then sets them down, staring at the empty chair across from hers.

She tells herself he is merely busy, but the longer she sits alone, the more brittle her patience becomes. He’s been so absent lately, so distracted, his eyes shadowed and distant, like something is gnawing at him from the inside out.

She’s worried about him. She’s frustrated with him.

Her tea has gone cold by the time she finally pushes to her feet. Her footsteps echo as she moves through the quiet corridors. Perhaps he lost track of time, she tells herself. Perhaps he simply forgot.

The thought stings more than it should .

Everything stings more than it should. It’s not even a sting—it’s an ache, a surface burn exposed to the wind, unhealing, blistering.

Dorian Nightbloom was supposed to rescue her. He was not supposed to hurt her.

When she reaches his study, the door is slightly ajar, the faint scent of wax and parchment drifting into the hall. The light inside flickers oddly, not steady like a candle should be. A curl of unease winds through her stomach.

She hesitates for only a moment before pushing the door open—and her breath catches.

Dorian is slumped over his desk, motionless. His candle has tipped, pooling wax across the wood, the flame licking at scattered papers. A smouldering ember flares against the edge of a book.

A sharp pulse of fear grips her chest.

“Dorian!”

Selene doesn’t think. She rushes into the room, grabbing the candle first, and yanks it out of the flames.

It’s probably not the best course of action, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.

There’s a pitcher near the window. She seizes it, splashing the water over the desk, over Dorian.

He jerks awake as a few stray papers drift into the air, still spasming with flames.

Selene sweeps the burning papers onto the floor, stamping them out before the fire can spread.

Dorian attempts to assist her, but he’s stumbling around, wheezing and coughing.

Finally, the flames vanish. Smoke curls into the air, acrid and sharp.

Footsteps thunder behind her.

Soren bursts into the study, taking in the scene in an instant. Ariella arrives shortly after him, Rookwood after.

Dorian continues to cough and splutter, so hard he doubles over.

“Get him out,” Ariella orders, already moving forward to throw up the window.

Rookwood hauls Dorian upright, Soren coming round to his other side. Dorian wheezes, trying to shoo them away, before finally giving up.

They drag him from the study, leaving Selene standing amidst the scattered, blackened papers. Her hands shake. The scent of smoke clings to her, thick in the air.

“Are you all right?” Ariella asks. “Are you hurt?”

Selene shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“Lucky you were here! I dread to think…” Ariella glances round the room, her eyes landing on the burns on the desk. She swallows. “Gods.”

A groggy voice stirs from the hallway.

“Has anyone seen my glasses?”

Selene exhales sharply, half relief, half exasperation. She presses a hand to her forehead and lets herself breathe. She bends down to retrieve Dorian’s glasses, and stops.

One of the pieces of burnt parchment has horses doodled in the margins. A few of them do, actually—simple sketches of galloping creatures, ivy winding round pillars… and roses.

She traces the pictures. She didn’t know he could draw.

Her smile vanishes the second she sees the letter under them. She knows that handwriting. There’s no seal, but the penmanship is unmistakable.

It’s Duke Drakefell’s.

Despite promising that she would never be in Dorian’s study without his permission, Selene finds she doesn’t care right now. There’s no way she can see a letter from the Duke and not have to find out what it says.

Selene picks up the letter, her fingers tightening around the edges. The Duke’s handwriting is as neat and deliberate as she remembers, each stroke calculated. Her stomach twists .

She shouldn’t read it.

She reads it anyway.

The message is brief, but it chills her all the same:

I hope you won’t take the incident the other day to heart. We are both better men than that. I have a business proposition of a delicate nature I wish to discuss with you in person—something concerning the future of our country. If you’re amenable, please send word by this address…

Selene’s blood freezes.

The words are careful, polite—neutral, even—but the undertone is unmistakable. The Duke has written to Dorian. The Duke wants Dorian to join him on his quest to ally with Ashvold.

Or maybe… maybe it’s another trap? Dorian isn’t foolish enough to respond, surely?

But then her eyes fall to the other singed documents scattered around the rooms. There’s half a map of the Ashvold mountains, blueprints of various estates, lists of names… some of which she recognises. Servants of the Duke’s household. Servants of her grandmother’s.

What is Dorian doing with all of this?

Ariella is still watching her. Selene quickly folds the letter, slipping it into her sleeve before Ariella can see the sender’s name.

“Selene?”

“I should get these to him,” she says, holding up the glasses. She doesn’t meet Ariella’s gaze as she brushes past her and steps into the hallway.

No more waiting, no more wondering, no more refusing to ask questions because she’s too afraid of the answer. Nothing Dorian says can be worse than what she’s imagining.

Dorian is propped against his pillows when she enters the room. Rookwood kneels beside him, pressing a cool cloth to his temple, while Soren stands with his arms crossed, looking equal parts irritated and concerned.

“Are you quite finished fussing?” Dorian mutters, voice rough.

“Are you quite finished trying to set yourself on fire?” Soren counters.

Dorian exhales through his nose, tilting his head just enough to see Selene. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—weariness, maybe. A question he’s too tired to ask.

Selene swallows, the letter burning against her wrist.

“Get out,” Selene demands.

Rookwood and Soren both look at her like she’s possessed. She dimly wonders if that’s far from the truth. They turn from her to Dorian, who nods his head.

They quickly file out.

Selene throws the note onto his bed, along with his glasses. “What’s this?”

Dorian takes his glasses with trembling fingers, his eyes widening as he sees what’s in front of him. “A note from the Duke,” he responds.

“I can see that. What I want to know is why you kept it, and why your study is filled with maps of the Ashvold mountain and my grandmother’s estate.”

“Selene,” Dorian begins, his voice still hoarse from the smoke.

“You cannot be in league with the Duke,” she utters, the words falling out of her. “So why…” An awful thought occurs to her. “Is this why you married me? Do you… do you want control of Nocturne Hall?”

It can’t be true. It can’t be. There has to be another explanation, because Dorian isn’t like Duke Drakefell. He isn’t. Not Dorian who threatened to hurt him just for dancing with her, who wiped away her tears, who wouldn’t even sleep with her because she’d been drinking. Not that Dorian. Not him …

But him being a liar and marrying her for his own ends makes more sense to her than him doing so because he’s kind. Maybe he has some morals. Maybe that’s why he felt bad about the kiss, because all along he’s been planning something—

No, no, no, please. Don’t again. Not him.

“Selene, no,” Dorian says, struggling off the bed. “I don’t—I wouldn’t—I would never… ”

“Then explain it to me!” she demands. “Make this make sense!”

Dorian opens his mouth to explain, but immediately begins to cough.

Selene passes him a glass of water. “Do not expire when I’m mad at you!”

“N-noted,” Dorian croaks, drinking as well as he can. When he’s downed most of the glass, he gestures to beside him. “You may wish to sit down.”

Selene does, but not next to him. She settles herself in the chair by the window, as far away from him as she can. She crosses her arms like a schoolmistress. “ Talk. ”

Dorian sighs. Then, slowly, carefully, he tells her the truth. “The letter isn’t for me.”

“It’s addressed to Lord Nightbloom.”