Page 42 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

D orian is very quiet on the journey back.

Selene doesn’t know what to say—or even what she wants.

He has said nothing more about Luna or the child she carried, nothing about what happened to them.

Selene could press, but the silence around the subject is thick, heavy with the weight of something too painful to voice.

And perhaps she understands that better than she’d like.

There are things she has never spoken of either—things that would shatter her if she did.

Soren, at least, must know something. But how much does he know? Did he know about the baby? About how she died?

The thought unsettles her.

More than that, though, she keeps returning to a single question. Why didn’t Dorian marry the woman carrying his child?

It doesn’t make sense. Dorian is honourable to a fault. She’s surprised enough to learn he’s had relations outside of the marriage bed, though she knows things are often different for men. But if he had a child on the way, he would have done the right thing.

Wouldn’t he?

She wants to ask. Gods, she wants to ask. But she won’t. Not yet. Not when his hands are gripping onto the end of the seat so tightly, knuckles pale, his eyes fixed on the world outside the window as if he might lose himself in it.

Instead, she stares out of the carriage window, letting the quiet settle between them like fresh snow.

She has always imagined herself as a mother.

She thought she would have children—little hands in hers, a soft weight against her chest, a life spent nurturing and shaping and protecting.

That dream was never something she questioned, never something she even had to want —it was simply a certainty, like the sun rising.

And, unlike every other expectation that has been placed on her over the years, this one is actually something that Selene wants for herself.

She’d felt the bitter disappointment of her monthly cycles for almost a year in her marriage to the Duke.

She’s imagined carrying a child inside her, feeling it grow, holding it in her arms. She can’t imagine that not being her future.

But the thing is… she also can’t imagine a future without Dorian in it.

She tells herself that he might change his mind. That, in time, he might want a child again. Or that she might change hers. That she might learn to be content with a life spent with him , even if it means letting go of that dream .

Would he consider adoption? Would he be willing to raise a child without the fear that whatever happened to Luna might happen again?

And if not—if he never changes his mind—would she be able to live with that?

Would she consider a life without carnal love?

Her first night with the Duke, he kissed her briefly and lay her flat against the bed.

He kissed her for a short while longer, then lifted her leg up to his shoulder.

He asked, “are you all right?” in a way that she knew she had to answer yes, in a way that made her think, later, that he thought himself a good person for asking.

She hardly knew if she was all right or not, and she didn’t know enough of what was coming to give a fair answer.

There was no softness after that. He never asked her what she wanted, what she liked.

She can live without that. But things with Dorian had been different. She doesn’t want to be without that experience, forever next to him but not fully with him, whatever she told him last night.

The thought leaves an ache in her chest. She had never understood the kind of wanting she feels for Dorian, had never known that hunger before him. And now that she has —now that she knows what it is to crave someone down to her very bones—how can she give it up?

The carriage jolts over a bump in the road, shaking her from her thoughts. Dorian shifts in his seat, exhaling quietly.

And then, after a long silence, he murmurs, “Are you all right?”

Selene turns to him, startled by the question. “I should be asking you that.”

His mouth twists. “You looked deep in thought.”

She hesitates. If she tells him the truth, will it make him feel guilty? Will he withdraw further? She doesn’t want to go back to how they were before .

So she forces a small, wry smile. “I was wondering if you’d ever let me drive the carriage.”

It’s a poor attempt at humour, but Dorian huffs a quiet laugh, and something in his posture softens. “No.”

Selene tilts her head, affecting an air of mock offence. “Not even once?”

“Not if you value your life.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I could be an excellent driver, you know. Perhaps even better than Fred.”

His lips quirk, but there’s still something distant in his eyes. Something guarded. Selene realises that the distance between them isn’t something she can bridge in a single night.

This will take time.

But for now, she lets the moment pass. She watches him as he watches the road, and she wonders—if she reaches for his hand, would he let her hold it?

Or would he let her go?

The carriage rolls to a stop in front of Ebonrose Hall, the late afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the gravel path. The air is crisp, carrying the familiar scent of the gardens, and for a brief moment, Selene lets herself breathe it in.

It is good to be home.

The grand doors open before they’ve even stepped down, and Ariella strides out onto the drive to embrace them.

“How’s Soren?” Dorian asks as soon as she releases them.

“On the mend and deeply embarrassed. ”

“Is he awake?”

“Barely. You can see him in the morning, unless you want to listen to him groan.”

Dorian exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to go anyway, but after a moment, he relents.

“Tomorrow, then.”

Ariella smirks. “Good. Let’s get you both inside. Fred and I can handle the trunks. Rookwood has food waiting for you.”

They head downstairs to the kitchen. Rookwood is busy laying out a hearty spread. “You took longer than expected,” he says, setting down a steaming platter. “Trouble?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dorian replies, pulling out a chair for Selene before taking his own seat.

Selene forces a small smile. “It’s good to be home.”

Rookwood eyes them both but says nothing, only nodding as he finishes arranging the dishes. “Eat while it’s hot.”

Ariella joins them after a short while, and the conversation drifts to lighter topics—the state of the estate, a ridiculous argument Fred had with one of the stablehands, the latest gossip from the village. Selene listens, letting their voices wash over her.

But even as the warmth of the meal settles in her stomach, she can’t shake the weight pressing at the back of her mind.

She knows Dorian can’t, either.

“I think I’ll take a turn about the gardens before it gets too dark,” she tells them.

“Do you want company—” starts Dorian.

“No,” says Selene, a little more sharply than she meant to.

Dorian settles back down.

In truth, Selene would love to take a walk with Dorian. She would love to slip her hand in his and stroll until night descends, watching the colours crisp and darken. She would love to admire the flowers and kiss him underneath the boughs of the trees.

He might do all of that with her.

He might be thinking of Luna the entire time.

You cannot be jealous of a dead girl, she tells herself.

Her heart doesn’t listen.

So, she strolls through the grounds alone instead.

“I’ve loved someone before,” Dorian had told her. Did that mean that he loved Selene, now? Why couldn’t he just be honest with his feelings?

Why can’t you be honest with yours?

Because the truth is that Selene is afraid. She barely had a heart left to break after all the Duke had done to it. It seemed unfair he should still have such a hold on her, even now, but he slunk his talons into her chest so hard she can still feel the scars.

And yet, somehow, Selene has grown another heart and given half of it away. She doesn’t know if she can survive the removal of the rest of it.

Dorian probably feels the exact same way.

Dejected, and as confused as ever, Selene wanders back to the house. She hears Soren moan as she passes by his door, and sticks her head around it.

The room is dimly lit, the single candle on the bedside table casting flickering shadows against the bare stone walls.

It’s sparse, almost painfully so—no rich fabrics or personal embellishments, just the basics: a well-worn desk, a chair, a neatly made bed that Soren currently occupies, sheets pulled up to his chin.

The air smells faintly of medicinal herbs, and a damp cloth sits abandoned in a bowl of water beside him.

Soren looks truly miserable. His hair is stuck to his forehead, his face pale save for the high flush of fever on his cheeks. He groans again, shifting restlessly under the blankets before cracking open one eye.

“Oh. It’s you,” he rasps.

“Who were you hoping for?” Selene steps into the room, arms folding as she takes in the scene before her.

“No one.” He shuts his eyes again, as if keeping them open is too much effort. “Just hoping I’d be dead, maybe.”

Selene snorts. “You’re not that lucky.”

Soren grunts but doesn’t argue. She takes a moment to glance around properly.

Everything is meticulously tidy, his boots placed precisely side by side, his meagre belongings stacked in perfect order.

And then, on a single narrow shelf above the desk, something catches her eye—a line of small wooden figurines, carefully carved and smoothed, displayed with almost childlike reverence.

Selene steps closer. “You collect these?”

Soren cracks open one eye again, frowning as he follows her gaze. “…I make them.”

The admission surprises her. She wouldn’t have expected it, not from the sharp, deadly Soren.

But here, arranged in a careful row, are tiny animals, knights, and even a few misshapen attempts at people.

The skill varies—some are rough, others delicate and detailed. Some look like the ones Dorian keeps.