Page 48 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene screams. “Help! Someone, help!”

She drops to her knees beside him, shaking him, trying to rouse him, but his body is limp, his skin burning hot beneath her fingers.

Footsteps thunder down the hall. Doors slam open.

Soren is the first to arrive, skidding to a halt in the doorway. His sharp gaze sweeps the room before locking onto Dorian’s motionless form on the floor. His eyes widen, his face paling. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Selene gasps. She can barely form the words. “He just—he just collapsed—”

Ariella pushes past Soren, dropping to her knees beside Dorian without hesitation. She presses two fingers to his throat, her brow furrowing as she counts the beats. Too fast. Too weak. Her mouth tightens.

“Get the physician,” she orders, voice clipped.

“No physician,” Dorian rasps, his voice barely more than a whisper. His breath is shallow, his skin slick with sweat. “Hand…”

Selene freezes for a fraction of a second, thinking he means hers—that she’s gripping his too tightly in her panic. But then she follows his gaze and sees it.

His right hand is swollen: an angry, fevered red. Black, cobwebby veins spread outward from a small, puncture-like wound near his knuckles. The sight of it makes her stomach churn.

Selene looks up at Soren, whose expression darkens. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. “Poison,” he confirms.

“Poison?” Rookwood has arrived, lingering in the doorway. “Dorian’s been poisoned—”

Selene’s memories crash together. The Duke. That handshake. The way Dorian winced. “The Duke,” she stammers. “The Duke did this. He grabbed Dorian’s hand—”

Soren snatches up Dorian’s wrist to inspect the wound, making him groan weakly in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Soren mutters, his grip gentler now as he turns the hand over, examining the darkening veins.

“Can we amputate?” Rookwood suggests bluntly. “Life over limb—”

“No.” Soren shakes his head immediately. “Not once it’s in his bloodstream. That won’t save him.”

“Then what will?” Selene demands.

Silence.

Selene’s pulse pounds in her ears. “Soren. What will ?”

Soren exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. “There’s an antidote,” he says. “I usually keep some on hand, but—”

Selene’s eyes widen. “You used it. ”

Soren doesn’t reply.

“You used it on yourself,” she realises, her stomach twisting. “You were poisoned and you didn’t tell anyone?”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

Selene stares at him, furious and terrified all at once. “We’re worried now! Dorian might—” Her throat closes around the words. Dorian might not survive . She can’t say it. Won’t.

Soren clenches his fists, his whole body vibrating with tension. “I can get more.”

Rookwood is already moving. “I’ll get a horse ready.”

“No,” Ariella says firmly. “I will. I’m faster on my feet.” She turns to Soren, her expression brooking no argument. “Pack your bags. Rookwood, get provisions. Selene—stay here with Dorian. We won’t be long.”

Selene grips Dorian’s hand tighter, ignoring the feverish heat of his skin. “Hurry,” she whispers.

Selene barely registers the sound of the others leaving. Her world has narrowed to Dorian—his burning skin, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes tremble against his flushed cheeks. She doesn’t need to know anything about medicine to know he’s getting worse.

“Come on,” she murmurs, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders. His body is slack with fever, dead weight against her. When she lifts him, a strangled groan escapes his lips. “I know, I know. Just help me a little, please.”

He tries. His knees buckle almost instantly. Selene tightens her grip, heart pounding, and half-drags him to the bed. By the time she lowers him onto the mattress, he’s trembling, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His head lolls back against the pillows, damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispers.

Selene lunges for the vase on the dresser, dumping the flowers in a heap on the floor. She turns back just in time—Dorian doesn’t even have the strength to lift his arms. Swallowing hard, she braces a hand against his back and holds the vase to his lips.

His whole body convulses as he retches, a raw, wrenching sound tearing from his throat. The tremors wrack through him long after his stomach is empty. When it finally subsides, he slumps against her, breath ragged, skin clammy with sweat.

Selene puts the vase aside, but she doesn’t let go of him just yet.

His fever is climbing. His hands on her are loose and limp.

She doesn’t know what to do. She has no idea what to do.

She doesn’t know if she’s hurting him. Doesn’t know if propping him up helps or makes it worse. She only knows she can’t let go.

Slowly, she lowers him back to the bed and tries to think. Getting him more comfortable seems like a good idea. His shirt is sticking to his skin.

She unbuttons it with shaking fingers, peeling the fabric away. He shudders at the contact, his whole body flinching as if even the gentlest touch is unbearable.

“Sorry,” she breathes, wincing at the way he clenches his jaw, his face contorting in discomfort. “I’m so sorry.”

Dorian doesn’t answer. His hands twitch at his sides, his left clenching into the sheets while his right remains eerily limp, still swollen and dark-veined.

She tosses the shirt aside and reaches for the laces of his trousers. He barely reacts, only shifting slightly when she tugs them down. His skin is fever-bright, his chest rising and falling too fast.

Selene moves quickly, fetching a damp cloth from the basin and pressing it to his forehead. He sighs, leaning into the coolness, but a moment later, he kicks at the blankets tangled around his legs.

“Too hot,” he mumbles .

“I know,” she says softly, wringing out another cloth and dabbing at his neck, his shoulders, the planes of his chest. His skin is slick with sweat, every breath rattling.

She pulls the blankets away entirely, leaving only a thin sheet draped over his lower half. She cracks open a window despite the chill in the air. It doesn’t feel like enough. His body is still burning beneath her hands.

Dorian shifts, eyelids heavy. He turns his head slightly, seeking her out. “Selene…”

“I’m here,” she whispers, smoothing damp hair from his forehead.

His lips part, like he wants to say something else, but all that comes out is a breathy sigh before his eyes slide shut.

Selene watches his chest rise and fall, still too fast, too shallow. She swallows hard and grips his uninjured hand, pressing her forehead to the back of it.

“Please,” she murmurs against his skin. “Please, just hold on.”

Selene doesn’t leave Dorian’s side. She sits on the edge of the bed, stroking damp strands of hair from his face, whispering reassurances even as his fever rises. Just how hot can a person be? He shifts restlessly beneath the thin sheet, sweat beading along his temples.

She startles at the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall. The door bursts open, and Ariella strides in, a basket clutched in her arms.

Selene is on her feet in an instant. “Did you find anything?”

Ariella nods briskly and moves to the bedside table, setting the basket down. Her gaze flicks to Dorian, taking in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. She mutters a curse. “We need to bring this fever down.”

Selene glances at the basket, then back at Ariella. “How long will Soren be?”

Ariella hesitates. “…It could be days. ”

Selene’s breath catches. “ Day s?” she echoes, panic surging. She grips Dorian’s limp hand, as if holding him tethered to her will be enough to keep him here. “Can he even last that long?”

Ariella sets her jaw. “We are not going to lose him.”

Selene exhales shakily, nodding. “What do we do?”

Ariella is already pulling a vial from her basket. “First, let’s give him something for the pain,” she says.

Selene gently eases Dorian up, supporting his fever-heavy body as Ariella uncorks the vial, the sharp scent of herbs filling the air. Selene tightens her grip around Dorian’s shoulders, lifting him against her. His head lolls onto her shoulder, his body hot and damp.

“Come on, Dorian,” Ariella murmurs, pressing the bottle to his lips. “Come on, little brother. Drink.”

At first, he resists, turning his face slightly away. Selene strokes his damp hair, voice soft. “Please. It’ll help.”

Slowly, sluggishly, he parts his lips, and Ariella tilts the liquid into his mouth. He swallows with difficulty, a faint grimace passing over his fever-flushed face.

Ariella exhales, setting the bottle aside. “That should ease him a little. Let’s dress his hand, next.”

Ariella works quickly, cleaning and dressing his hand. His fingers twitch weakly at the touch, but he doesn’t rouse. He has the look of someone who will never rise again. His pain fuses with Selene’s. She can’t set it down.

Ariella presses the back of her hand to Dorian’s forehead, frowning. “We need to keep him cool. Get fresh water and a cloth. We’ll sponge him down, make sure he drinks whenever he can.”

Selene nods, lowering Dorian back onto the pillows. The medicine seems to be working, at least a little. His fever is still raging, but his breathing is a little slower, a little steadier .

Ariella meets her gaze, voice firm. “This is going to be hard. But if we hold on, if he holds on, Soren will come back in time.”

Selene takes a deep breath and squeezes Dorian’s hand. She won’t let him slip away. She refuses.

Selene waits and watches. She tries to make him drink, to keep him cool, to talk to him.

She unties his hair, letting it fall in rust-coloured waves around his shoulders.

She mops his brow and plumps his pillows.

The only person it brings any relief to is her.

Dorian is beyond relief. Beyond everything.