Page 51 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

Ariella sighs, setting the spoon back in the bowl. “Not even a little?”

Dorian doesn’t respond. His skin is too flushed, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Ariella tries to hand the spoon to Selene instead. “You should eat, at least.”

Selene hesitates before forcing down a few mouthfuls. The food is warm but tasteless. It sits heavy in her stomach. She sets the bowl aside, unable to continue.

A sound from Dorian draws her attention—a sharp, broken gasp. His body twitches violently, fingers flexing against the sheets. A moment later, his back arches, and he lets out a ragged, hoarse cry.

Selene’s heart leaps into her throat. “Dorian?”

His breathing comes in shallow, agonised pants. His hand flies to his chest, clutching as if something inside him is tearing apart. “It burns—” His voice is raw with pain. “ It burns ! ”

Selene grabs his hand, squeezing tightly, trying to ground him. “I know,” she whispers, voice shaking. “I know. I’m here.”

Dorian’s body jerks again, and for the first time, real terror claws at Selene’s insides. She’s seen him hurt before, but never like this. Never so utterly lost to pain.

Ariella is already moving. “He needs more pain relief. I’ll get it.”

“Hurry,” Selene chokes out.

Ariella disappears out the door.

Selene turns back to Dorian, running a hand through his damp hair, whispering to him even though she doesn’t know if he hears her. “You’re not alone,” she murmurs. “You’re not alone, I promise.”

But gods, it’s awful. Watching this, feeling this helpless. If she could take the pain into herself, she would. She would suffer twice over if it meant sparing him from this agony.

This is my fault, Selene knows. She brought this on him by marrying him. Whatever happened to him in the original timeline, it wasn’t this. He didn’t suffer—

His grip on her tightens. His whole body is trembling. “Selene—”

“I’m here,” she says again.

It doesn’t seem to matter. He screams all the same.

Ariella arrives with more medicine, and he slips back into fitful sleep. Selene is half tempted to ask Ariella for a sleeping draught herself. She doesn’t want to watch .

She’s equally sure that she doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to risk being unable to rouse if he—

When Soren gets back. When Dorian wakes up.

Because he has to wake. He has to.

Marta comes back in the late evening with the fifth totem, as requested.

Ariella raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t question it.

Selene places it under Dorian’s pillow. His sheets are soaked with sweat, so she and Ariella change them around him, rolling him onto fresh ones that are likely to be soaked through in minutes.

Ariella leaves to wash them. This is how she copes, Selene realises. She keeps useful, keeps busy. But Selene has nothing to do but watch.

She watches the rise and fall of Dorian’s chest, shallow and unsteady. Watches the fever flush his skin. Watches his fingers twitch against the sheets as though grasping for something just out of reach.

Selene doesn’t realise she’s trembling until she folds her hands in her lap and feels the tremor in them. She exhales, slow and measured. It doesn’t help.

She shifts closer, resting her hand over his. His skin is too warm, almost scorching, but she doesn’t pull away. “You’re going to wake up,” she tells him softly. “You’re going to wake up, and we’re going to start our nightly games again.” A shaky smile ghosts across her lips. “I’ll win.”

Dorian doesn’t stir.

Selene swallows against the lump in her throat. “I mean it,” she whispers. “You have to wake up. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. I’ll be here.”

His breath catches, just for a moment, and she freezes. But then it evens out again, shallow but steady, and she lets out a breath of her own.

A quiet knock at the door startles her. Marta peeks in, expression pinched. “Shall I bring you anything, my lady? ”

Selene shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”

Marta lingers. “You should rest.”

“I will.” A lie. They both know it.

Marta doesn’t press. “Call if you need anything.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Selene is alone with Dorian once more.

She leans over him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You’re not allowed to die,” she murmurs. “Not yet. Not ever, if I have my way.”

He doesn’t answer.

Selene settles in for another long night.

The next morning brings no relief.

Dorian is still feverish, still caught in restless sleep. The room is thick with the cloying scent of sweat and sickness. Selene stirs from her place beside him, her limbs stiff and aching. She hasn’t truly slept—only drifted in and out, waking at every sound he made, every shift of his body.

The first light of dawn spills through the curtains, casting a pale glow over him. His face is gaunt, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his lips dry and cracked. His breathing is shallow, each inhale rasping against his throat.

Selene presses her hand to his forehead, but it’s a pointless exercise. The heat comes off him in waves.

Ariella enters, looking no better than Selene feels. She carries a fresh basin of water, the steam curling into the morning chill. “Any change?” she asks.

Selene shakes her head .

Ariella sighs, setting the basin down. “I’ll mix more willowbark. Try to get him to drink.”

Selene takes the cloth Ariella offers and dips it into the water, wringing it out before running it gently over Dorian’s face and neck. He stirs, his brow creasing.

“Dorian?” she tries, her voice hopeful.

His eyelids flicker. For a moment, she thinks he might wake, but then his head turns away from her touch, as though seeking something else.

Selene swallows past the knot in her throat. “Come back to me,” she whispers.

Ariella presses a cup into her hands. “Try this.”

Selene slides a hand beneath Dorian’s head, lifting him slightly. His skin is damp beneath her fingers. She tilts the cup to his lips. “Just a little,” she murmurs.

At first, he doesn’t respond, but then his mouth parts slightly, and she coaxes a few drops past his lips. He swallows with difficulty, a weak sound catching in his throat.

“That’s it,” she encourages. “Just a little more.”

He manages a few more sips before turning his head away again, exhausted by the effort.

Ariella watches, expression unreadable. “It’s something,” she says, but Selene can hear the hesitation beneath her words.

It’s not enough.

Selene smooths her hand over Dorian’s hair, fingers lingering against his temple. “Soren will be back soon,” she says, more to herself than to Ariella.

Ariella doesn’t argue. She presses her lips together, as if biting back a response, but whatever she wants to say remains unspoken. Instead, she glances at Dorian’s pale face. Her hesitation lingers in the room like a shadow.

“Ariella,” Selene starts. “Do you think Dorian knows that I love him? ”

Ariella stills. Her brows draw together, just slightly, and for a moment, she looks like she might deflect the question. But then, after a long pause, she only says, “I don’t know. Have you ever told him?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. With a quiet sigh, she gathers the rest of her supplies, her movements slower than usual, almost reluctant.

The door creaks softly as she pulls it open, and she lingers in the threshold, as if considering saying something else.

But then she shakes her head, steps out, and lets the door fall shut behind her.

Selene waits until she is gone before turning back to Dorian. “Did you hear that?” she asks his inert from. “That wasn’t quite the confession that I had planned, but I hope you know. I love you, Dorian Nightbloom. So please, don’t leave me in this world without you in it.”

The morning is a blur of fever and whispered prayers. The sun rises pale and cold, casting a dim glow across Dorian’s bed, but Selene can find no comfort in the light.

Dorian is slipping.

His skin is clammy, his breath shallow, his pulse barely there beneath her fingers. He no longer stirs when she speaks to him. No longer twitches when she touches his brow.

The room feels suffocating, thick with heat and the sharp scent of sickness. She has lost count of how many times they’ve changed the sheets, how many times they’ve pressed cold cloths to his burning skin. Nothing helps.

He hasn’t woken, hasn’t spoken—hasn’t even murmured. The handkerchief lies abandoned in his grip. He hasn’t drunk for hours, has barely moved. His hand is limp in Selene’s.

And then—his body convulses.

It starts as a twitch, a shuddering breath that turns ragged, too fast, too sharp. Then his back arches, his hands clawing at the sheets.

Selene bolts upright.

Ariella is at his side in an instant, pressing her hands to his shoulders, her voice rising in panic. “No, no, no, Dorian, stay with us—”

But he doesn’t hear her.

His whole body jerks, breath coming in choked, gasping sobs.

Selene grabs for him, trying to hold him down, trying to stop him from hurting himself. “Dorian—please—”

Ariella is screaming. “What do we do? We have to do something!”

Rookwood pulls her back, gripping her arms, but she thrashes against him, her composure shattered. Rookwood’s jaw is tight, his own hands shaking. “Ariella—”

“Don’t!” she sobs. “Don’t—don’t—”

Aunt Elizabeth sinks into a chair. She looks as if her body has turned to stone. Her hands are clasped in her lap, white-knuckled, her eyes locked on Dorian’s trembling form. Silent.

And Selene—

Selene cannot breathe. It’s like her own breath is stopping with his.

This is it.

This is the moment she’s been dreading, the moment she’s prayed against, and all she can do is watch it happen.

It can’t be happening. It can’t.

Dorian lets out a broken, awful sound, his fingers clawing at his chest. His lips are bloodless, his face pale beneath the sheen of sweat.

Selene grips his face between her hands, pressing her forehead to his. “No,” she whispers, her voice raw. “You do not get to leave me.”

But she is no goddess. She can’t command him to stay. It didn’t matter about the totems. It didn’t matter that she was given a second chance. It doesn’t even matter that she loved him.

She’s going to lose him anyway.

This is her punishment. This is what she deserves.

But why him? Why do this to someone so good and wonderful and perfect and hers ?

Footsteps sound outside the room. Heavy, desperate, pounding.

Selene barely has time to lift her head before the door bursts open.

Soren stands there, wild-eyed and breathless, a satchel slung over his shoulder.

For a second, there is silence.

Then—

“Move!” Soren barks, already shoving past them, yanking supplies from his bag.

Selene scrambles back just enough to let him work.

“Is it the cure?” Rookwood demands.

“Yes,” Soren says, pulling free a vial of dark, shimmering liquid. His hands are steady, but his face is grim.

Selene nods, already reaching for Dorian’s arm. She fights through the tremors racking his body, pressing down to hold him still as Soren takes out a syringe.

“Selene,” Soren says sharply. “Hold him steady.”

She grips Dorian’s arm with both hands, heart hammering as Soren finds a vein and pushes the antidote in .

The seconds stretch unbearably.

Then—a breath.

A deep, shuddering breath.

Dorian’s body slackens against the sheets, his muscles no longer rigid with strain. His chest stills, then rises, the first steady inhale he’s taken in days.

It’s not much. His fever still rages, his skin is still pallid, but—

He’s still breathing.

Selene presses a hand to her mouth, a sob breaking free as she sinks to the floor.