Page 53 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

She watches them disappear down the corridor, then turns, making her way towards the kitchen. She’s unbelievably hungry. Too hungry to cook, for sure, but she slathers butter on a thick slice of bread and devours it.

It’s only when she steps outside that she realises how long it’s been since she’s breathed fresh air.

The morning is crisp and bright, the sky an endless stretch of pale blue. The scent of earth and greenery fills her lungs, sharp and clean after days of candlelit confinement.

Selene exhales slowly, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders.

Dorian is awake. He’s alive. He’s going to be fine. She loves him, and she thinks that he might love her.

He kept her handkerchief. She still needs to know why. He couldn’t possibly have been in love with her back then, but there must be a reason he’d kept it all these years, why he’d reached for it in the grips of his fever.

A reason why he kissed her. A reason why he said he wanted to stay here with her.

A reason why he did.

She decides to pick him some flowers. Perhaps she will present them with a note, a written confession of her feelings, just so there’s no turning back or losing her nerve. Maybe she’ll add an addendum to their marriage contract, or just—blurt it out in front of everyone.

Flowers sound more romantic, though.

She wanders through the garden, letting her fingers trail over leaves and vines.

She picks up a few blooms that she comes across, until she reaches the field where the midnight irises grow.

They haven’t bloomed in years, still and closed beneath the sun.

Sleeping. She kneels, brushing her fingertips over a closed petal. What are they waiting for?

A branch snaps behind her.

Selene stiffens. Before she can turn, movement flickers at the edges of her vision.

Men.

Five of them. Rough-looking, dressed in worn leathers and cloaks, blades at their belts.

She rises slowly, trying to school her face into something less than terror. “You’re trespassing.”

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his brow, tilts his head. “Not for long,” he says. “We’re just here to fetch you.”

A cold weight spreads across her chest.

She forces her expression to remain composed. “On whose behalf?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

One of the others, thinner, with a wiry beard, smirks. “His Grace, the Duke. Apparently, he has quite the proposal for you.”

Her stomach drops.

“You’re mistaken,” she says, keeping her voice even. “I am already married.”

“Aye,” the broad-shouldered man says, “and that’s unfortunate.”

The wiry one snorts. “Not for long.”

Selene doesn’t move. Doesn’t let them see the panic rising in her throat.

“We need to make sure her husband’s dead first,” another mutters.

She freezes.

The realisation strikes her like a blow to the chest.

This isn’t just about taking her. The Duke sent them under the assumption that Dorian was already gone —but if he isn’t, they’ll make certain of it. And if they go inside the house …

Dorian is too weak to fight back. Soren is the only one who stands a chance against them, but there’s only one of him, and five of them. He’ll be outnumbered. Ariella and Rookwood are sure to try, but…

Gods, she could lose them all.

You wanted to save him, a voice reminds her. This is how. This is how you keep him safe.

Selene sways, just a little. Presses a trembling hand to her mouth. The grief of the past few days is so raw, so present, that it doesn’t take much effort to let it consume her.

“Dorian is dead.” Her voice barely escapes her lips.

The men pause.

“What?” The broad-shouldered one frowns.

Selene lets herself tremble. Lets her shoulders sag as though she’s barely holding herself together. “He died last night.” Her breath hitches, and she clutches her arms around herself. “He fought so hard, but in the end…” Her voice breaks.

The wiry one narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”

Selene lifts her chin, allowing tears to well in her eyes. “Go inside and see for yourself, then,” she whispers. “Tell the grieving people inside that you’ve come to drag a widow from her husband’s deathbed.”

That gives them pause. They probably don’t want to have to deal with anyone else.

“Why’d do you say you was still married, then?”

Selene lets the tears fall. “I will always be his wife,” she whispers. “Always…”

One of the younger ones shifts uneasily. “We should have gotten word. The village should have heard—”

Selene lowers her gaze. “I was going to send it,” she murmurs, voice thick with grief. “I was just getting some flowers to lay at his bedside… these are the midnight irises. His family flower. It’s tradition to, to… ”

A heavy silence.

Then the leader exhales sharply. “The Duke won’t be pleased.”

The wiry one huffs. “When is he ever?”

“Doesn’t change the job,” another argues. “We still take her. I’m not keen to get into a fight with whoever’s inside, are you?”

Selene tenses.

The leader nods. “Aye.” His sharp gaze flickers over her. “You can mourn just as well at the Duke’s estate.”

Selene grips her skirts, forcing herself to remain steady. If she resists, if she fights, they’ll force their way inside. If they do that, they will find Dorian.

And they will kill him.

She inhales, drawing in a shuddering breath. Then she lifts her head.

“Fine,” she says. “Take me to him.”

They don’t question it. They don’t expect her to fight.

The leader steps forward, grabbing her arm. She lets him.

As they lead her from the field, she allows herself one last look at the house. At the place where Dorian is safe—for now.

She can protect him. She can protect all of them.

Even if it means walking straight into the Duke’s hands.

I survived him once, she reminds herself. She can do it again.

For Dorian, she would do anything.