Page 54 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he ride is long and jarring, the carriage swaying over uneven roads. Selene sits stiff-backed, hands curled into fists in her lap. The brigands don’t speak much—just the occasional grunt or muttered word—but she feels their eyes on her. Watching. Waiting for her to break.

She doesn’t.

When they stop at the inn, one of them hauls the door open. The leader jerks his head. “Out.”

Selene gathers her skirts and steps down. The inn looms before her, its wooden beams weathered and dark. Light spills from the windows. The smell of roasted meat and ale thickens the air, but Selene finds no comfort in it.

She knows, even before stepping inside, that this place is not a refuge.

The door swings open, and she’s ushered through.

Voices hum low over tankards. Firelight flickers against the walls. It looks like any other roadside inn—but Selene recognises too many faces.

Men from the Duke’s estate sit in quiet corners, hands wrapped around drinks, eyes sweeping the room with the sharp, assessing wariness of soldiers waiting for orders.

Her stomach turns.

The innkeeper stands behind the counter, wiping down a tankard. He’s older, broad-shouldered, with a permanent furrow between his brows. His staff move about the room, keeping their heads down, their steps brisk.

Are they locals? Do they recognise her?

And if they do—will they say anything?

If word reaches Dorian, what will they tell him? That she was here, surrounded by the Duke’s men? That she went willingly to the man who tried to kill him?

A hand clamps around her wrist, guiding her through the room. Selene doesn’t resist, even as the weight of every gaze presses down on her.

Then a voice—smooth, amused, venom-laced—cuts through the noise.

“I hear you’re now a widow,” the Duke says.

Selene stops breathing.

He stands near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, watching her like a man who already knows the outcome of a game.

“My condolences.”

Selene is steered into a seat. Food and drink is placed in front of her. She takes neither. “You won’t get away with this.”

“For long, ” the Duke tells her. “I won’t get away with it for long.

But luckily, I don’t have to. You’re not the only one happy to cause a scandal if it means getting what you want.

Let society talk. Let them spin tales about how Selene Nightbloom ran off with another man the day her husband died. My, they might even think you did it.”

Selene clenches her jaw. “I didn’t run away with you. You abducted me.”

“And who here will speak on your behalf?”

The barkeeper, drying tankards, looks down at his feet. He whispers something to the boy sweeping in the corner, but he does nothing.

Selene knows the Duke is right. No one will speak on her behalf. Her parents could challenge him, if they were so inclined. But why would they? This is the outcome they’ve wanted all along.

Except, of course, Selene is still married.

Dorian will come for you, she reminds herself. Not immediately, of course. He’ll need time to recover. But when he can, he’ll come for her.

She won’t have to endure the Duke for long.

“Aren’t you curious as to why I’m going to such lengths to claim you?” the Duke asks.

Selene, of course, knows exactly why. But she won’t give him the satisfaction, especially as she knows she’s getting out of this at some point, and she’d rather pretend she knows nothing when she does.

“No.”

Something flickers in the Duke’s gaze. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

“Does what bother me?”

“That your husband is dead because of you.”

Selene’s vision spots. Fire burns in her chest. It doesn’t matter that Dorian is alive. It matters that he almost died, that he suffered at this man’s hand, that she had to watch—

“You bastard.”

She picks up the knife on the table and lunges towards him. The Duke startles, but he grabs her hand before she can reach him, twisting it around her back. Selene cries out. The knife clatters to the floor.

“Well, well,” the Duke grins, his lips against her neck. “There’s a bit of fire in you after all. That will be fun in the bedroom.”

Selene shuts her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him, but the thought of having him back in her bed, of him being inside her again…

No. No, she won’t allow it. She’s getting out of here before then. She’ll kill him on her wedding night, if she has to. She’ll find a way—

Selene has never thought herself capable of murder before, but she knows she is now. She’ll smother this man to death before she lets him bed her.

He shoves her back into her seat.

“Eat,” he commands. “It’s a long trip north.”

“North?” North is not where his estate lies. But then, he can hardly take her back into polite society under such circumstances. He’s right—he won’t get away with this for long, but he doesn’t have to. He just needs her inheritance, and her grandmother—

Gods, did he kill her too? Is he going to do so again?

“That’s what I said,” he snaps. “Now eat. ”

Selene forces herself to chew, though every bite turns to dust in her mouth. She’ll need her energy if she is to escape. The Duke watches her, tapping his fingers against the table in restless impatience. His men are just as tense—shifting in their seats, casting glances towards the door.

Something is delaying them.

The Duke’s jaw tightens as he calls for a servant. “Where is my carriage?”

The innkeeper steps forward instead, wringing his hands. “There’s been a delay, my lord. A problem with the horses. We’re sorting it now. ”

The Duke exhales sharply. “Then sort it faster.”

He drums his fingers on the table, glancing towards the window. Selene sips at her water, forcing herself to stay still, to appear resigned. But inside, she’s tallying every detail. The way the Duke is growing more anxious. The way the innkeeper avoided his gaze.

Something is coming.

Minutes stretch into hours. The Duke grows edgier with each passing second, snapping at his men, at the servants. When the innkeeper finally returns, pale-faced, he bows quickly.

“My lord, your carriage is ready.”

The Duke wastes no time, grabbing Selene’s wrist and dragging her to her feet. She stumbles after him as he storms through the inn, out into the cool afternoon air—

And stops dead.

The Duke’s men freeze, hands flying to their weapons.

Because standing there—resolute, armed—are Dorian, Soren, Ariella, Rookwood, and half the village of Lower Thornmere.

And behind them, the inn’s staff step forward, surrounding the Duke’s men, cutting off any retreat.

Dorian stands at the front, pale but steady, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. His gaze locks onto Selene’s, and travels to the fist clasped around her arm.

He points to the Duke with his sword.

“Let go of my wife. ”