Page 55 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene writhes in the Duke’s grip, twisting against his iron hold. Dorian is here. Dorian is here.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be resting, recovering. Yet there he stands, pale and swaying slightly, but upright, a sword clenched in his grip and fury burning in his eyes.

The Duke’s fingers dig into her arm. “You should be dead.”

“And you shouldn’t steal another man’s wife, so I guess we’re both disappointed.” Dorian takes a step forward, his expression dark with warning. “I won’t ask again. Let. Her. Go.”

Drakefell sneers. “You can barely stand.”

“I may be struggling,” Dorian admits, and with a flick of his sword, gestures to the crowd behind him. “They aren’t. It’s over, Drakefell. You can’t fight us all.”

The Duke’s gaze darts between the armed villagers, the inn’s staff, Rookwood’s steady stance, Ariella’s cold fury, Soren’s ever-present smirk of dangerous amusement. He clenches his jaw, calculating.

The Duke snarls as he hurls Selene toward Dorian, using her as both a weapon and a distraction.

She barely has time to brace herself before she collides with him, knocking them both off balance.

Dorian catches her, his arms steady even as he staggers under the force.

His breath is warm against her temple, but there’s no time—Drakefell is running.

Dorian steadies her, his fingers lingering at her waist for just a second, checking that she’s unhurt, and then he moves her gently towards Ariella. “Stay here.”

“Dorian—”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes off after the Duke, sword gripped tight, his uneven steps betraying the weakness still clinging to him from the poison.

The Duke’s men scramble to fight, but they’re hopelessly outnumbered.

Steel flashes in the dim light, blades clashing with the sharp ring of metal against metal.

Bodies collide with brutal force, sending chairs and shattered glass skidding across the cobblestones.

The once-bustling inn is now a battlefield, tables overturned, tankards spilling, plates crashing.

The air is thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and iron.

The Duke’s men fight desperately, but they are pressed back, stumbling over the wounded and the debris.

A guard screams as he is thrown against a table, his helmet rolling across the floor.

A blade thrusts through a gap in another’s armour, and he lets out a choked gasp before sagging to the ground.

The shouts of men, the scrape of boots, the sickening crunch of steel cutting through flesh—all of it blends into a violent cacophony .

Through the chaos, Rookwood and Ariella try to cover Selene, to drag her back towards the carriage, but she refuses to go.

“Dorian!” she cries, her voice raw with fear.

Dorian is still out there.

She’s not running without him. She’s not going home without him. Home isn’t home without Dorian beside her. Nothing is anything without him—

Soren materialises at Selene’s side, cutting down one of the Duke’s men. Ariella shrieks at the violence, letting go of her arm. Selene seizes her moment.

She runs. Her skirts tangle around her legs as she sprints after Dorian, Soren a shadow at her side. They burst into the alley behind the inn just in time to see the Duke whirl, a pistol in his grip.

The crack of the shot never comes.

Soren’s knife flashes, slicing through the air. The Duke cries out, the pistol clattering to the cobblestones as blood wells from his hand. Selene doesn’t think—she kicks the weapon further away, sending it spinning out of reach.

Dorian doesn’t slow. He crashes into the Duke with full force, their bodies colliding in a vicious tangle of limbs and steel.

The impact sends them both staggering, boots scraping against the slick stones.

The Duke recovers first, lashing out with his sword, forcing Dorian back.

Their blades meet with a sharp clang, steel on steel, each strike ringing through the narrow street. Sparks flash in the night air.

Dorian fights well—fiercely—but he’s still not at full strength.

Every parry, every brutal clash, costs him.

Selene sees it in the tightness of his jaw, in the strain lining his face.

His movements are slower than they should be.

His grip falters for the barest fraction of a second, and the Duke seizes the opening, twisting his blade and driving forward .

Soren is searching for an opening, but he doesn’t want to jump in and risk hurting Dorian. He darts around them, blade in hand.

Dorian barely manages to deflect a thrust, the edge of the Duke’s sword grazing his ribs. He sucks in a sharp breath, shifting his stance, but Selene sees the way he stiffens, the way his footing wavers. The poison may no longer be in his veins, but its damage lingers.

The Duke presses the advantage, striking again and again. Dorian blocks, counters, but he’s losing ground, forced back toward the alley’s edge. His breath comes faster now, shoulders rising and falling with the effort of every motion.

Selene’s heart hammers against her ribs. “Dorian!”

He’s going to die.

Dorian stumbles, barely dodging a vicious slash. His back crashes against the stone. Selene doesn’t think. She dives for the discarded pistol. She scrambles up, breath coming fast, and aims it straight at the Duke’s chest. Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t lower it.

“Drakefell!” she screams.

It’s enough to make him pause. Drakefell turns, his lip curling in amusement. “You won’t do it.”

Selene’s grip tightens. “You almost killed my husband.”

He laughs, a cruel, condescending sound. “In a minute, I’ll succeed.”

The pistol trembles in her grip. She’s never fired a weapon before. If she misses…

“You’re weak,” the Duke continues. “You’ve always been weak. That’s why I—”

“How can I be weak if I survived you?” she spits, even though he can have no idea what she’s talking about.

The Duke frowns. “What are you—”

She pulls the trigger.

The shot rings out, splitting the air. The bullet whizzes past the Duke’s head, close enough to ruffle his hair, but missing. Selene gasps, her hands shaking so badly she nearly drops the gun.

Drakefell throws his head back and laughs. “Pathetic.”

A dagger flies through the air and buries itself deep into the Duke’s shoulder. His laughter chokes into a pained snarl. He stumbles back, gripping his shoulder, eyes flashing with rage.

Soren hums, unimpressed. “It’s unusual for me to miss.” He cocks his head. “I doubt it will happen again.”

The Duke snarls, his good hand pressing against the wound, but he sees the numbers, sees the rage surrounding him. His men have all been incapacitated.

He’s alone.

They aren’t.

He takes a slow step back, then another.

“This isn’t the end of this,” he warns, voice low and dangerous.

“Soren’s next throw will be,” Dorian replies coldly. “If my sword doesn’t get there first.”

The Duke glares at them all before turning and disappearing down the alley, staggering from the wound but refusing to show weakness. Dorian moves as though to follow him, to finish it—

“Dorian,” whispers Selene. “Please…”

She doesn’t want him to go. She doesn’t want to risk him being hurt. She just wants him here, beside her, safe and in her arms—

He turns to face her. She barely makes it two steps before Dorian is there, pulling her against him. His arms wrap around her, tight and trembling, though she can’t tell if it’s from his lingering weakness or something else. Her own body shakes just as violently .

“You’re here,” she breathes against his shoulder. “You’re all right.”

“More or less.”

“You came for me.”

Dorian exhales, his grip tightening. “I’d die for you,” he murmurs. “No matter how many times it takes.”

Selene doesn’t have time to wonder what that means.

The world tilts.

And she crumples into his arms, the darkness finally pulling her under.

Selene wakes to the familiar scent of Ebonrose Hall—beeswax, old wood, and the lingering traces of lavender from the dried bundles hanging by the windows. The weight of something warm and soft presses against her side. Mistress Stripe. The cat is curled against her, purring faintly in her sleep.

By the hearth, Ariella sits in a chair, arms crossed, her head tilted back. But as soon as Selene shifts, Ariella’s eyes snap open.

“Dorian,” Selene breathes, forcing herself upright. Her limbs feel sluggish, her head thick with sleep. “Dorian, is he—”

“Safe,” Ariella cuts in, already leaning forward to press her back against the pillows. “Resting. Like you should be.”

“And the villagers? Was anyone hurt—”

“A few cuts and scrapes, but nothing to worry about.”

Selene breathes a sigh of relief. “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost a full day.” Ariella gives her a wry look. “Dorian’s been in several times, despite my warnings. Of course, the cat kept making him worse, so eventually he was weak enough for the three of us to manhandle him back into bed.”

“You’re so kind, Ariella.”

“I know, and it’s devastating that more people don’t realise it.”

Selene exhales a quiet laugh. “I think that Rookwood might, you know.”

Ariella stiffens. “That’s… that’s none of your business, and I will dose you up again if you mention it one more time. ”

Selene stretches her neck, testing her body, pushing through the weariness that lingers in her limbs. She needs to see Dorian. No matter what Ariella says, she needs to see him.

“I want to see Dorian.”

“I promise you, he is asleep—”

But Selene is already sliding out of bed. Mistress Stripe meows in protest as she disturbs her, but Selene ignores it, making her way across the room and pushing open the door to Dorian’s chambers.

He’s there. He’s sleeping, just as Ariella insisted, the steady rise and fall of his chest proof of life.

The tension in her body eases fractionally at the sight of him.

After everything, after the agony of watching him fade, she doesn’t think she’ll ever take the sight of him sleeping peacefully for granted again.