Page 115 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Tonight, she will tell him.
Tonight, she will be his wife for real.
If he wants her. And he must—right?
She will not know until she asks.
Selene hesitates for only a moment before knocking on Dorian’s door. When no answer comes, she pushes it open.
He’s at his desk, as expected, though he looks utterly exhausted. One hand is braced against his forehead, the other loosely gripping a half-empty glass. Papers are scattered before him, some bearing his neat script, others blank. A candle flickers low, its wax pooling.
“You look awful,” she says, stepping inside.
He exhales, a weary sound, but before he can respond, she presses on. She has to say it—has to tell him before she loses her nerve.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she says, her voice harder than she intends. “I want—Dorian, I want this to be real. I want—”
She stops.
His expression is strange. Glazed. Unfocused. He blinks at her sluggishly, as if trying to make sense of her words.
“Dorian?”
“Sorry,” he murmurs thickly, his voice slurred. “I feel... I don’t feel so well…”
He slides to the floor.
Selene 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—”
