Page 125 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
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’tdrunk 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.
