Page 134 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
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 ofmy wife.”
Selene 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.
