Page 135 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
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—”
Shepulls 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.
