Page 136 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“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. “Howlong 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 itone 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.
Careful not to wake him, she tiptoes back out.
“Right,” says Ariella, arms now firmly on her hips. “Food. Then bath. Then rest.”
“Has the Duke—”
“He’s in the wind,” Ariella informs her. “There’s a warrant out for his arrest, obviously. He’ll never be able to show his face in society again. I hope he crawls away to a hole and dies.”
Selene wants that too, but she also wants toknowhe’s gone. She doubts the wound Soren inflicted was fatal. Her hands tremble, remembering the weight of the pistol in her grip. She wishes she’d hit him.
But she cannot—will not—worry about that now. The Duke is gone. She’s alive, Dorian’s alive. She refuses to be ungrateful.
