Page 69 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
He has no power over me,she reminds herself. She isn’t his wife. Not now. Not ever again. She’s free from him, free from everything he did to her—
“You are well, I trust?” His voice is smooth, measured, but the weight of his gaze on her is oppressive.
Selene forces a polite smile. “Yes, quite well, thank you.”
His lips curve in something that might be mistaken for warmth. “I must admit, I was surprised when I heard the news. Your sudden marriage—how unexpected.”
He twirls her, and she allows it. She is no stranger to courtly dances, but there is an unsettling familiarity in the way hisfingers press into her waist, guiding her as if she is still his to command.
He continues, his tone easy, conversational. “Of course, there were no formal promises between us.” A pause, just long enough to let the words linger. “Still, I had thought…”
Selene stiffens. The room around them blurs, candlelight flickering like a distant dream.
“…Well.” His smile does not reach his eyes. “I suppose it does not matter now.”
She should let the remark pass unanswered. She should play the part of the gracious noblewoman and glide through the dance without incident. But something about the way he holds her—the way his fingers dig into her side, just a fraction too hard—unsettles her.
“You were disappointed,” she says. It isn’t a question.
A soft chuckle. “A little, perhaps. But we must not dwell on the past, must we?”
His grip tightens, and her stomach twists.
Selene knows this dance, but she is not the same woman she was before. She does not have to let him lead.
So she meets his gaze, lifts her chin ever so slightly, and says, “No, we mustn’t.”
And then, before he can turn her again, before he can dictate the next step, she deliberately missteps—just enough to shift their balance, just enough to remind him that she is no longer something to be placed, to be positioned, to be moved.
She sees it then. That flicker beneath his polished mask. Not anger. Not yet. But something close.
Good.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Dorian appears at the Duke’s elbow. “But I would like another dance with my wife.”
The Duke glares at Selene, as if this interruption is all her fault. “I am not yet finished.”
Dorian’s eyes darken. “Let me be clear,Your Grace,” he says. “Unhand my wife, or I shall unhandyou.I am not afraid of making a scene. You, I imagine, have a lot more to lose that I… and a vested interest in keeping your hands attached to your body.”
Selene flinches. Did Dorian honestly just say that?
“Bold words for a beanpole,” the Duke returns, still not looking at him, still looking at Selene like she’s a meal to be devoured. “I could snap you like a twig.”
Dorian tightens his grip on the Duke’s arm. “I’d like to see you try.”
Selene inhales sharply. This is escalating too quickly. The last thing she wants is a scene—at least, not one she can’t control.
She lets out a soft gasp, swaying in the Duke’s arms. Her body slackens, her knees trembling as if about to give way.
“Selene?” Dorian’s voice sharpens with concern.
The Duke’s fingers tighten instinctively, holding her upright, but she lets her weight drop further. If there’s one thing she learned in her past life, it’s how to feign frailty when necessary.
“My apologies,” she murmurs faintly. “I feel quite lightheaded…”
Immediately, Dorian moves in, prying her from the Duke’s grasp. “Enough dancing for one night,” he declares, sliding a steadying arm around her waist. “Come, my dear, let’s get you some air.”
The Duke hesitates. His fingers flex at his sides as if resisting the urge to snatch her back. But what can he do? Protest that she isn’t truly unwell? Demand she remain in his arms?
