Page 73 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian is whisked away.
Selene tries to go to him, but someone holds her back. She fights against the hands, against the swirl of silk and worried faces. The world tilts, her breath ragged in her throat.
Shecannotlet this happen again.
“Come away, My Lady.” It’s Marta, Marta at her elbow, helping her to her feet.
“Soren!” Dorian cries. “Go with her!”
Soren protests—like he always does when Dorian orders him away from his side—but he does what Dorian asks.
He has Dorian’s blood on his hands.
Selene is barely aware of the journey back to her chambers. She is moving, walking, though she does not remember how. Hands touch her arms, guiding her through corridors she should know like the back of her hand, but everything is a blur—faces blending, voices merging into one low, humming noise.
She is breathing, but each breath is thin, too shallow. Dorian’s blood is still burned into her vision.
Then the door shuts behind her, and she is in her bedroom, surrounded by too many people.
“My lady, you must sit.” A maid—not Marta—presses a glass of something into her hands. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”
Another voice: “Shall I fetch the physician?”
More voices, more questions, but none of them are the ones she wants to hear.
“What happened?”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Where did the bolt come from?”
“Do you think it was an accident?”
Selene grips the glass tighter.No. No, it was not an accident.
“Was it aimed at you?”
Her breath catches.
She knows.Of course, she knows.
But how can she say it? How can she explain that this was not just a stray shot, not a random act of violence, buthim—the Duke, reaching for her even now, though she is no longer his?
She says nothing.
Soren, standing rigid in the corner, intercepts most of the questions on her behalf, his expression as tense as a soldier’s. Only a single shot. A single wound. No, she didn’t see anything. No, Lady Nightbloom has no enemies. Neither does her husband.
Eventually, one by one, the others leave.
Marta remains.
The silence is heavy. It weighs on Selene’s shoulders, in her lungs, pressing against her ribs.
Marta moves towards her, hands gentle as she begins undoing the fastenings of Selene’s gown. Selene doesn’t resist, though she feels hollow, distant from her own body. Thefabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight.
She watches it for a long moment.
Then, in a voice hoarse from screaming, she says, “Find Dorian’s jacket.”
