10. A Proposal
“ I want you to marry me.”
Dorian stiffened.
At first, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Surely, she hadn’t said—no, she wouldn’t have—
His breath caught. His thoughts halted.
Selene’s gaze held him in place, unblinking, expectant. For the first time in a long time, Dorian felt completely, utterly frozen.
A strange, wild thought passed through his mind—that this was another dream, that the cycle had finally broken him, and his mind had conjured something so impossible just to taunt him.
But no—this was real. Selene was standing before him, poised and careful, waiting for his answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice slow, “Did you say… you want me to marry you?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please. If you wouldn’t mind.”
If you wouldn’t mind? Gods, if only she knew. If she knew how often he’d conjured such a dream, in another life where she was almost his—
Dorian stared at her, trying to untangle his own thoughts. Why? Why me, why now, why—
“I have a fine social standing,” Selene added, as if this were a business transaction, as if she needed to convince him of the benefits. “And I’m heir to the—”
“Why me?” he interrupted.
Her lips pressed together. For the first time since she had spoken, a flicker of uncertainty passed through her expression. She was choosing her words carefully.
“Because I’m fairly sure you won’t hurt me,” she admitted.
Dorian turned away sharply, his pulse roaring in his ears. He took several steps towards the edge of the garden, breathing in the soft air as if it might clear his head.
He understood now. It had finally worked. She’d heard the rumours he’d planted about the Duke—some real, some entirely fictitious—and she finally believed them. That, or the Duke…
Gods. What if she’d spoken to him about them first, and he’d confirmed them in the worst way possible? That would explain why she looked so terrified, because this version of Selene shouldn’t have any idea of the sort of person the Duke really was—
He hoped that wasn’t it, but she was clearly desperate. The other options must have been unbearable.
It should have hurt more, that he was some last resort. It did hurt, in some quiet, deeply-buried place. But it wasn’t important. Not compared to what this meant. This was a chance. A chance he had never considered, not even in his most foolish moments.
A chance to be in her life. To stay close, to protect her, to shape the events leading up to the inevitable—to make it so that it never happened at all.
Because how could the Duke use Nocturne Hall if Selene wasn’t his wife ?
This is it, he realised. This was the “something” he and Soren had been pondering on, the reason that they kept getting pulled back to this day.
He turned back to face her, pushing aside the knot in his chest, forcing himself to move past the why and into the how.
“All right,” he said.
Selene blinked, startled. “Come again?”
“I said yes,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I’ll marry you.”
Her eyes searched his face, as if trying to determine whether he was in earnest. “Are you… sure?”
“Quite sure.” He exhaled slowly. “The only thing is, how are we going to convince your parents to give their permission?”
She hesitated again. “We can’t,” she admitted, her voice unsteady. “We would have to—” She faltered, but the meaning was clear.
Elope.
The word hung between them, unspoken but understood.
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “An elopement? How scandalous, my lady.”
Her lips quirked slightly, but her shoulders remained tense. “It’s… necessary,” she murmured.
“Quite,” he agreed, adjusting his glasses. His fingers were steady. His heart was not.
Selene swallowed hard and didn’t look at him. Dorian watched her carefully, taking in the stiffness of her posture, the faint tremor in her fingers. She was considering something, weighing it, turning it over in her mind.
He should have asked what she was thinking. He should have said something. But the weight of what they were about to do settled heavy in his chest, pressing the words down before they could form.
Instead, he gestured towards the house. “Shall we?”
She nodded, numb and quiet.
Dorian fell into step beside her as they made their way back through the grounds. The silence between them was a fragile thing, stretched thin with uncertainty. He still wasn’t sure how they had arrived at this moment, how a request so absurd had somehow become reality.
She had asked him to marry her. And he had said yes.
Why did I say yes?
He knew why.
Because this was Selene. Because he had already lost her too many times. Because if this was a way to stay by her side—to keep her safe—then there was no version of himself that wouldn’t take it.
He was so lost in thought that her voice startled him.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
Dorian blinked, glancing at her. “I’m sorry?”
“I should know something about you if we’re to pull this off,” she explained, her tone strangely detached.
He let out a short laugh—nervous, uncertain. It was the first time the enormity of what they were doing truly settled over him. They were planning an elopement. This was madness.
Of course, he knew enough about her to convince even the most skeptical of people, but there was no way he could let her know that.
He swallowed. “Emerald green,” he answered after a moment. “Rather dull, I know.”
Selene studied him, her expression unreadable. “You’d look good in green,” she said, though it sounded more like an observation than a compliment. “I like lavender,” she continued. “Pink. Sunrise colours. Anything soft.”
I know.
“I like horse riding,” he offered, grasping for something to give her in return.
“I’m a terrible rider,” she admitted. “But I am quite good at embroidery. I like…” She trailed off.
Dorian noticed the way her fingers curled against her palms, the way she pressed them tightly together. She had stopped herself from saying something.
His jaw tightened. He already knew the answer. The Duke had made her feel foolish for her skill with a needle .
Before he could speak, voices carried through the garden.
Selene tensed beside him.
Dorian followed her gaze and saw her parents emerging from behind a row of precisely manicured hedges.
Lady Evangeline Duskbriar was a portrait of refinement, dressed in crimson silk embroidered with gold, her every movement calculated and polished. Her golden curls were pinned with garnets, shimmering under the dappled sunlight. And yet, her smile—cool, distant—did not reach her eyes.
Lord Alistair Duskbriar was no less imposing.
Where his wife exuded wealth, he exuded authority, his dark suit tailored in a style long out of fashion, a deliberate statement of his adherence to tradition.
He was the sort of man who weighed every word before he spoke it, and Dorian had the distinct impression he had already deemed this conversation unworthy of his time.
Lady Evangeline’s gaze flickered to Dorian, only for an instant—long enough to register displeasure —before dismissing him entirely.
“There you are, Selene!” she exclaimed, her tone falsely bright. Then, as though Dorian did not exist, she continued, “The Duke has formally asked for your hand, dear. He’s waiting to accept you in the blue room.”
Dorian stilled.
Selene had known this was coming. That much was obvious. And yet, even as her mother spoke the words, she remained utterly still.
Her father gave a small nod of approval, his green eyes gleaming with expectation.
Dorian looked at Selene.
She was frozen.
Not in the way one hesitated at bad news. This was something else.
She wasn’t going to answer them. She couldn’t.
“Selene?” Lady Evangeline prompted, frowning now. “Are you quite all right? This offer is hardly unexpected.”
Still, she said nothing .
Dorian’s hand curled into a fist. She had asked him to marry her. He had agreed to this because he had sworn— this time —he would not fail her.
That started now.
Selene swallowed, and when she finally spoke, her voice was thin and fragile. “Oh, Mama,” she croaked. “I can’t marry the Duke.”
“Can’t?” Lord Alistair’s eyes darkened dangerously.
Dorian tensed. He had heard enough of Selene’s father to know he was a strict man—merciless in his discipline.
She had once said he had never struck her, but the way she had phrased it—the yet left unspoken—had unsettled Dorian more than he cared to admit.
He could not imagine growing up that way.
His father would never have struck him. Aunt Elizabeth had done nothing more than swat away his hand when he tried to steal a biscuit.
“What nonsense is this?” Lady Evangeline demanded, pressing a hand to her chest as though the very thought of Selene’s defiance had physically wounded her.
Before Selene could respond, Dorian took a step forward, his voice calm and steady. “Selene cannot marry the Duke,” he said, “because she is already married to me.”
A suffocating silence followed, before Lord Alistair let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Is this some sort of jest, Nightbloom?”
Dorian felt Selene’s sharp intake of breath beside him. He could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind, the calculation, the confusion. This was not what they had planned.
And yet, she did not contradict him.
So he pressed forward.
“As you know, Lady Selene and I attended the Florenwall Academy together for several years,” he began, his tone even, measured.
“We rekindled that acquaintance at my father’s funeral two years ago.
Since then, we have been writing to each other in secret.
We knew you would never approve of a marriage between us, but on the evening of the Fortesque Ball three months ago, we could no longer resist our feelings and decided to elope.
” He paused, carefully, deliberately. “We were wed by a priest from my own estate.”
Lady Evangeline’s mouth fell open in shock, while Lord Alistair’s expression hardened further, deep lines of fury etching his forehead. “This is outrageous!”
“I do apologise for our secrecy—”
“I ought to challenge you to a duel—”
“You would be within your right,” Dorian interrupted, adjusting his glasses. “But you would not win.”
If it came to defending Selene—not just in words but in blood—he would not hesitate.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Selene added softly, her voice laced with carefully feigned remorse.
“I know I entertained the idea of the Duke, but only because I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.
Lord Nightbloom and I… we just didn’t know what to do.
But the marriage is done now, and I’m afraid there’s no undoing it. ”
Her father’s fury did not abate. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he did not strike her.
Dorian suspected it was not restraint but calculation—there were eyes upon them now.
He could hear the hushed whispers from the house, the rustle of skirts as unseen guests shifted in place to catch glimpses of the scandal unfolding in the garden.
Lord Alistair exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’ll need to show proof of this supposed union before we believe such nonsense.”
Selene’s eyes flicked toward Dorian, a silent question, a desperate plea. They had no such proof. But Dorian only nodded.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “I’ll have a copy of the marriage licence sent to you by tomorrow’s end.”
Lord Alistair’s expression did not change, but the murmurs from the house seemed to pull him back from the edge of open violence. With a sharp glance at his wife, he turned, retreating toward the house with Lady Evangeline at his side.
The moment they disappeared, Selene turned to Dorian. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes— the brief, flickering fear that he had been toying with her, that at any moment, he would retract his words and leave her to face the Duke’s proposal alone.
He did not.
Instead, he met her gaze steadily.
“Pack your bags,” he instructed, his voice solemn. “I’ll come for you tonight.”