16. Home
T he next day, Dorian investigated the Fairmonts instead, but found nothing amiss there, either.
The following day, he tried the Wayfairs.
The disappointing thing about spywork was often how long it took—the waiting and the timing and the hoping.
It had taken him one whole cycle to discover the Fairmonts’ involvement, and even then, there had been no tangible proof he could send the King.
The Duke was nothing if not careful.
The hours and days ticked by, uneventful.
It was, of course, entirely possible that the Duke didn’t have another plan, not yet.
One afternoon, Dorian dressed up as a stablehand and went to talk to his staff, saying he’d heard that the Duke was disappointed to hear about Selene Duskbriar’s elopement.
Dorian disliked this sort of espionage. He didn’t have the ability to talk to people easily, and he was always concerned that someone would recognise him .
Thankfully, no one did.
The footman he was talking to huffed. “Disappointed is an understatement. He trashed his study, so I hear. Frightened poor Doris to death.”
“My word,” Dorian remarked. “Quite the temper, he has. Reckon she’s well shot of him.”
“Quite right!” the man agreed.
The Duke’s outburst pointed to a man with no back up plan, but the news was old and things could have changed. Dejected, Dorian headed back to his townhouse and debated his next options.
He didn’t want to leave empty-handed, but he’d been here longer than he wanted to in the first place. He missed home. He missed Selene. However foolish that was, however painful it was to be near her, being without her was worse. Not seeing she was fine with his own eyes was worse.
If he headed off now, there was a chance he could be back before nightfall.
Deciding he couldn’t stand it any longer, he saddled up his horse and set off for Thornmere, a gnawing sense of anticipation filling him as he left the city behind.
The wind was cool, and as he rode through the familiar paths, the landscape settled around him like a comforting blanket.
The trees, the rolling hills, the old stone walls—it was all so familiar, so reassuring.
But it wasn’t the estate itself he longed for—it was Selene.
It was always her.
Halfway through his journey, his horse threw a shoe. Dorian was forced to head to the nearest village to find a blacksmith to assist him, adding a considerable delay to his journey.
It was long past nightfall when he finally reached Thornmere. The moon hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields.
He didn’t head straight to the house. Instead, he turned toward the graveyard.
It was quieter than Dorian remembered, if such a thing was possible. The moonlight bathed the stones in soft, ethereal light, and the soft rustling of the trees in the distance was the only sound for miles, save for his own footsteps as he moved between the familiar rows of stones.
It had been far too long since he last visited, too long since he last stood in front of his parents’ graves. He approached them slowly. His father’s headstone was the largest. Beside it, his mother’s grave was a simple affair, but no less heartfelt. She had been the heart of Thornmere.
He knelt before her stone and pressed his fingers against the cool, smooth surface.
Lady Evelyn Nightbloom, beloved wife, mother, and friend.
And then there was the small stone next to it—the marker for the child who never lived long enough to be held, the son they had named Ellion. Stillborn children were not typically permitted names on headstones, but the priest, in his kindness and wisdom, had made an exception.
He would have been around Soren’s age if he’d survived.
Sometimes, Dorian wondered if that was what had made Gideon adopt Soren in the first place, but the reality of it was that that likely had little to do with it.
His father would have adopted half of the orphanage if he thought that they’d be better off with him.
He’d always treated Ariella like a daughter.
He’d practically adopted Rookwood, too. His father, Dorian was sure, would have been happier remarrying and having a large family, but he’d never so much as looked at another woman after his wife’s death…
a feeling Dorian understood now. He found it hard enough to look at Selene, who was the woman he loved, breathing again.
Dorian leaned forward, pressing his forehead against his father’s stone, his eyes closed. “I don’t suppose you have any advice for me, do you?”
The graveyard was as silent as ever.
The words felt almost foolish as they left his mouth.
His father had been a man of few words, but those words had always carried weight.
He could still hear his father’s deep voice in his mind, his firm, steady advice.
“In life, you choose your battles. Choose wisely, because not all are worth the fight. ”
This battle was. Selene was. He knew his father would never counsel giving up on saving people or abandoning Selene to her fate, but would he counsel him to show restraint when it came to Selene, to guard his heart, to remember Luna, to remember that they were separate…?
“I’m afraid I’ll lose her,” Dorian muttered, his voice trembling. “Again. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to protect her. To keep her close. To go through everything once more…”
He stayed like that for a while, his head resting against the cool stone, waiting for an answer he knew would never come.
“I wish I could hear you now,” Dorian murmured, his eyes stinging as he wiped them with the back of his hand.
There was nothing else to say. He headed back outside the graveyard and untied Hoovian’s reins from the gate, setting off again for home.
It was a short ride from there to Ebonrose, all dark and closed up by the time he returned.
He had a key, of course, and Ariella always left the side door unbarred.
Dorian had just reached the top of the stairs when he heard Selene scream. His heart swallowed his chest. He bolted towards the source of the sound. By the time he reached her door, the scream had faded, replaced by the sounds of frantic movement within.
Without knocking, he pushed the door open.
The room was dim, the shadows of the evening stretching across the walls.
Selene was thrashing in her bed, her body twisting violently beneath the covers as if trying to escape some unseen threat.
He rushed to her side, his hand immediately going to her shoulder.
“Selene!” he whispered urgently, but her body jerked in reaction, and she screamed again. Her voice cracked with panic, the sound tearing at his heart.
“No!” she cried, pushing against him with surprising strength. “Don’t touch me!”
He recoiled, lighting the candle by her bedside. It flickered to life, casting its soft, warm glow across her pale face. He took a deep breath. She was still in the grips of her nightmare, her body stiff with terror .
“Selene,” he said again, softer this time, his voice gentle as he knelt beside her. “It’s all right. It’s just a dream.”
She gasped, her eyes searching the room, blinking rapidly as if trying to wake herself from whatever world she was trapped in. She stiffened, her gaze landing on him, and for a long moment, she didn’t seem to recognise him.
Slowly, her gaze softened. She looked at him more clearly, her breathing still shallow but less frantic.
Her trembling fingers reached for his wrist. She looked down at where her hands gripped him, her lips parting as if to say something, but then the sob broke free—a strangled, quiet sound that broke something deep inside him.
Before he could speak again, she launched herself into his arms.
He slowly wrapped his arms around her, the instinct to comfort her taking over. He lowered them both back onto the bed gently, as if afraid she might break. He could feel her pulse, wild and erratic, beneath his fingertips. It thudded in time with his own heartbeat.
“It was only a dream,” he whispered softly into her hair, trying to convince her with the words even as doubt twisted in his stomach.
Gods above, what had happened to her in this life to make her dream such things?
Selene didn’t seem convinced. She buried her face against his chest, clutching him tighter, her sobs muffled against his clothes.
“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice so small it broke him.
Dorian squeezed her tightly, his voice breaking in the quiet. “I’m here.”
The door banged open, and Soren strode into the room. Dorian’s gaze shot to him, his expression hardening.
“You took your time,” Dorian muttered. If she’d actually been under attack—
Soren took in the scene in front of him. “I heard screaming.”
Dorian turned his gaze back to Selene, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Lady Selene was having a nightmare. Could you go and get her something warm to drink? ”
Soren gave a long, pointed glare at Dorian, clearly put out by being asked to fetch something, but he didn’t argue. He turned on his heels and left.
Dorian turned his attention back to Selene, her hands still gripping him tightly, almost as if she feared he might disappear if she let go. He gently freed himself from her grasp and rubbed her arms, murmuring soft, meaningless words to soothe her, though he wasn’t sure they were reaching her.
“How was your trip?” she asked him, her voice small, tentative.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Dorian’s lips. It was kind of her to ask, but it was a pointless journey. “It was... fine.”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
He stroked her hair again, his fingers slow and tender. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”
Dorian didn’t know how long they stayed like that—her pressed against him, his hand moving in slow circles over her back, the other wrapped gently around her arms. He murmured soft reassurances, telling her she was safe, that all was well, even as she trembled beneath his touch.
Eventually, the door creaked open, and Soren returned, carrying a cup of milk laced with herbs. He stepped forward, holding it out, but before Dorian could take it, Selene eyed it warily.
“Is it poisoned?” she asked, her voice half serious but thin with exhaustion.
Dorian pressed his lips together, not sure if he was more irritated or amused. “They’re to help you sleep.”
She hesitated, then took the cup, her fingers barely steady around it. He knew she didn’t trust Soren—he had not exactly given her the friendliest of welcomes—but apparently, she trusted Dorian.
That knowledge settled something deep inside him, something he hadn’t realised was unsettled in the first place.
But as she lifted the cup to drink, her fingers clenched, and her breath hitched. She was crying before he even realised it, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She tried to swallow, but the effort seemed to become too much, and her hands started to shake .
Dorian took the cup from her, setting it aside, and reached for her face, brushing his thumb against the damp trail of tears. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Selene. You’re all right. You’re safe here.”
She didn’t respond, only curled further into him, and he tightened his hold, lowering them both back down to the bed.
She fell asleep not long after.
And even when her breathing evened out, even when she finally stilled, Dorian remained, keeping watch, wondering what—or who—had broken Selene, and what he’d do to the person if he ever found out.