17. Turn and a Tumble
T he following morning, Dorian was down at the stables attending to his horses when Selene appeared.
She seemed to have quite recovered from her nightmare and was bright and energetic, wanting to know all about the horses.
He was delighted to see that her confession that she wasn’t much of a rider did not extend to any dislike of the fine animals.
She stroked their muzzles and called them beautiful and clever and didn’t even tease him when he told her that his personal horse was called Hoovian.
“I lied to you about my cat’s name,” Selene admitted.
Dorian glanced at her, intrigued. “Oh?”
“It’s not Missy. It’s Mistress Stripe.”
He laughed. Of course that was the cat’s name. She’d told him about it before, and he’d completely forgotten.
Selene laughed too, a soft, genuine sound that made something in him ease. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh like that, and even longer since she’d laughed like that with him.
As their laughter faded, he nodded toward Clover’s stall. “So…” He hesitated, suddenly feeling like some nervous country lad asking a girl for his first dance. “Do you feel like riding?”
Selene exhaled, still smiling. “Yes. I think I would.”
He got her saddled onto Clover, the most docile of his horses, and swung up on Hoovian’s back himself. They headed off towards the orchards in the crisp morning air. They traded pleasantries. She asked him what he liked to read and admitted she didn’t enjoy romance as much as she used to.
It was all going rather splendidly until a squirrel ran across the path. Clover jerked sideways with a startled whinny, and Selene, unused to the rhythm of riding, slid straight off the saddle.
Dorian’s panic was immediate.
In the back of his mind, he knew it was only a small fall. She hadn’t hit her head, she was probably fine, she was conscious and talking and mobile—
But in the forefront of his mind, she was on the end of the Duke’s blade again. He was watching her die, again.
It was his fault. All his fault. If he hadn’t walked her back to the house, if he’d not suggested a ride—
He raced to her side, kneeling beside her, eyes wide. “Selene?” His hands hovered at her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
She blinked, momentarily stunned. “I—” She pushed herself upright, only to wince as her ankle throbbed in protest. “I think I twisted—”
She didn’t even finish before Dorian moved. He checked her leg, his hands gentle as he braced her ankle.
“Does this hurt?” he asked, pressing lightly.
Selene tried to wave him off. “Dorian, I’m fine—”
He exhaled sharply. “You fell. You’re hurt.” His fingers grazed her stockings as he adjusted the angle of her foot, and his expression darkened. “It’s already swelling. ”
Selene forced a laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. “Well. That’s what I get for being an abysmal rider.”
Dorian didn’t laugh. He was already shrugging out of his coat, folding it swiftly before tucking it beneath her for support.
“Hold still,” he murmured, his focus entirely on her.
“I can walk,” she tried again.
Dorian lifted his gaze to hers, his expression flat. “No, you cannot.”
She scowled at him. “You can’t just decide—”
“Selene.” His voice softened. “Let me help you.” Let me help you like I couldn’t before.
She swallowed. A moment passed. The wind stirred the golden grass.
At last, she sighed. “Fine. But only because I have no better alternatives.”
Dorian smirked. Her indifference was proving a good balm to his panic. “Of course.”
Then, before she could protest further, he gathered her into his arms with ease. She was so light. Light, and his, and here.
And also… not his. Not his at all.
Selene hands grabbed onto his shoulders. “Dorian—!”
“Relax.” He shifted her weight, holding her securely against his chest. “It’s not far back to Ebonrose.”
He waited for her to argue. Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder. Her proximity made his throat bob. He hoped she didn’t notice.
The doors swung open as they approached the house. Soren strode out, his sharp gaze sweeping over them.
“What happened?” he asked, frowning.
“Selene fell from her horse,” Dorian explained briskly. He didn’t slow, stepping past Soren and into the house.
Soren blinked, glancing at Selene, who offered him a half-hearted smile. “It wasn’t a very graceful fall,” she admitted.
Dorian didn’t humour the joke.
“Where are the horses?” Soren asked .
“Still on the path near the western orchard,” Dorian said over his shoulder.
Soren muttered something under his breath and took off down the steps.
Inside, the cool air of the manor was a relief after the warmth of the sun. Dorian swept across the foyer, carefully placing Selene down on the settee in the parlour.
“Ariella!” he barked.
His cousin arrived within moments, her sharp eyes narrowing when she saw Selene’s ankle. “What’s happened?” she sighed, already rolling up her sleeves.
“She fell,” Dorian said.
“I can see that,” Ariella replied dryly. “Fetch me some cool water and a clean cloth.”
Dorian hesitated, glancing at Selene. He half wanted her to ask him to stay.
Ariella snapped her fingers. “Go on, then. She won’t disappear while you’re gone.”
Dorian exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then nodded and strode out of the room.
It took Dorian far longer than he would have liked to calm down. He wasn’t usually so easily rattled. He was used to danger, to injury. He ought to be used to losing Selene, to seeing her in peril.
Clearly, he wasn’t.
He located Marta and had her send up some refreshments, then headed to the library to search for some books.
Selene had indicated she was keen to read some adventure stories, a personal favourite of his.
Searching through the tomes gave him something to focus on.
It had been years since he could remember reading for pleasure.
He was much calmer by the time he made it to Selene’s room, his arms filled with books.
“Adventures,” he announced, depositing them beside her. “As requested.”
“Oh!” Selene grabbed the first one from the pile. “Are these favourites of yours?”
Dorian smiled. “One of them is,” he said. “Two of them are mediocre, in my opinion, one I’ve never read before, and a third I despise. So you have no choice but to be honest with me.”
“That’s devious,” Selene said. “I had no idea you had a wicked side, Lord Nightbloom.”
Dorian looked down. “I can be wicked,” he said, which was an absolute lie—at least, not wicked in the way she was implying. He imagined you could interpret his espionage to be wicked too. “How’s the ankle?”
“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I see you’re quite recovered.”
Dorian frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“My fall,” she explained. “You seemed to take it worse than I did.”
Guilt rushed back. “It was my fault. I should have—”
“How can a horse being spooked be your fault?”
Dorian opened his mouth and shut it again. Clearly, there was nothing he could say to that. I have to protect you because I failed you—and our child—in the past was not a thing that would make sense to her.
Selene shifted in her seat, setting the book aside. “You’re always like this, aren’t you?”
Dorian glanced at her warily. “Like what?”
“Carrying guilt that isn’t yours.”
“I don’t—” But it is mine, he thought desperately. Every bad thing in the next year I can prevent, if I pay enough attention, if I work hard enough. “It doesn’t matter.”
Selene tilted her head like he was a specimen under a microscope. He wondered how haggard he looked right now, or what else she might be staring at .
“It matters to you,” she said softly.
Dorian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose it does.” He nodded towards the books. “That’s why I prefer adventures, you know. Things are simpler in stories. The heroes know what’s right, and they act. No hesitation, no second-guessing.”
Selene hummed in agreement, tracing the worn spine of the book on her lap. “I used to think that way too.”
Dorian leaned against the arm of the chair opposite her, watching her carefully. “And now?”
She hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t think I believe in heroes anymore.”
Dorian couldn't blame her. “Neither do I.”
Dorian stayed in Selene’s room for the rest of the day, reading in companionable silence, eating with her, and, after Selene got into bed, reading to her until she fell asleep.
He knew he ought to move from his spot. His damned allergies were playing up something awful.
His throat itched, his sinuses throbbed, and his eyes burned so much he had to blink more than he read.
His nose was stuffy and raw from the occasional, muffled swipe with his sleeve.
Every breath felt thick, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
He so rarely got to watch her sleeping. She looked so peaceful, her face glowing in the low light of the lamps, her gold hair spread over her pillow, sunshine and mist. It was hard not to watch that sweet mouth of hers and remember what it felt like on his, hard not to watch the soft rise and fall of her chest and remember what it was like to touch her.
This is enough, he told himself. It was enough that she was safe and here where he could see her. He didn’t need anything more. He wouldn’t ask for anything more .
But people were rarely satisfied with less, and Dorian found he was no exception.
He rubbed his knuckles against his eyes, trying to will away the stinging, but the warmth of the room and the steady rhythm of Selene’s breathing pulled at his senses, lulling him. He slumped further into the chair, his head tilting, his book slipping against his knee.
Slowly, sleep tugged him under.
He woke to the soft clink of something and blinked blearily. Someone had taken off his glasses.
He sneezed so violently that he nearly knocked his head back.
“Are you getting a cold?” Selene asked, blinking sleepily at him.
He shook his head, already blowing his nose. “No, no, I’m fine.”
He pushed himself up, setting the book aside, and strode towards the door to their adjoining dressing room—only to stop halfway.
“Glasses,” he muttered, turning on his heel.
Selene was already holding them up, but she didn’t hand them over immediately. Instead, she slid them onto her own face, adjusting them with exaggerated precision. They weren’t particularly strong.
“How do I look?” she asked, watching him through the lenses.
Adorable, he struggled not to say. But then you always do.
“Do I look more intellectual?” she continued, tilting her head. “Do you like intellectual women? Is that why you’re immune to my charms?”
Dorian snatched the glasses back, pushing them onto his nose with a sigh. “I’m not immune to your charms, Selene,” he said, and immediately regretted it.
Selene raised an eyebrow, amused. “No?”
His lips pressed into a firm line. It was bad enough that she knew he’d liked her when they were back in school. He didn’t want to make things awkward between them, didn’t want to lay everything bare to be trampled on or dissected. “No.”
She studied him, considering. “Then what is it? ”
I’m not immune to your charms. I never have been. Don’t tease, don’t hurt, don’t laugh—
“It’s late. You should rest.”
He turned away, reaching for the door handle, but Selene wasn’t finished with him yet.
“Dorian.”
He stopped.
“Next time, you should at least bring a blanket,” she murmured.
Dorian huffed a quiet laugh, already moving again. “Noted.”