18. Wounds and Renovations
T he next morning over breakfast, adding to his mortification about Selene discovering that he still found her attractive, Dorian learned that, while he was in the capital, Selene had sold a piece of her jewellery and made an investment on a merchant ship that had turned out to be an excellent one.
He’d forgotten to set up an allowance for her. His father would be rolling over in his grave.
He was a terrible husband.
He left immediately to speak to his solicitor, setting up her own account tied to one of his tenancies.
His solicitor counseled against it, but Dorian was insistent.
His grandfather did the same thing for Aunt Elizabeth’s mother as well as his own wife.
No woman’s income, he’d said, should depend upon whether or not her husband or provider likes her .
Selene was shocked by this relative freedom, and eagerly began renovating Ebonrose to her standards.
The outside was the first thing to be tackled, followed by the communal rooms. Dorian tried not to enjoy the changes too much; they were all going to vanish when the year reset.
But it was hard not to take some pride in the stone shining again, in the new drapes and reupholstered furniture. It breathed life back into the place.
Selene, as it transpired, had quite the head for a sound investment, and she made several more in the weeks that followed.
He wondered if Selene’s first investment was because he’d driven her to that point with his lack of funds, or if because she had less to worry about here, she was capable of more.
His father had always believed if you took care of people’s basic needs, they’d flourish.
Selene did seem to be flourishing here. He enjoyed how much delight the renovations brought her.
He found he cared about the idea that it would all vanish one day less and less.
Did that actually matter? It brought joy, now.
He still tried to save Marta in every loop to spare pain, even though he knew things would likely reset.
That’s different , he argued. Sparing pain is different from embracing joy.
But why not embrace joy, too?
He could see the way Selene smiled when a new room was completed, could hear her humming under her breath while she sewed. There was a spring in her step. She moved about the house like she was dancing.
He loved to see it. It hurt that he couldn’t join.
There was a fine line between pleasure and pain, and Selene twirled upon it. The problem with embracing joy was knowing that it never lasted, and how hard it would be to let it go.
Dorian knew that, in late Summerdawn, Viscount Eilington visited Thornmere on business.
He was one of the few men Dorian knew for certain was in the Duke’s inner circle.
Not wanting to waste a valuable opportunity to gain insight on how things might have changed, Dorian made plans to sneak into the Viscount’s chambers as soon as he could.
The Viscount kept rooms in a modest but well-kept townhouse on the quieter side of Upper Thornmere.
Dorian had mastered the art of sneaking in over the years, and tonight was no exception.
The rooms above Eilington’s quarters were always empty this time of year, providing a perfect place for Dorian to wait, listening for the telltale sound of the Viscount leaving for supper.
The man was a creature of habit—he always dined at the same inn at the same hour.
When the townhouse finally settled into stillness, Dorian moved. He slid out of the window, lowering himself carefully down the drainpipe until he reached the open window below. A practiced maneuver, but no less risky. One wrong slip and he’d be nursing more than a bruised ego.
Once inside, he wasted no time rifling through the Viscount’s desk.
Eilington was as meticulous as ever, his documents sorted in neat stacks.
Dorian scanned ledgers, correspondence, and travel logs before finally finding something of interest—a note, short and to the point: Do not fret.
LD has a plan. Await further instructions.
It wasn’t signed, but Dorian knew the look of the Duke’s handwriting anywhere.
He frowned, turning the slip of parchment over in his hands.
LD. Lord Darlington, perhaps? Lord Dashridge?
It could be either of them, but Dorian doubted it.
Neither were known for their strategic minds.
There were certain to be other men with the surname D that didn’t spring to mind right now.
He’d consult his records when he got home.
Then again, L might not stand for ‘Lord’ at all. It could be a first initial—plenty of untitled men worked with the Duke. Indeed, the Duke was probably more likely to be able to recruit them, promising them a title and lands after Ashvold’s invasion .
Honestly, sometimes Dorian was surprised that the conspirators weren’t made up of the lower classes, the ones who had less and needed more. But Dorian wasn’t surprised that the Duke wouldn’t even consider them as allies. Men of ambition seldom did.
He was still mulling over the possibilities when he heard a noise from below.
His pulse jumped. The Viscount had returned.
Dorian moved swiftly, returning the note and slipping back toward the window. He had one leg out when the door to the room creaked open. He froze, pressing himself against the stone wall outside, gripping the frame to keep himself steady.
Eilington stepped inside. For a tense moment, Dorian held his breath, willing himself into silence. Then, to his growing misfortune, the Viscount crossed the room, heading straight for the window.
Dorian braced himself, every muscle taut. If he were spotted, it would be a fight or a fall.
The Viscount hesitated, peering out into the darkness. The moment stretched unbearably. Then, with a soft huff, he reached forward—and closed the window.
Dorian remained motionless as the latch clicked into place. Only when he heard the Viscount move away did he allow himself to breathe again.
He waited a moment longer before shifting his grip. He could barely even feel his fingers anymore. His knuckle shook under the strain before giving out entirely, sending him plummeting down the building.
He twisted midair, managing to land on his side rather than his legs, but the impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through his ribs.
He bit back a curse, rolling onto his back for a second to collect himself.
His entire right side throbbed, but nothing felt broken.
Bruised, certainly. Maybe cracked. He’d had worse.
With a quiet groan, he forced himself upright and into the nearest alleyway, hand pressed to his aching ribs. There was no time to linger. He had what he came for. He just needed to make it home.
Hoovian was waiting for him in the shadows of a side street, flicking his tail and stamping his hooves in a way Dorian interpreted as concern.
“Come now, old friend,” Dorian murmured, stroking his neck as he untied the reins. “I fell, not died.”
Hoovian snorted.
Dorian pulled himself into the saddle with a grunt, pain lancing through his side. “Yes, yes. You disapprove.” He nudged the horse forward, heading out of Thornmere. “Let’s just get home.”
Dorian was exhausted by the time he made it home.
The journey back had been longer than expected, and his bruised ribs protested every movement.
He crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anyone, to deal with Ariella’s fussing or Soren’s glaring or even Rookwood’s offer of food.
He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep.
The renovations in the main bathroom meant that it was currently out of use. Dorian had forgotten to use the one on the bottom floor, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of hobbling back downstairs now. He felt like he’d taken a sledgehammer to the ribs.
He slipped into the adjoining bathroom he shared with Selene.
She would probably already be asleep, anyway.
He kept quiet just in case, buttoning his shirt and peeling it away to inspect the damage.
A dark motley of bruises was spreading across his ribs.
Dorian winced as he pressed them, drawing himself water to attempt a compress .
He’d barely been in there a minute before the door swung open. Selene froze in the doorway, eyes widening as they swept over him. He watched, mildly fascinated, as the flush crept up her neck, reaching the tips of her ears.
His shirt lay behind him on the side of the tub.
Dorian exhaled sharply. “Sorry,” he murmured, dropping the sponge into the sink. “I forgot… with the renovations in the other room—”
“No, no, it’s fine !” she said far too quickly, voice higher than usual. “This is your house, after all!”
“It’s our house, Selene,” he reminded her.
She hesitated, her lips parting slightly. “Ours?” she echoed, as if testing the word.
“Yes. Yours, mine, Ariella’s, Soren’s, Rookwood’s.”
Something flickered across her expression before she glanced away. Dorian wasn’t sure why he had said it like that, and wondered if he should have just left it at ours. Usually, it felt wrong not to include the others. Tonight, it felt wrong to mention them.
Selene still wasn’t looking at him. He supposed it was the first time she had seen him in a state of undress… at least in this timeline. She probably wasn’t used to seeing any man undressed.
Her gaze caught on the darkening bruises, and her entire expression changed.
“Heavens, Dorian,” she breathed, stepping forward. “What happened?”
He reached for his discarded shirt, shrugging it on with a wince. “Horse threw me coming back from town earlier. It’s nothing.”
“Did you hurt yourself anywhere else—”
“No, honestly, it’s fine—”
She pursed her lips. “How come you got to fuss over me when I fell off the horse, and I’m not allowed to do the same?”
Dorian sighed. He was too tired for this argument. “I don’t need you to fuss over me, Selene.”
“I didn’t need the fuss, either,” she pointed out. “And yet, I got it. ”
He scowled. She had him there. He held his breath as she stepped closer, hands reaching with a softness that made him ache. He could have stopped her. Should have, maybe. But he didn’t.
She peeled his shirt back to examine the bruises, fingertips ghosting over his skin. Dorian clenched his jaw. Not from pain—but because she was so damn gentle, as though her touch alone might ease the ache. He wanted her touch so badly that he feared he might crumble beneath it.
Her fingers pressed lightly to the worst of the bruising, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“What can I do?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Dorian’s throat went dry. “A cold… a cold compress wouldn’t go amiss.”
She’d done this for him before, in another life. Blood, not bruises, but almost in the same place, like patterns bleeding through the timeline.
Back then, she’d kissed him.
He didn’t think she’d do so now.
Selene nodded and turned to the basin, running a towel under the water. He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face, trying to steady himself. When she pressed the folded cloth against his side, he hissed through his teeth and tensed.
“Sorry,” Selene murmured. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” he admitted. His hand hovered near hers. For a second, he almost took the towel from her. But instead, his fingers curled lightly around hers, keeping her touch there, keeping her with him.
She stiffened slightly, her breath catching.
Dorian closed his eyes. “But please don’t stop.”
His ribs ached dully beneath the cold press of the damp cloth, but it was a manageable pain. What was far less manageable was Selene’s presence, so close, so careful, her fingers steady against his skin.
“I think you should go to bed,” she told him.
He groaned—not out of protest, but because he knew she was right, and that was somehow worse.
His head dipped forward, nearly brushing her shoulder. He caught the faintest scent of her, something light and warm, and it made his exhaustion feel heavier. “All right,” he murmured at last, forcing himself to move.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he made it back to his room without stumbling more than once.
Selene was still behind him. A flicker of surprise crossed his face at the realisation, though he didn’t question it.
Instead, he simply sighed and sank onto the edge of the bed, bracing his hands against the mattress to steady himself.
The bruising protested at the movement, but he had little energy left to care.
Selene hesitated in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the room. Never, in any lifetime, had she ever been in here before. He wondered what she made of it.
He barely registered her stepping closer until she pressed the compress to his side again. His head tipped back against the bedpost, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion dragged at him. He was too tired to pretend this didn’t feel oddly comforting.
“You should lie down,” she murmured.
Dorian made a sound of acknowledgement, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to.
Then, to his quiet astonishment, Selene reached for the blanket and pulled it up over his shoulders. His lips curved faintly, almost without thinking. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
He should have stopped her when she knelt down, but his thoughts were slow, sluggish.
Before he could protest, she was unlacing his boots, slipping them off and setting them aside.
He exhaled, sinking further into the mattress.
Sleep tugged at him, and by the time she finished, he was already slipping under.
He heard her move away, lingering only a moment before retreating. The quiet click of the door shutting was the last thing he registered before sleep claimed him entirely.
He dreamed of Luna again, Luna by the midnight irises, bathed in moonlight.
“Will you dance with me tonight?” she asked.
Dorian wanted to, but he couldn’t make his feet move. He looked down, and found that vines had wrapped around his ankles.
“I can’t,” he said.
Luna bowed her head sadly.
“Where’s the child?” he asked.
Luna drifted around the garden like a spectre, the white layers of her dress slow and floating. “What child?”
“Our child,” he insisted.
Luna shook her head. “You worry too much about things that aren’t.”
She turned and walked away from him.
“Luna—” he cried out. “Don’t leave.”
She turned back to him. “I never did.”