21. A Ball and a Bolt #2
The Duke hesitated, his fingers flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to snatch her back. But what could he do? Accuse her of lying? Demand she stay in his arms?
Instead, he forced a smile, though his eyes gleamed with irritation. “Of course. Perhaps another dance another time.”
Selene did not answer. She simply leaned into Dorian as he guided her away.
The moment they were out of earshot, Dorian exhaled sharply. “That was quick thinking,” he murmured. “Though next time, warn me before you decide to swoon.”
She peered up at him, her expression edged with amusement. “Would you have caught me if it were real?”
His lips twitched. “Obviously. What kind of husband would I be if I let my wife collapse in the middle of a ball?”
My wife. How strange to say out loud. How easy to forget that it was all an act.
But she was definitely more his wife than the Duke’s. He wasn’t going to let her go back to him. Not in this life. Not in any life. Not again.
He led her toward a quiet alcove, where a servant had already set a glass of water on a tray. Dorian took it and handed it to her, trying again to ignore how the brush of her fingers rippled inside him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, voice softer now.
She took a sip, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
His gaze lingered, searching. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Dorian watched Selene exhale, something shifting in her posture. He waited for her to insist that she was fine when she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Dorian had seen the way Drakefell looked at her.
Before she could answer, a flurry of bright silks and familiar voices descended upon them.
“Selene! Darling!” one of Selene’s friends crooned, sweeping in with all the dramatic concern of someone who loved a scene. “Are you quite all right? You’re very pale.”
“Are you sure you aren’t with child?” the Fairmont girl whispered, conspiratorial, as if sharing some sordid secret.
Dorian went rigid. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt lightheaded. No, Selene was definitely not with child. But she had been, once.
He wondered if he would ever stop thinking about that.
He turned on his heel and walked away.
He barely registered Selene assuring them that she was not, in fact, with child. He just needed to remove himself from the conversation before he had to contemplate it any further.
Behind him, Selene’s friends fluttered around her, fussing for a moment before deciding she needed fresh air.
He heard them guide her onto the terrace, their chatter shifting from her well-being to the beauty of the night, the splendour of the gardens—utterly forgetting her in the span of a few minutes.
Dorian exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He needed a drink.
Dorian waited for the rest of the ball to unfold with the same mediocrity as it had in every other cycle—the same carefully orchestrated steps, the same predictable exchanges.
Then, like a hand shifting the course of a falling glass, Lord Everton had deviated from the familiar pattern and officially proposed to Ophelia.
A ripple of surprise had spread through the ballroom, quickly swallowed by excitement.
Across the dancefloor, Selene met his gaze, her expression as carefully composed as ever, save for the smallest curve of satisfaction at the corner of her lips.
This was her doing. She’d altered fate before by marrying him whether she knew it or not, and somehow she’d altered it for her friend, too.
The night swept onward, a blur of golden candlelight and jubilant voices. Ophelia glowed with joy, her hands clasped in Everton’s. He, in turn, looked as though he had wrestled destiny into submission and emerged victorious .
Dorian could only hope to be as happy as they were one day, but that kind of happiness seemed forever beyond him. It looked too easy. Dorian had forgotten what ease felt like.
The rest of the party clearly hadn’t. The air swelled with celebration.
Glasses clinked, laughter swirled through the hall, and the Rosavante began—a dizzying, whirling affair that left the dancers breathless and light-headed.
Dorian slipped through the revelry unnoticed, ducking away into shadowed corridors where the music faded to a distant hum.
He took advantage of the distraction and did a search of the other guest’s rooms, but found nothing of interest beyond half-drunk goblets and idle gossip. A waste of time, but at least he had spared himself the excess of merriment.
Or wondering why Selene had looked at the Duke that way, almost trembling at his touch. Like she knew all that he was capable of.
When he returned, the ballroom had quieted.
The candlelight burned lower, casting long, flickering shadows against the gilded walls.
The guests had begun to thin, laughter drifting in softer waves, the night settling into something slower, more languid.
Dorian found himself a drink, but his attention was elsewhere—searching.
He found Selene on the terrace, framed by the cool night air and the gleam of the stars. The moon hung high above the gardens, vast and luminous, washing the hedgerows and fountains in silver. The light caught in her hair, turning it to silk, and pooled over the pale curve of her throat.
For a moment, Dorian could only watch.
She was breathtaking like this—unburdened, unguarded, lost in the quiet wonder of the night. It was impossible to believe that she was his.
Except, of course, she wasn’t. Not in the ways that mattered.
He hesitated, then stepped outside to join her.
“Happy with your meddling?”
She turned at his voice, and a smirk flickered across her lips. She clinked her glass lightly against his. “Exceptionally. ”
Dorian studied her. “You’re different tonight,” he said.
She tilted her head. “How so?”
He leaned in, just enough that his voice was meant for her alone. “Lighter.”
The word settled between them. Her gaze drifted back to the ballroom, to Ophelia and Everton still twirling across the dancefloor.
But the moment darkened as another thought came to him. Dorian had spent the evening turning over the same question in his mind, weighing the right way to ask. There was no right way.
“About earlier,” he murmured. “I have to ask… Duke Drakefell. Did he ever… touch you in ways you didn’t want to be touched?”
Something passed through Selene’s expression. “No,” she said at last. “He did not.”
The tension in his shoulders eased, a breath slipping from his lips before he could stop it. Relief. It must only have been the rumours he’d spun that unsettled her.
Selene watched him. “What would you have done if I’d said yes?”
“I don’t know. Probably something foolish.”
“For my sake?” she teased.
Yes, for your sake. Everything, always, for your sake.
A breeze stirred between them, cooling the warmth of champagne and candlelight. Dorian became aware of how close they stood, how her gaze met his, how the world beyond this moment had shrunk into nothing at all.
He was quite certain she had never looked at him like this before. His eyes dipped to her lips, perfectly parted. His body ached with the memory of them. If he just bent down—
Thwip.
Dorian jerked back as a white-hot sting sliced through his arm. A sharp hiss escaped him, his glass slipping from his fingers, shattering at his feet. A beat later, red bloomed against his sleeve.
Selene stared at it, uncomprehending.
Then she screamed.