23. Distance and a Dance
D orian woke first. Selene was pressed against him, tucked into his arms, her hair in his fingers. He had no idea if she’d come to him, or he’d drawn her towards his chest in the night. The latter seemed more likely. Even in sleep, his body called for hers.
The early morning light squirmed through the curtains, turning her butter-yellow hair into liquid gold.
The rays painted over her skin. He’d never seen her in this light before, never seen her peacefully sleeping in the dawn light.
It was a privilege that had been forever denied to him in any of his past lives.
It ought to have been denied to him in this one, too. How in the world was he ever supposed to be able to let her go?
But for now, he didn’t have to. He curled his arms tighter around her and held her close.
In the morning, the constable returned to deliver the news that they’d arrested some poor lad for poaching and that the whole incident seemed to be a terrible accident.
Dorian wasn’t fooled, especially with Lord Fairmont insisting he’d go lenient on the boy if Dorian consented.
No doubt he’d been paid off by the Duke for his confession.
At least he had a better story for Selene, although she didn’t seem convinced either. He couldn’t help but feel that perhaps she was lying when she said that the Duke had never touched her inappropriately. She clearly knew that he was capable of all sorts of horrible things.
He didn’t press it. He didn’t want the answer.
The journey back to Ebonrose was long and uneventful.
Word had already reached the house about the accident by the time they returned.
Ariella met him on the steps to punch him in the uninjured arm, and then Aunt Elizabeth grabbed Selene to take her for what she said was ‘tea’ but Dorian highly suspected was actually an interrogation.
He did not envy her.
He went straight to his study and set to work again.
Would the early engagement of Ophelia and Everton have any kind of ripple effect?
Would the Duke’s attempt on his life have consequences?
It had been a foolish move, on his part, clearly not thought through and done in the heat of the moment…
possibly spurred by Dorian’s aggression towards him.
He still didn’t regret it.
Dorian leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers to his temple. His pen hovered over the parchment, but his thoughts refused to stay on the inked lines before him.
The Duke had been reckless. That much was obvious. But would he try again? Or had he realised that an unsuccessful attempt on Dorian’s life was worse than none at all? A failed assassination invited scrutiny, suspicion, retaliation. The Duke was too calculating to make such an error twice.
Unless he was desperate.
He tried to take comfort in the fact that Selene would never consent to marry the Duke now, but it didn’t bring him much. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he stared out of the window. He should have been thinking ahead, planning contingencies… but all he could think about was Selene.
He could still feel the imprint of her body over his, the weight of her kisses, the taste of her breath. He could live a hundred lifetimes and not forget it.
It could have been nothing—he knew that. But if it had been something… If there was even a chance—
Could he make this loop the last one?
His fingers skimmed the mended hole in his jacket. It was Marta who had collected it, but Selene who had fixed it while she was waiting for him. She’d stayed up. She’d kissed him, though neither of them had spoken about it since…
The study door creaked open. Soren appeared, holding up Ariella’s medical basket.
“Your bandages need changing,” he said.
Doren didn’t bother answering. He sighed, taking off his jacket, undoing his cufflink and sliding up his sleeve.
Soren perched on the end of his desk and set to work whilst Dorian stared at the papers of his desk as if the Duke’s inner circle would leap from the ink and present him with the perfect evidence.
Soren was silent as he snipped away the old bandage.
“I’m still waiting for you to say something along the lines of ‘I told you so ’,” Dorian remarked.
For a moment, Soren didn’t reply. “I didn’t want to be right,” he said eventually.
“Well, who would?” He glanced down at his desk. “Are you going to tell me to be careful?”
“That depends. Are you going to listen?”
“...No. ”
“That’s what I thought.”
Soren discarded the old bandage, wiping down the wound, paying no attention to when Dorian winced. They’d doctored each other’s wounds enough times by now.
“Are you going to tell me to keep my distance from Selene?” Dorian asked.
“I think that would be even more foolish than telling you to be careful.”
Dorian looked down. Soren was right, of course. He should keep his distance, though. And not because of the Duke, but because of how she made him feel—unfocused, intoxicated, distracted, painful. It was like fighting off an illness.
He wanted to succumb.
“She was very worried last night,” Soren remarked, his voice flat as he wound a fresh bandage around Dorian’s arm.
“I know,” Dorian replied. “I… I kissed her.”
Soren raised an eyebrow.
“She kissed back. Quite enthusiastically.”
“I see,” Soren said. “So, are you thinking about making the marriage… official?”
“I don’t think that’s what she wants. I think she was just scared and lonely and in need of a distraction.
” She’d kissed him in the past without feeling, not that she remembered.
He had no reason to suspect that this time would be any different.
She didn’t want to be with him, not really. She couldn’t.
Soren secured the bandage. He opened his mouth, as if to say something—no doubt to warn him off again—but quickly shut it.
“Try to make this the last wound you receive on her behalf,” he said, collecting up the equipment.
“I mean… I’ll try.”
Soren sighed. “You’re such a liar, Dorian.”
Dorian couldn’t disagree with that. It was only a question of how many people he was lying to.
And whether he counted himself amongst that number.
Dorian kept his distance. It was easier that way—at least, that was what he told himself.
He still attended their nightly game sessions, but the games grew shorter, the conversations more perfunctory.
He let silence fill the spaces where easy companionship had once been.
He avoided lingering too long when their hands brushed as they reached for the same piece, and he did not meet her eyes unless absolutely necessary.
Work became his refuge. He buried himself in tasks, exhausting himself with long hours and endless calculations.
It helped, sometimes. The weight of responsibility dulled the ache, kept his thoughts from spiralling toward the memory of her kiss, the way her fingers had pressed into his skin.
He told himself it had meant nothing. He told himself it had to mean nothing.
Selene did not push. If she noticed the change, she said nothing, though he caught her watching him more often. He left the room before he could begin to decipher the looks she was giving him.
The days blurred together. He worked, he played his part in their evenings together, and then he lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of her touch as vividly as if she were still beside him.
It was torment. And beneath it all was the desperate hope that this time, this loop, he might finally get it right. That he might find a way to stay.
That he might find the courage to stop running from what he wanted most.
The Strawberry Festival arrived in a haze of summer heat, the air thick with the scent of ripe fruit and sugared pastries.
Dorian had no intention of enjoying it. He had kept his distance from Selene for weeks, and he had every intention of doing so today.
But the festival was a tradition, and traditions had to be upheld.
He moved through the square like a man going through the motions.
He listened to Rookwood and Ariella bicker over strawberry tarts, watched as Selene took her place as a judge, her expression softening with quiet delight as she sampled each dish.
He kept his hands clasped behind his back, his face impassive.
She was radiant in the glow of the sun, the light filtering through the banners painting her in shades of gold and crimson. He forced himself to look away.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the festival shifted.
Music filled the air, laughter and the stomp of dancing feet echoing through the square.
He watched Rookwood pull Ariella into a twirl, saw the way Soren scowled as a group of determined village girls dragged him into the dance.
It was easy to stand apart, to pretend he was unaffected.
Until he met Selene’s gaze.
She stood at the edge of the revelry, a cup of wine in hand, her lips curved in amusement. She had flowers in her hair. He shouldn’t have noticed that. Shouldn’t have let himself wonder if she had woven them there herself or if some village child had pressed them into her palm.
He had made a decision. Had told himself that distance was the safest course. But how long can a bee deny itself the taste of honey?
He stepped forward. He offered his hand.
Her fingers slipped into his without hesitation.
The music swelled, and suddenly they were moving—spinning, stepping, swept along by the rhythm of the festival.
It was nothing like the dances they had been trained for, no careful waltz or courtly measure.
This was fast, messy, alive. Selene laughed, and the sound of it cracked something inside him.
His hand was firm at her waist, hers steady in his grasp. For the first time in weeks, there was no tension between them, no hesitation, no carefully measured distance. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress.
It was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake. But in this moment, with the music thrumming in his chest and Selene’s laughter ringing in his ears, he let himself have it.
Just this once.
The moment Dorian saw Lu standing at the edge of the festival, half-hidden in the shadows beyond the lantern glow, the warmth of the dance faded from his skin.
He let go of Selene’s hand with a murmured excuse, stepping away from the revelry, from the music, from the fleeting, dangerous moment of happiness he had allowed himself.
He told himself it was for the best. He had no right to her laughter, no right to the way her hand had fit so perfectly in his.
Lu’s arms were folded, her thin shoulders drawn in, as if she could make herself disappear.
Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises—fresh, ugly things blooming across her cheekbone, barely concealed beneath a hurried attempt at powder.
The sight of it sent a familiar coil of helpless anger twisting in his gut.
He had seen her like this too many times, had tried too many things to free her from the life she was bound to.
Every cycle, every attempt—always met with failure.
Nothing would free Lu until her husband was dead.
He approached slowly, careful not to startle her. She flinched anyway when he reached up, fingers brushing just shy of her jaw. Her lips parted as if to form an excuse, but she must have known better by now. He had stopped asking obvious questions years ago.
Instead, he kept his voice even, almost casual. “How are the children?”
“Asleep at home,” she murmured. “He’s… out drinking.”
Of course he was. The only blessing in all of this was that Alfred’s drunkenness would eventually be his undoing. He’d slip on an icy bridge this winter, and that would be that. A fitting end, though it would not come soon enough.
“Are you all right?” he asked .
“I wanted some air.” She hesitated before adding, “And I wanted to see the festival. Just for a little while.”
He nodded. “Did you visit the solicitor I recommended?”
Lu tensed, her fingers tightening where they gripped her own arms. Dorian had to stop himself from pressing further too quickly. He had learned, over the cycles, how to lead her to a choice without making it seem like his own.
“I did,” she admitted. “He… he said it was possible. If Alfred agrees.”
“He will.” Dorian infused certainty into his tone. Alfred was a fool, and fools were easily led. The promise of security, the illusion of control—those were the things that would make him sign. Dorian had seen it before, and he would see it again. He just needed Lu to take the next step.
“I don’t know.” Her voice wavered, her uncertainty palpable. “I shouldn’t be thinking about this.”
“You should.” He looked at her, willing her to see reason. “It’s for the children. For you. This isn’t about hope, Lu. It’s about preparation.”
She swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the festival, where music still played and people still laughed. A world apart from hers. Then, at last, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Dorian gave her a reassuring smile. She almost always agreed, of course, but every cycle he was nervous that this would be the one where she wouldn’t. He needed her to be safe. He needed everyone to be safe.
Just in case this cycle got to be the last.