32. A Daring Rescue #2
Soren sighed. “Of course you’re not going to wait, are you?”
Dorian threw him a sharp look. “Are you coming or not? ”
Soren muttered a curse, then yanked his reins hard. “Try not to fall off your horse before we get there.”
They were off like a shot, the wind roaring in their ears, hooves pounding the earth as they raced towards Black Hollow.
Dorian and Soren reined in their horses just beyond the tree line, breath misting in the cool night air. The inn stood before them, its windows flickering with candlelight, the Duke’s carriage looming outside like a spectre.
The sight of it made Dorian’s blood seethe. He’s still here. Which meant Selene was still here.
Hopefully.
Please be here..!
The couple of tavern staff were loading trunks onto the carriage. There was something exaggerated about their movements, almost comical. They looked at each other, glanced around them to make sure no one was looking, and tipped a trunk straight into the mud.
A footman in the Duke’s colours went red-faced with frustration, barking at them to clean it up. He was clearly in a hurry.
“What are they doing?” Dorian muttered.
Soren exhaled sharply. “Trying to delay things.” His eyes flicked toward the inn. “The lad from the tavern—the innkeeper told us to fetch him. The people here are on our side. It’s the rest we have to worry about.”
Dorian barely heard him. His gaze had locked onto the building, searching, desperate, his heart hammering as he scanned the windows—
He couldn’t see her. Not from this angle, through those windows.
“We need to get closer,” he told Soren .
They slid from their saddles, careful to keep to the shadows, slipping around the side of the inn. A door creaked open nearby, and both of them tensed, hands on their weapons—
A serving wench stepped out, a sloshing bucket in her hands. She startled at the sight of them, eyes wide.
Dorian lifted a finger to his lips. She hesitated—then, ever so slightly, nodded.
Her gaze flicked toward the inn’s door, then back to them. She knew why they were here.
And she wasn’t going to stop them.
With one last glance around, she ducked back inside.
Dorian watched her through the window as she whispered to the man behind the bar. He glanced towards the back door, and nodded.
Then Dorian saw her.
Selene.
She was inside, sitting stiffly near the fireplace, her hands clenched into the fabric of her clothes. The Duke was speaking to her, too far away for Dorian to hear, but his casual posture made Dorian’s teeth grind.
The bastard thought he’d already won.
Dorian gripped the hilt of his sword, pulse roaring in his ears.
“She’s still here,” he breathed. “She’s still here .”
Soren nodded. “Then we don’t have long.”
It was getting dark. Dorian glanced around the rest of the room, taking stock. The Duke had a lot of men. Too many to fight alone. He glanced back at the hills, as if he could will the reinforcements into existence.
Come on, he prayed, come on!
He glanced back to the inn. The Duke’s impatience was beginning to show. He drummed his fingers against the table, his expression tight with irritation as he muttered something to one of his men. He yelled something at the innkeeper.
Selene hadn’t moved from her spot. She held herself stiff, defiant—but Dorian could see the way her fingers gripped her skirts, the tension in her shoulders .
Time was running out.
Movement shone on the hills.
Across the road, slipping between the fields and trees, figures emerged—armed with swords, pitchforks, and whatever they could find. Dorian’s heart surged. The villagers had come.
Old Thomas led them, crouched low as he signalled for them to fan out.
Soren nudged Dorian. “It’s time.”
They moved swiftly, keeping low as they made their way to the Duke’s carriage. The footman and driver were still arguing with the tavern staff, distracted by the shoddy packing.
Soren struck first. Silent as a shadow, he grabbed the footman from behind, yanking him into the darkness. Before the man could cry out, Soren twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to his knees and shoving a rag in his mouth.
Dorian took the driver, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him off the carriage seat. The man barely had time to react before Dorian forced him against the ground, twisting his sword from his grip and tossing it aside.
The driver struggled, but Dorian pressed a knee against his back, shoving him down. “Not a sound,” he growled.
Soren was already tying the footman’s wrists. “Don’t fight, and you’ll live.”
The footman, smart enough to know he was outmatched, went still.
The tavern wench emerged again, bucket in hand. She looked at the tied-up men, then at Dorian and Soren. She smiled ever so slightly.
Dorian nodded to her. She dipped her chin in response and slipped back inside.
It was happening.
Around the inn, their reinforcements spread out, taking their positions.
Dorian turned to Soren, pulse hammering in his throat. He held out his hand. Soren gripped it, and then drew together in a brief battle embrace .
The inn door opened. The Duke exited, pulling Selene behind him. Dorian tightened his hold on his sword. The courtyard flickered with torchlight, the scent of burning oil thick in the cool night air. Drakefell’s men hesitated, hands flying to their weapons.
They had good reason to be afraid.
Dorian stood at the head of a force twice the Duke’s numbers—Soren, Ariella, Rookwood, the villagers of Lower Thornmere, and the inn’s staff forming a wall of steel and fury behind him. The Duke and his men had nowhere to run.
Dorian barely registered the burn in his limbs or the way his balance swayed beneath him. He had one focus.
Selene.
His gaze found hers—wide-eyed, searching—before dropping to the Duke’s fist clamped around her wrist.
He raised his sword and pointed it directly at Drakefell.
“Let go of my wife.” The words scraped against his throat, raw and furious.
Selene twisted in the Duke’s grip, fighting against him, but Drakefell held firm. His lip curled. “You should be dead.”
Dorian forced his legs to hold him steady. His body protested—his breath shallow, his muscles weak—but he didn’t lower his sword.
“And you shouldn’t steal another man’s wife,” he said. “So I guess we’re both disappointed.” He took a step forward, the movement draining, but he ignored it. “I won’t ask again. Let. Her. Go.”
The Duke sneered. “You can barely stand.”
Dorian exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip. “I may be struggling,” he admitted, his voice softer now, but no less sharp. He flicked his sword towards the crowd behind him. “They aren’t. It’s over, Drakefell. You can’t fight us all.”
The Duke hesitated. His gaze swept over the armed villagers, the inn’s staff, at his own driver and footman, bound and gagged.
Once, the Duke and Dorian had stood like this before, in front of a large group of people, while he held Selene in his grip. Dorian had watched as they watched, as they didn’t act.
And he had watched as Selene died .
But not today. Not with everyone beside him. The Duke was outnumbered. This was not his turf or his people. They were Dorian’s. They were Selene’s.
With a snarl, the Duke hurled Selene toward him. Dorian barely had time to brace before she crashed into him, knocking them both off balance. He caught her instinctively, arms locking around her as he staggered under the impact. Her breath hitched, and his was warm against her temple.
But there was no time.
Drakefell ran.
Dorian steadied her, his fingers lingering at her waist just long enough to make sure she was unhurt. Then he gently passed her towards Ariella. “Stay here.”
“Dorian—” she started.
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He bolted after the Duke, pushing past the pain, past the weakness still clinging to him from the poison. Every step jostled his ribs. Every breath felt too shallow. But none of that mattered.
He was finishing this. He was ending the man.
The Duke’s men lunged, but they were hopelessly outnumbered.
Steel flashed in the dim light—blades clashing with the sharp ring of metal on metal.
Bodies collided in brutal bursts, chairs overturning, glass skidding across the cobblestones.
The once-bustling inn had become a battlefield—tables shattered, tankards spilled, plates crashing.
The air stank of sweat, smoke, and blood.
Dorian pressed on through the chaos. The Duke’s men were being driven back—stumbling over the wounded, slipping on spilled wine and slick stone.
A scream tore the air as a guard was thrown into a table, his helmet rolling free.
Another went down with a gurgled gasp, a blade driven through a gap in his armour.
The din was relentless—shouts, boots scraping, steel crunching through flesh. A storm of violence.
He didn’t look for Selene, didn’t allow himself the distraction, not even when she called his name. He had to get to the Duke. He had to.
“Drakefell!” he yelled.
The Duke turned. A pistol flashed in his grip. Dorian skidded to a halt—
The crack of the shot never came.
Soren’s knife spun through the air in a blur of silver. Drakefell cried out. The pistol clattered to the ground, blood pouring from his hand.
Selene kicked the weapon out of reach.
Dorian wanted to yell at her to get back, to return to Ariella, to admonish her for following him, but his eyes were still trained on Drakefell.
He crashed into him, all momentum and fury, their bodies colliding in a tangle of limbs and blades.
Boots scraped on slick stones. He hit hard—but Drakefell recovered faster, slashing out with his sword.
Dorian fell back, parrying. Their blades met with a shriek of metal.
He fought with everything he had—fiercely—but he wasn’t at full strength and every strike seemed to slough away another inch of it.
He clenched his jaw, tight with effort. His shoulders burned.
A sharp ache burst through his side with each movement.
The Duke saw the opening. He twisted his blade and drove it forward.
Dorian barely turned it aside. The edge raked across his ribs, slicing through cloth, grazing skin. He hissed through his teeth, stumbling, adjusting his stance. Pain bloomed hot beneath his arm, and for a second, he felt his footing slip.
The Duke came at him hard. Strike after strike. Dorian blocked, countered, but he was losing ground. Forced back toward the alley’s edge. His chest heaved with the effort.
He heard Selene cry his name again, fear cracking her voice.
He thought that she really might love him, and it was monstrously unfair that he was going to die before he ever heard her say it.
Dorian stumbled, narrowly dodging a vicious slash. His back crashed hard against the stone wall. Pain flared up his spine. He barely had time to think before he saw her—Selene—diving across the cobblestones .
She didn’t hesitate. She seized the discarded pistol, scrambling to her feet. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath ragged, but she raised the weapon and pointed it squarely at the Duke’s chest. Her hands trembled.
“Drakefell!” she shouted.
The name rang through the alley like a bell. Enough to make the bastard pause. Drakefell turned with a sneer, amusement curling on his lips.
“You won’t do it,” he said.
Selene’s fingers tightened around the grip. “You almost killed my husband,” she snapped, her voice cracking under the strain.
Drakefell laughed—a low, condescending sound that scraped against Dorian’s nerves. “In a minute, I’ll succeed.”
The pistol wavered slightly in her hands. Dorian doubted she’d ever held a pistol before, let alone shot one. If she missed—
“You’re weak,” the Duke said, venomous. “You’ve always been weak. That’s why I—”
“How can I be weak if I survived you?” she shot back. Her voice rang with defiance, and it struck something deep inside Dorian.
Drakefell had done something to her. He knew it.
Drakefell faltered. His brow furrowed. “What are you—”
She pulled the trigger.
The crack of the shot tore through the alley. The bullet missed—barely—whipping past the Duke’s head close enough to stir his hair. Selene gasped, recoiling, her arms shaking so violently she almost dropped the weapon.
Drakefell laughed again, wild and victorious. “Pathetic—”
A flash of steel flew past Dorian.
Soren’s dagger sank deep into the Duke’s shoulder. His laughter broke off in a strangled snarl as he stumbled, clutching at the wound. His eyes blazed with fury.
“It’s unusual for me to miss,” Soren said mildly, tilting his head. “I doubt it will happen again.”
Drakefell staggered, his good hand pressed against the bloodied mess in his shoulder. Around him, his men lay broken or unconscious. He was alone. They were not.
He took a step back. Then another.
“This isn’t the end of this,” he growled, voice low and venomous.
“Soren’s next throw will be,” Dorian replied, the words ice-cold. “If my sword doesn’t get there first.”
The Duke hesitated, teeth clenched, and then turned, disappearing down the alley with a stagger. Dorian stepped forward. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. Every part of him burned with the desire to chase him down and finish it.
He wasn’t sure he had the strength left to run, though. And—
“Dorian,” came Selene’s voice, soft and hoarse. “Please…”
He turned.
She stood there, trembling, barely upright. The pistol had fallen from her hands. She looked like she might collapse with the next breath.
Dorian didn’t wait. He crossed the distance in two steps and caught her, pulling her into his arms. She folded against him without resistance, her arms slipping around his waist. His own grip was iron-tight and shaking.
He couldn’t tell if it was the remnants of the poison or the pure adrenaline of almost losing her again.
“You’re here,” she whispered against his shoulder. “You’re all right.”
“More or less,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair.
“You came for me.”
“I’d die for you,” Dorian said softly, the truth heavy on his tongue. “No matter how many times it takes.”
She didn’t respond. Her body went limp against him.
“Selene?”
But she was already gone, unconscious in his arms. He caught her before she could fall, cradling her gently as he sank to his knees. His breath hitched. She was safe. Alive. But Gods, he’d come so close to losing her again. She’d come so close to losing him.
He held her tightly, whispering her name. Too much. She had been through too much .
Dorian’s vision swayed, his own body dangerously close to giving out, but he gritted his teeth and held her fast.
He wouldn’t fall.
Not yet.
“Soren,” he rasped. “Help me get her home.”