33. A Fellow Traveller
D orian held Selene close as the carriage jostled along the road towards Ebonrose.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let her go again.
The steady rise and fall of her breath against his chest was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing convincing him that this was real. That she was safe. That she was his.
And yet, beneath the relief, anger simmered. He should have killed the Duke. He should have run him through the moment he had the chance. But a public execution—even one as justified as Drakefell’s—would have consequences. A noble’s murder, witnessed by dozens, would draw attention he didn’t need.
There was still work to be done. If they wanted to root out the Duke’s co-conspirators, they had to be careful. That would be harder to do if Dorian was known as the man who had killed him.
He exhaled, forcing the tension from his body.
It didn’t matter now. Yes, he had ways of changing the past, but he wouldn’t. He wasn’t going back in time again. This time, he was staying. Here, with Selene.
The carriage finally rattled to a stop outside Ebonrose. The manor loomed against the night sky, its windows dark, save for a few flickering candle flames.
The carriage door opened, and Soren hopped down. Dorian shifted, trying to gather the strength to lift Selene into his arms, but his body had reached its limit. His limbs trembled. He hated this—hated that after everything, he couldn’t even carry his own wife inside.
Soren must have seen the struggle in his face. With an exaggerated sigh, he stepped forward and bent to lift Selene himself.
“I’ve got her,” he said. “You focus on staying upright.”
Before Dorian could protest, Rookwood pushed himself off the carriage wall with a grunt, and slid his arm around Dorian, taking some of his weight.
“Between the two of us, we might have one decent pair of legs,” he told Dorian.
Dorian didn’t protest. Not this time. A thought crossed his mind as they both hobbled back to Ebonrose.
“Rook, the reason you haven’t been honest with Ariella… it’s not because of the leg, is it?”
Rookwood gave him an incredulous look. “I wouldn’t love her so much if it bothered her,” he said simply.
“Then what—?”
Rookwood sighed, adjusting his grip. “The problem is that once you’ve said something, you can’t unsay it,” he explained.
“And you, of all people, should understand the weight of that. We’ve both seen what happens when words and actions set things in motion.
If I tell her, even though we both already know, it will change things.
” He hesitated. “And change, my friend, is terrifying.”
Dorian considered that for a long moment, his own chest tightening. He had spent so much time trying to undo the past, to reshape fate itself, that the idea of letting things unfold naturally felt like a foreign concept. But he was done fighting time. He had to be.
“Are you going to tell Selene?” Rookwood asked at last.
“Yes.”
Rookwood exhaled. “How much?”
Dorian looked up at Selene in Soren’s arms, disappearing into the house. “I think all of it.”
Rookwood nodded. Then, after a moment, he said, “And if she doesn’t understand? You can’t even predict the future anymore. You’ve changed too much. How will you prove it to her?”
Dorian didn’t have an answer. Not yet.
But he was going to find one.
Selene lay unconscious in the bed, her chest rising and falling with steady, shallow breaths. The relief that washed over Dorian was so overwhelming it almost drowned him.
“You need rest, Dorian,” Ariella insisted.
“I am resting. I’m just resting here.”
He couldn’t leave her side. The thought of being anywhere but here , with Selene, made him feel like he might drown in the silence. His body might be weak and aching, every movement an effort, but he was alive, and she was alive. Why would he ever be anywhere she wasn’t?
He sank into the chair by her bedside, hands shaking as he brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered, though she couldn’t hear him. “I won’t let them hurt you again. Not ever.”
A small, itchy sensation started in the back of his throat, then a tickle in his nose. He rubbed his face, but it only made it worse. His breathing became laboured, his eyes watering .
“Meow?” said Mistress Stripe, jumping up on the bed to curl up next to Selene.
Of course—the cat.
His chest constricted, and he coughed violently. The room felt like it was closing in on him.
Ariella’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Dorian, you need to rest. Now.”
“It’s just the cat. I’ll be fine.”
“Remove yourself from this room at once—”
“Remove the cat!”
“The hair is everywhere, Dorian. That’s not going to help!”
He tried to wave her off, but the irritation in his throat made it nearly impossible to form words. He needed to stay with Selene. He needed to be here when she woke, to see her face, to know she was here and not trapped in that nightmare again.
But the world was starting to spin. He felt dizzy, almost nauseated. His vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe properly. He was going to pass out.
“Dorian,” Ariella’s voice was more insistent now. “ Get up . You’re going to make yourself worse.”
Soren and Rookwood had appeared in the doorway, exchanging looks that could only be described as unamused .
“Are you really going to make us carry you to your room again?” Rookwood asked, crossing his arms.
Dorian shook his head, trying to clear his vision. “I’m fine,” he rasped.
But Soren was already at his side, lifting him effortlessly from the chair. “Yeah, right. Fine. And now you’re about to be out .”
The next moments were a blur—hands on his arms, on his back, his head spinning as they forced him away from Selene’s side.
“No,” he tried to protest, but the words came out slurred and weak. His legs barely worked beneath him, and his hands flailed for something to hold onto. But there was nothing. Nothing but the cold, relentless pressure of their grip as they carried him back to his own room .
Rookwood was muttering something under his breath about Dorian’s stubbornness, but he didn’t stop.
“You need rest, Dorian,” Soren said, speaking to him as if Dorian were a child. “You can’t help Selene if you collapse on the floor. And if you don’t get your act together, we’re going to have to lock you in that room.”
Dorian wanted to fight, but he’d lost all the energy to. When they finally got him into his room and onto the bed, he collapsed like dead weight. His chest still felt tight, and his breath was laboured, but there was nothing he could do about it. His body begged for rest.
But even as he closed his eyes, the image of Selene lingered, a bright and painful ache in the hollow of his chest. She’s safe, he reminded himself, the words barely more than a whisper in his own mind. She’s safe. That’s all that matters now.
The door creaked open, and the physician, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a perpetual frown, stepped into the room. “No,” said Dorian, refusing his help. “Selene first.”
Ariella sighed. “Selene hasn’t been poisoned,” she said sourly.
“I’m not about to expire,” Dorian insisted. “ Selene first. ”
Both the physician and Ariella gave up and marched back to Selene’s room. The examination clearly didn’t take long, and the physician was back within minutes, Ariella behind him.
“She’s fine?” Dorian asked.
The doctor nodded, setting his hands carefully to his bag. “She’s fine. She’s resting. I’ve given her a sedative. She’ll sleep for a while. But she is unharmed, physically.”
Dorian’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though a part of him still burned with the need to be certain, to hear it over and over again.
“And now,” said the physician, “I really must examine you.”
Selene slept for nearly a full day. Dorian checked on her more times than he could count, always lingering in the doorway, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing.
Each time, Ariella was there, fussing over her, and shooing him away every time he came close.
He was in no state to be hovering, she made that clear without a word.
So he retreated, back to his own chambers, back to restless pacing and hours spent staring at the ceiling.
Ariella came in briefly to force him to take a bath, which he agreed to mainly because it brought him a little closer to Selene, and he did reek of sickness and horse and sweat still.
She’d probably prefer it if he smelled a little fresher when she came round.
He was banished back to his bedroom the second the bath was over.
His body still ached, exhaustion still weighing on him like chains, but sleep refused to come.
He should be relieved that Selene was safe, that she was here, just next door.
Instead, his mind kept circling back to the choices that had led them here, back to the things he still had to tell her.
But for now, all he could do was wait.
Dorian picked at his food, barely managing a few bites before pushing the plate aside.
He had no appetite, his stomach twisting at the mere thought of eating.
Finally, he lay down on his bed. Whether it was the lingering effects of the poison or sheer exhaustion, he didn’t know.
Eventually, his body made the decision for him.
Sleep pulled him under like a tide, dragging him into its depths before he could fight it.
When he woke, he was staring up at the canvas ceiling, the light muted, the scent of Ebonrose—woodsmoke, old parchment, something faintly floral—settling around him. His first thought was of Selene. Was she awake yet? He shifted, intending to sit up, but his hand slipped beneath his pillow—
And found something small and smooth, cool to the touch.
Frowning, he pulled it out and turned it over in his palm. A carved totem, freshly cut and intricate, depicting a figure that was eerily familiar. Dorian’s brow furrowed. It looked suspiciously like the goddess from the ruined temple.
How—