6. The Bower House
T he bower house became theirs. It was a small, dusty building, hidden amongst ivy-draped stone and wild roses, but it was the perfect meeting place—far enough from prying eyes, yet close enough to Nocturne Hall that Selene could slip away unnoticed.
And best of all, it was forbidden to men. The Duke would never set foot inside.
Dorian, however, quickly got past his qualms. The first time Selene found Dorian waiting for her there, he was lounging against the windowsill. She paused in the doorway, arms folded, an amused smirk curling at her lips.
“You know, you being here is highly improper,” she teased. “If anyone finds out, you’ll be banished from high society for trespassing in a lady’s sanctuary. ”
Dorian grinned, unrepentant. “I was considering disguising myself,” he said, tilting his head in mock thought. “A gown, perhaps. A bit of lace. Maybe a wig.”
Selene laughed, stepping further inside. “You’d make a terrible lady.”
He placed a hand over his chest in feigned offence. “I’ll have you know I’d be the most elegant lady in all of Ebonrose.”
Ariella would likely take offence to that, but Selene didn’t know her.
He’d mentioned her, but he’d not fully explained who she was to him, and of course, they’d never met.
Sometimes it hurt to realise that they likely never would.
Selene didn’t belong in his world any more than he belonged in hers. She’d never be a part of his family.
Selene rolled her eyes, but couldn’t fight her smile.
Dorian had expected their meetings at the bower house to be strictly business—exchanging information, plotting their next move, dissecting the ever-growing web of secrets that surrounded the Duke. And at first, that was all it was. But slowly, something else crept in.
One night, Dorian arrived with a bottle of wine and a half-smile, and by the time they realised it, hours had passed without a single mention of their mission.
Instead, they traded stories—childhood mischief, past adventures, old books that had made them weep or laugh.
Selene recounted a disastrous evening when her governess had caught her trying to sneak a stray cat into her chambers, and Dorian confessed to once having lost an entire hour in a bookshop, only to emerge and realise he had forgotten he was supposed to be at a formal dinner.
“Let me guess,” Selene said, swaying slightly where she sat beside him, cheeks warm from the wine. “You showed up late, terribly dishevelled, and still managed to charm your way out of it.”
Dorian huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve forgotten that I am not charming.”
“Yes,” said Selene quietly. “You’re right. I had forgotten that. ”
He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment, but he didn’t press it. He didn’t want to hear about it if she didn’t find him charming.
If she did, however…
He shook the thought away. She’s married, he reminded herself. In this life, she’s married.
But he found himself not wanting to undo this timeline, to go back to how they were before. He didn’t want her to forget.
“Come with me,” he asked, blurting out his thoughts.
Selene stared at him. “Where are we going?”
“If… if I have to reset this timeline, will you come with me?”
He expected her to refuse. It was a ludicrous thing to ask.
What would be the consequences of attempting to take three people back?
Would Soren understand if he only wanted to take Selene?
Would he even be happy to do that? Gods, was he honestly thinking about abandoning Soren for Selene?
No wonder he didn’t like her. What an awful thing to even cross his mind—
Not that it mattered, of course. She’d never agree—
“All right,” she said.
“All right?”
“Yes. I will go back with you.”
“You… will?”
“I think it makes sense, doesn’t it? If I go back, I don’t marry the Duke. That spoils his plans immediately.”
“That’s… that’s true.” Of course she would have a perfectly practical reason for accepting. Of course it had nothing to do with—
Selene leant closer to him, her fingertips pressing against his. “Do…” she began, “do you ever find yourself wondering how different things would be if…”
Dorian swallowed, his heart thumping madly. “Constantly.”
This was dangerous ground, far more fraught and terrifying than ransacking a study or spying on a suspect. He needed a way to escape, to get out—
He lifted his hand away from hers, and pointed towards the window. The stars stretched vast and endless overhead, and the moon hung full and bright, casting silver across the gardens .
“Do you know the story of the moon and the man she loved?” Dorian asked suddenly, his voice quieter now. It was better than fixating on what might have been, or the feel of her fingers beside his.
Selene turned to him. “I don’t think I do.”
He exhaled, watching the sky. “Once, long ago, the moon fell in love with a man. A mortal.” His fingers itched to return to hers.
“She would watch him every night, longing to be with him, but she could never leave the sky. And he—he would look up at her, knowing she was out of reach, but loving her all the same.”
Selene’s lips parted slightly, her expression unreadable in the moonlight. “What happened to them?”
Dorian smiled wistfully. “Nothing. They remained as they were. She watched him, and he looked for her. And so it has always been.”
A silence stretched between them, delicate as gossamer.
“Your name,” he continued. “Do you know where it comes from?”
Selene shook her head. “My mother just chose it because it sounded elegant.”
“It comes from the name Seluna, the moon goddess from an ancient world. The name of your ancestral home, Roselune, is derived from it.”
“Moon rose,” Selene whispered, connecting the dots. She smiled to herself. “A fine pair we make, moon roses and nightblooms. A veritable midnight garden.”
Dorian swallowed, his throat tight. He dreamed of another world, another lifetime, where the roses of the Duskbriar family twinned with the midnight irises of his own.
You are my goddess, Selene, he wanted to tell her. You are what I stare up at.
The story had clearly not been the distraction he desired.
“It’s a beautiful tale,” Selene whispered.
“Then it suits you.”
Selene smiled. “And this, Lord Nightbloom, is why I forget that you’re not charming. ”
“I have the occasional moment.”
“More than one,” she said, her face smiling brightly.
Ever since that night, Selene became Luna in his head, and in his heart. The goddess upon whom all his earthly wants revolved, who gave him life in a way the forgotten Goddess never could.
Late one night, Dorian hobbled back to the bower. He’d been investigating the mines again and had taken a nasty fall. He cursed himself for his recklessness. It would be a terrible end to his tale if he died from a simple accident.
The bower was dark but for the silver threads of moonlight filtering through the high lattice windows. Dorian had barely stepped inside before Selene turned from the hearth, her lips curving in a knowing smile.
“Late again,” she teased. “Should I start keeping a tally?”
Dorian smirked, removing his gloves with deliberate slowness. “Only if you promise to reward me when I finally arrive on time.”
Selene arched a brow. “Oh? And what sort of reward would you expect?”
He didn’t dare ask for a kiss. Instead, he stepped closer, tilting his head in mock contemplation. “A warm welcome, perhaps. A glass of wine. Your undivided attention.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You already have the last one.” But then her gaze drifted lower, catching the way he held himself, the slight tension in his stance. The humour in her expression faded.
“You’re hurt.”
He exhaled, weary in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be before now. “It’s nothing.”
Selene strode forward, lifting his arm before he could protest. The warmth of her fingers made him ache far worse than the shallow cut at his side. She pressed her palm lightly against his ribs, testing, and he bit back a sharp breath.
“Nothing?” she repeated, unimpressed. “Sit.”
Dorian hesitated. He doubted Selene was particularly skilled at dressing wounds. Ariella or Soren or even Rookwood would be better at assisting him.
But they weren’t here.
And she was.
And she was Selene.
So he sat.
Selene brought over a bowl of water and knelt beside him, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of roses and something deeper, warmer—wine, perhaps, or the lingering embers of the fireplace.
She reached for the cloth, her movements slow and cautious as she dipped the fabric and wrung it out.
He doubted she did this sort of thing regularly.
Dorian swallowed hard, pulse unsteady. He had never been undressed by a woman before—Ariella certainly did not count. And Selene, for all her experience in a Duke’s bed, had never beheld him.
She unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat with deft fingers and peeled it away.
His shirt was stuck to his skin where the blood had already crusted slightly.
Selene lifted the bloodied fabric aside, trying her best not to make it bleed again.
The air chilled against his skin as she peeled back the layers, baring him inch by inch.
He had never thought much of his own body—not compared to the Duke’s broad, imposing frame—but under Selene’s scrutiny, he was suddenly, absurdly aware of every lean muscle, every old scar.
Her fingers ghosted over his ribs, featherlight, and his breath hitched. He nearly closed his eyes at the touch, but then she spoke, her voice soft.
“I don’t know much about cleaning wounds,” she admitted, dabbing at the gash on his side. “I hope I’m doing all right. ”
Dorian forced himself to focus, to answer her instead of dwelling on the fact that she was touching him.
“You’re doing—you’re doing fine.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears, rougher than he intended.