6. The Bower House #2
Selene’s gaze flickered to his face, searching. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, or if I’m doing something wrong—”
“I will,” he said, and it was a lie.
He wouldn’t stop her. He wouldn’t do anything at all except sit here and pretend that the warmth of her hands against his bare skin wasn’t undoing him.
Selene’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration as she worked. He could feel her breath, shallow and steady, could see the way the candlelight flickered in her glass-green eyes.
“There’s not much to wound cleaning, to be honest,” he managed, willing his voice to stay steady. “And this one doesn’t require stitches.”
Her lips pressed together, but she nodded, continuing with careful, deliberate strokes.
Dorian let out a slow breath, and told himself that this was only about tending his wounds. That the heat in his skin was nothing more than discomfort.
And that he was absolutely not staring at the way her fingers trembled just slightly as they traced the edges of the wound.
“That’s a relief. I’m a deft hand with a needle, but I don’t think I’d be so steady sewing skin…”
She reached for a length of clean linen, folding it carefully before pressing it against his side.
Her hands were sure, steady as she wound the bandage around him.
Dorian let his eyes slip closed for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of lavender that clung to her.
When she tied the knot and smoothed the fabric in place, her fingers lingered, just for a second.
Her hand stilled, and she looked up at him. There was something unguarded in her gaze, something he did not trust himself to name. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”
“This is absolutely nothing, I promise you. ”
Selene rose to his level. A single breath stood between them, the silence stretching too long, too full. Then, before he could think to stop her, Selene leaned in and kissed him.
It was light, barely there, the softest press of her lips against his. A question more than an answer. A moment, and then it was gone, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind.
Dorian did not move. Did not breathe. He told himself it meant nothing. He told himself he would not be selfish.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
“I thought it might help.”
Dorian lifted a hand but hesitated before touching her, his fingers brushing the empty space between them. “You can’t do that,” he said, though there was no real weight to the words.
She studied him, head tilted, considering. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll want more.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
Selene’s breath caught, but she did not pull away. “And if I wanted more?”
The world outside the bower ceased to exist. There was no Duke, no duty, no careful distance. Only her, and the warmth of her body close enough to touch.
Dorian exhaled, his voice low. “Then gods help us both.”
For a fraction of a moment, the space between them seemed poised on the edge of something inevitable. But then, as if the weight of reality had rushed back in all at once, they both faltered. Selene took a slow step back, folding her arms as though bracing against the chill in the air.
“You should rest a while,” she said, her voice gentler now. “But be gone before dawn.”
Dorian nodded, schooling his expression into something careful, something measured. “Of course.”
She lingered a moment longer, as if there were something more to say, but then she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the gardens surrounding the bower.
Alone, Dorian let out a slow breath and leaned back against the chair. His body ached, but the wound was nothing compared to the hollow ache settling in his chest. Touches from Selene made everything a thousand times better as well as worse.
After a moment, he reached for the small writing set Selene kept by the window. By moonlight, he scrawled a brief note in his precise, slanted hand, knowing she would find it long after he was gone.
Forgive me. I should have stopped you. I should have stopped myself. But for one moment, I wanted to be selfish. I wanted—
He stopped, exhaled, and struck the words through. Instead, he wrote:
Thank you for tonight. For seeing me. For letting me pretend.
He folded the note and set it atop the table where she would find it. Then, without another glance behind, he slipped into the night, disappearing before the sun could catch him.
When he returned to the bower the next night, he found a response to his note.
What if it isn’t pretend?
Dorian read the words over and over, his fingers tightening around the parchment. He took a drink to steady his thoughts. It didn’t help much.
It seemed to take an age for Selene to appear, and when she did, she hesitated in the doorway, her expression blank.
“You’re early,” she said. “How are—”
“Did you mean this?” He strode forward, waving the note in her face, his voice rougher than he intended.
Selene’s eyes flickered to the paper, then back to him. She nodded, solemn.
His breath caught. “ What did you mean by this? ”
Selene stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. “Do you honestly not know?”
Dorian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You know how I feel about you. I have always assumed it was… not reciprocated.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “And if it was?”
His heart pounded. “Selene—”
She kissed him.
Not the fleeting, stolen kiss of before, but something deeper, something real .
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
His resolve shattered. He kissed her back, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her, the impossible reality of her wanting this too.
He pulled away first, breathless, and he barely had time to think before he whispered, “You really ought to stop doing that.”
“I will,” she said, still dazed, “when you tell me to.”
Dorian tilted his head, his eyes still half shut, drunk on her kiss. “ Why do you keep doing that?”
“Because I like you, you silly fool.”
His stomach twisted. “This isn’t right. You’re married.”
Her expression darkened. “I am married to a man who hates me, who married me because I served a purpose, who treats me like…” Her voice faltered, trailing into silence.
Dorian clenched his fists, fury rising hot and sharp in his chest. I’ll kill him, he swore. One day, somehow, I’ll kill him.
Selene’s gaze met his, unwavering. “He broke his vows long before I broke mine. You tell me, Dorian Nightbloom, which is the greater wrong?”
Dorian barely had time to think before her lips were on his again, urgent and unrestrained. Whatever hesitation had existed between them before, whatever invisible line they had been dancing along, was gone now, burned away by the heat of her touch.
Selene pressed closer, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, fingers grazing his bare skin. A shiver ran through him, and he let out a sigh—more of a breathless, helpless sound than anything else.
She stilled at once, her lips parting from his as she pulled back. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” His hands curled around her waist, holding her in place. “It doesn’t hurt.”
She looked unconvinced, her gaze flicking toward his wound.
Dorian kissed her harder, pressing himself into her warmth, into the only thing that had ever felt real in all these endless, miserable lifetimes. “Nothing hurts,” he murmured against her lips. “Nothing hurts apart from not being with you.”
A soft sound escaped her, something between a sigh and a surrender.
She kissed him again, and this time, neither of them stopped.
Gods, every dream he’d ever had about kissing her paled in the reality to actually having her in his arms, to tasting her exquisite lips.
She was soft and warm and real, and her body fit perfectly against his.
“Take off your shirt,” she demanded.
“Not going to check my wound, are you?” he whispered into her mouth.
“It isn’t your wound I’m interested in.”
Dorian obliged, shredding his waistcoat and shirt. Her eyes roamed over his body, and then her hands, sliding over his shoulders and down his stomach. “It is you, Dorian Nightbloom. All you.”
She lifted up her arms, and he helped her out of her dress.
Gods, there were so many layers in women’s clothes, and he had no idea how to remove them.
He wanted to rip them off, but Selene was more patient, freeing herself inch by inch—arms, ankles, thighs, breasts, until she stood before him completely naked.
She was moonlight personified. Dewy skin, soft dimples, perfect curves.
“You’re—” he began.
“Magnificent, yes, I know.” She cupped his face in her hands. “And so are you. Kiss me, Dorian. Tether me to the earth.”
“I’ve… I’ve never been with a woman before,” he told her. “I’m not entirely sure what they like.”
“Me neither,” she told him. “The Duke has never asked. ”
Dorian knelt before her, hugging her middle. He kissed her thighs. “Tell me what you like,” he begged her. “I will do whatever you ask.”
Selene guided him to the hearth and lay herself down on the rug.
He kissed her everywhere, until he found the places she liked to be kissed, to be touched, to be stroked and held.
She moaned into his mouth, cried out his name, dug her fingers into his hair, his skin.
Her body vibrated with pleasure. Every muscle of his ached for her.
Finally, when she assured him she was ready, he allowed himself to sink inside her. Bliss shot from his centre up to his spine. The pleasure was disorientating. It reminded him of dying, of coming back to life. His vision swam with stars.
Truth be told, he’d known nothing like it. All he knew was that she was bliss and oblivion, and he wanted to sink into her deeper than skin, to spark their souls together like chips of flint.
Afterwards, they lay together on the rug, bathed in the firelight. He dozed on her damp breast, her hands winding through his hair.
He knew then what he knew before, but now it was a story written in his flesh, branded on his bones, a truth so universal he felt the world was shaped around it:
He loved Selene Duskbriar, and he would reshape time itself to keep her safe.