7. The Unexpected Arrival
B y day, they played their roles: Selene, the dutiful wife, the poised and lovely duchess of Nocturne Hall; Dorian, the spy, sneaking around the mines, unravelling secrets. But by night—by night, they belonged only to each other.
She came to him after dinners, after long afternoons of enduring her husband’s presence, after days spent smiling for people who did not deserve her grace. She came to him when she was tired, when she was restless, when she needed to be anywhere but there.
Dorian wasn’t foolish. He knew she didn’t love him, at least not how he loved her.
He knew she was just sad and lonely and wanted to be with someone who was kind to her.
He found he didn’t mind, too much. He knew he made her happier, and when she smiled at him, he felt like he’d die to earn her laugh.
They talked away the evenings, speaking of things that didn’t matter—old books and childhood games, silly stories and gossip.
They drank wine and lay together in the dark, her head on his chest, his fingers idly stroking patterns against her back.
Other nights, they barely spoke at all, letting hands and mouths say what words could not, or dared not.
One night, Selene was late arriving. Dorian had begun to pace, half-wondering if something had kept her—her husband, some last-minute social obligation, a storm in the sky he hadn’t noticed.
Then the door opened, and there she was, breathless, pale, her hand braced against the doorframe as though she needed a moment to steady herself.
He was on his feet instantly. “What happened?” He crossed the room in three quick strides, reaching for her, his hands gentle as they cupped her face. She was cold.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she insisted, though her voice was thin, and she barely met his eyes. “I just… I feel a little under the weather tonight.”
His stomach twisted. “Can I get you something? What’s wrong, exactly?”
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “I just… I don’t feel right. I’m tired and sore, and I feel like weeping even though nothing is wrong.”
A sharp prickle of unease ran through him. “Have you seen a doctor—”
“Dorian.” Her voice snapped, sharper than he’d expected, and when he flinched, she exhaled and took his hand. “Can you please just… I just want to lie down in your arms. That’s all.”
He swallowed, heart tight. She looked so fragile, her usual poise shaken. Slowly, he nodded and drew her into his chest. She melted into him with a shuddering breath, pressing her face into his collar. Her soft body trembled.
They sank onto the chaise together, her body tucked against his, curled so small it made his heart ache. He reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and wrapped it around them both, shielding her from the night’s chill .
“You didn’t need to come down here if you weren’t feeling well,” he murmured, stroking his fingers through her hair. It was softer than he’d ever admit aloud, silk slipping through his touch.
She made a small sound, almost a laugh. “Would it surprise you to hear that I wanted to see you?”
His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its slow, soothing rhythm. He hesitated, then admitted, “Yes. It would.”
Selene huffed a quiet, tired laugh against his chest, the warmth of her breath bleeding through his shirt. “Is it so hard to believe I like you?”
Dorian’s hand moved absently against her back, tracing slow, careful circles. “You are an awful lot prettier than me, Luna.”
“And what’s that got to do with anything?” she murmured, still not looking at him. “The Duke is handsome, and he is awful. Meanwhile, you’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”
He hugged her tightly at that. “You’re still cold.”
“I’ll warm up soon.”
“You should rest properly, in a bed. If you fall asleep here—”
She hummed in response, but made no effort to move. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, a weak attempt to hold him there. “Not yet,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
It was two weeks before he saw her again.
Dorian had business in Thornmere—matters he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he wished he could, especially as he was trying so hard to make this loop the last. He hated leaving, especially with Selene feeling unwell, but she assured him she would likely spend most of her time in bed anyway.
It did little to settle his nerves. He could only hope she would be all right in his absence .
She’ll be fine, he convinced himself. Nothing had happened to her in any of the previous loops. It was likely just a cold, a stomach complaint. She’d be as right as rain with rest.
The days stretched unbearably long, his mind constantly tugged back to the bower, to the memory of her curled against him, pale and fragile. When he finally returned, it was with a stomach knotted tight, every nerve in his body strung taut as he waited for her.
Then she arrived—breathless, bright-eyed, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
The tightness in his chest snapped. He crossed the room in three long strides, gathered her up in his arms, and kissed her hard, his hands fisting in her coat as if to anchor her to him. She laughed against his lips, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, her fingers slipping into his hair.
When they finally pulled apart, he cupped her face between his hands, searching her expression. “You’re all right?”
Her answer was another kiss, softer this time, lingering.
They didn’t speak again for a long while.
They made love in front of the fire, the room aglow with flickering golden light, and afterward, they lay tangled together on the rug, her head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her. The fire crackled, filling the quiet, the scent of smoke and winter roses thick in the air.
Dorian brushed his fingers through her hair, lazily twisting a strand around his finger. “How have you been?” he asked, his voice low. “The Duke—has he been treating you well?”
“He’s been oddly kind to me of late.”
Dorian frowned. That was unusual. “Oh, yes? Any particular reason?” His mind whirred, seeking the angle. The Duke had never been kind to her before. A shift in behaviour like that could mean something had changed.
Selene hesitated. Then, in a voice softer than before, she said, “I told him I was with child.”
Dorian blinked. Then he laughed. “That’s not a bad idea.” If time had to reset again—although, gods, he prayed it wouldn’t this time—she’d never have to face the consequences of such a lie. And in the meantime, the Duke would likely keep his distance.
Selene did not laugh.
His smile faded.
“Wait,” he said slowly, dread creeping into his chest. “You’re not actually—”
“I am,” she whispered. “A physician confirmed it last week.” She shifted against him, propping herself up on one elbow. Her expression was unreadable. “I don’t… I don’t think it’s the Duke’s.”
Dorian went utterly still.
She had no way of being certain. And yet—she and the Duke had never conceived a child before, not in any of the timelines. The only thing that had changed in this one was…
Him.
A sharp breath rattled through his lungs. His throat bobbed. “What are we going to do?” His heart pounded so hard he could barely hear over it.
Selene reached for him, her palm cradling his face. “You are going to expose the bastard, and he’s going to be executed for treason,” she murmured, her thumb sweeping over his cheek. “Then I’m really hoping you’ll marry me, and we’ll raise this child together.”
Dorian exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment as he turned his face into her touch. He pressed a kiss to her palm, his lips warm against her skin.
He’d never considered it. Never thought—never dared—to dream of taking Selene to Ebonrose. It wasn’t her usual sort of place, but gods, she could do whatever she wanted with it. Or they could stay here, if she preferred it. Anything, so long as he was beside her.
And their child.
Their child. She was carrying his baby.
The thought staggered him.
He couldn’t speak for a long moment, words tangled in his throat. Selene seemed to understand. She curled herself around him, drawing his head against her chest, her fingers combing absently through his hair.
“You…” He swallowed, barely managing to force the words past his lips. “You want to marry me?”
She didn’t need to. She was already married. The King would likely seize the Duke’s estate. She’d likely lose the duchy—but Nocturne Hall would remain hers. She wouldn’t need him for money or protection.
“I think you’d make a good husband,” she said simply. “And an excellent father.”
Dorian let out a shaky breath as she tilted his chin up, catching his lips in another kiss.
“People will always assume it’s the Duke’s,” she murmured. “Unless it comes out looking exactly like you, and we cause a little social scandal—but you wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
He huffed a breath of laughter, though it sounded strained. “I wouldn’t mind even if it was the Duke’s,” he admitted. His fingers ghosted over her stomach, still flat beneath his touch. “You are mine, do you hear?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Both of you… all mine.”
Selene shivered against him, her fingers tightening in his hair.
They lay entwined for a long while, wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in the weight of something neither of them had expected.
“I hope it doesn’t look like me,” Dorian murmured at last. “I want it to look just like you.”
“Well,” Selene mused, “let’s hope it takes after you in every other regard. My grace and beauty, your heart. Your cleverness. Your goodness.” She carded her fingers through his hair, teasing. “I wouldn’t mind your red hair, either.”
“No?”
“It’s a lovely colour.” She smiled against his temple, pressing a kiss there. “I find I’m growing more and more fond of it every day.”
And me? he wanted to ask. How do you feel about me?
She wanted to marry him. She was happy to have his child. She expressed her fondness in endless ways .
It still might not be love.