7. The Unexpected Arrival #2
But he didn’t ask. Didn’t push her into a conversation she wasn’t ready for, or force her into a lie. For now, he simply held her closer, basking in the impossible reality of this moment.
And the fact that she liked his hair.
It was hard to leave Selene’s side after that.
Harder still to stand in the shadows and watch her paraded around on the Duke’s arm, her head held high, her expression serene.
No one looking at her would suspect the truth—that she carried his child, not the Duke’s.
That every moment she spent in that man’s presence was a quiet torment.
But he had to leave.
He had to do everything in his power to ensure this was the timeline that endured. That neither of them ever had to endure another reset. That their child would have a future. If worse came to worst, Selene could come back in time with him.
Their child couldn’t.
The thought alone was enough to send him into a frantic hunt.
For weeks, he chased down every lead he could find, following the faintest whispers of treason like a bloodhound on a scent. He sought out merchants, couriers, and disgraced nobles who might have reason to despise the Duke, anyone who could confirm a connection between Ashvold and the rebellion.
He intercepted letters wherever he could—bribing messengers, rifling through correspondence left unattended in the Duke’s residences, even breaking into a scribe’s quarters in the dead of night.
Nothing.
He scoured trade records, searching for illicit transactions that might point to smuggled supplies or hidden rebel funds. He found bribery, blackmail, and the usual corruption that clung to men like the Duke, but nothing to suggest an alliance with Ashvold.
At night, he watched the Duke’s manor from the rooftops, tracking his movements, seeking clandestine meetings or secret dealings. He found nothing but the expected gatherings of nobles, the petty scheming of the court.
It made no sense.
If he hadn’t seen it himself—if he hadn’t fought the Duke alongside Ashvold in another life—he’d start to think there was no connection at all.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Dorian sat at the edge of the campfire in the middle of the woods outside of the Ashvold mountains, fingers digging into his temples as if he could press some revelation into his skull.
The night was cold, the wind stirring the leaves in restless whispers.
He barely noticed. The papers strewn before him—the intercepted letters, the meaningless records—offered nothing but silence.
Footsteps crunched over the brittle grass. He didn’t look up.
“Something’s changed,” Soren said, dropping onto the log beside him. His tone was too casual, like a man testing the weight of a sword he already knew was sharp. “You’re running yourself ragged. And before you say you always do that, I mean worse than usual.”
Dorian exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because nothing makes sense.”
Soren studied him for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “It’s more than that.”
Dorian said nothing.
Soren leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Dorian? ”
Dorian inhaled sharply. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Soren. It was that saying it aloud made it more real. But hiding it wouldn’t help.
“Selene’s pregnant.” The words were barely more than a breath.
Soren blinked. He sat back slightly, processing. “The Duke’s?”
Dorian shook his head.
Silence. Then—
“Well, shit.”
Dorian huffed a bitter laugh.
Soren scrubbed a hand down his face. “That’s—damn, Dorian.” He exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head. “Congratulations? I’m not entirely sure what the proper term is in a situation like this.”
“No. Me neither.”
“So what now?”
Dorian flexed his fingers. “We finish this.” His voice was steady, but inside, everything was unraveling. “The Duke still has to die. Nothing else changes.”
Soren tilted his head. “Except everything already has.”
The journey back to the bower stretched unbearably long, every mile between him and Selene a quiet agony. He had spent weeks away, drowning in dead ends and false leads, chasing ghosts through a maze that refused to yield. But none of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was her.
By the time he reached the garden, the moon was high, bathing the world in silver. He barely remembered dismounting, barely felt the ache in his legs as he ran up the winding path to their sanctuary. The door was ajar. Candlelight flickered within.
And then—
“Dorian.”
Her voice.
He barely had time to breathe before she was in his arms, slender and soft, her warmth pressing into him as if she could crawl beneath his skin.
He crushed her against him, burying his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of roses and ink.
She trembled in his grasp, fingers digging into his coat, holding onto him as tightly as he held onto her.
He couldn’t speak. He could only feel.
“I missed you,” she whispered against his shoulder.
He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “I missed you more.”
She laughed, breathless, and pulled back just enough for him to see her properly. A flush warmed her cheeks, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—shone with something he wanted to name love.
And then he saw it.
Just a hint. The faintest curve beneath the layers of her gown, soft and new and utterly real.
His breath caught.
Selene smiled, slow and knowing. She reached for his hand, guiding it to her stomach, pressing his palm flat against the place where their child grew.
“I can feel it,” she murmured. “Not much, but… it’s there. Like butterflies dancing under my skin.”
Dorian’s fingers curled instinctively, as if he could hold the life within her. He couldn’t feel anything yet—not truly—but he imagined it all the same. The shape of their child, small and safe beneath her skin.
His throat worked, but no words came.
Selene smoothed her hand over his, covering it completely. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Are you happy?”
“Yes.” His voice was rough, raw. “Terrified. But happy.”
She leaned in, brushing her lips against his. “Good. ”
Dorian kissed her then, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his mouth against hers. She sighed into him, melting against him, and for a moment, there was nothing else—no war, no plots, no uncertain futures. Just this.
Just them.
They sat together for a long time, curled in each other’s bodies, Selene’s hand resting on her middle. “I think it’s a boy,” she told him.
“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “Any reason?”
“Just a feeling,” she replied.
“I rather like the idea of a daughter,” he said, “especially if she’s anything like you.”
“I rather like the idea of a son,” she said, “especially if he’s like you. There’s a shortage of good men in the world. I would like to put more into it.”
Truth be told, he didn’t mind either way.
He didn’t even mind if it wasn’t his. Soren was no less his brother for not sharing any blood with him, Rookwood any less his family.
Ariella was his sister, not his half-cousin.
The names of these things didn’t matter.
All that mattered to him was that it was Selene’s baby, and for that reason alone he would love it.
“Dorian,” said Selene, her voice slightly wavering.
“Yes?”
“If… if worse comes to worst, and this timeline doesn’t work out… I still want to come back with you.”
Dorian looked at her sharply, knowing what that would mean, what she’d be leaving behind. “Selene—”
“But I really, really don’t want to have to. If that’s the only choice we have, then I’ll do it, because I don’t want to forget, I don’t want to forget you or our baby but please, please don’t—”
Dorian silenced her with a kiss. He kissed her deeply, letting his lips speak the promises he couldn’t yet put into words.
Her hands clung to his shirt, as though holding onto him might anchor her to this moment, to this timeline, to this fragile hope they had built.
He felt the faintest tremble in her fingertips, the only sign of the fear she kept hidden beneath her poise .
When he finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I won’t let it come to that,” he murmured. “I swear it.”
She exhaled, a shaky sound that barely passed for a laugh. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
Selene closed her eyes and rested against him. The fire crackled beside them, casting long shadows across the bower. Dorian wrapped an arm around her, his palm returning to the gentle swell of her belly, as though he could shield the life growing there with his touch alone.
Selene clung to him fiercely, desperately, like she was trying to fuse herself to him through sheer force of will.
As though she, too, couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.