24. Up in Flames
T he renovations on the house finally concluded.
Dorian was surprised to discover that Selene had transformed what was previously their shared dressing room into a receiving room—a kind of private parlour for the two of them to play their games in.
He’d never really used the dressing room before—he had a separate armoire for his limited wardrobe—although he noted, somewhat guiltily, that Selene had carved out some space from her original room to use as a dressing space.
She had designed it for two. She didn’t have to use her own space, and he’d not thought to offer his.
Too late, now.
Selene had been distant with him since the Strawberry Festival.
She still talked to him, still played with him, still smiled and laughed in that delicate, Selene way, but there was a tiredness to it that hadn’t been there before, like her actions were rehearsed.
He couldn’t think of anything specifically that he’d done to incur her displeasure—or even if that was truly what it was—but he noticed it nonetheless.
No doubt, he reasoned, it was either just a reflection of his own distance, or she’d finally come to the quiet conclusion that whatever happened between at the Fairmont ball was a regrettable—if fun—mistake, and that they were better off as friends.
Friends. Friends. As if he could ever be just friends with Selene Duskbriar.
You made this decision, he told himself. Live with the consequences.
And yet, night after night as he worked away in his study, he still held onto the faint remnants of hope that if he was careful, if he was clever, maybe, somehow, things would be different.
Dorian drifted through a dream of warmth and soft laughter, of sunlight tangling in golden hair, of Selene’s fingers brushing over his own.
It was a fleeting moment, fragile as morning mist, and when he reached out, she faded into the distance, leaving only a lingering sense of loss.
He called after her, but his voice hadn’t carried.
The warmth receded, replaced by something heavy, suffocating—
He woke with a start, coughing, his throat burning.
Smoke stung his eyes, and he blinked blearily at the dim glow flickering across his desk.
There was movement, frantic and urgent. Water splashed over him, cold and jarring, dragging him fully into awareness.
His papers were on fire. His desk was smouldering.
And Selene—Selene was there, stamping out flames.
He tried to stand, but the smoke clawed at his lungs, sending him into another fit of coughing.
His limbs felt sluggish, his mind struggling to keep up with what was happening.
The air was thick, acrid. He barely registered the rush of footsteps until strong hands surrounded him.
Rookwood, Soren. He wheezed, feebly batting them away, but they ignored him entirely.
Selene remained in the room, standing amidst the charred remains of his work. Her hands were trembling. The scent of smoke clung to everything.
Ariella’s voice cut through the haze. “Get him out,” she ordered, already moving forward to throw up the window.
Rookwood hauled Dorian upright, Soren coming round to his other side. Dorian wheezeed, trying to shoo them away, before finally giving up.
He was halfway up the corridor before he realised he was missing his glasses.
“Has anyone seen my glasses?” he called out.
No one answered. He supposed it didn’t matter all that much. His eyes were already stinging. Soren and Rookwood dragged him upstairs to his bedroom, his lungs still raw from the smoke. They forced him into bed.
“Take this,” Rookwood insisted, forcing a glass of water into his hands.
Dorian’s throat burned, and every breath felt heavy, like something thick clung to his ribs. Soren pressed a cool cloth against his temple. Dorian flinched, blinking up at the dim glow of the candlelight, trying to focus.
“I’m not sick, Soren—”
“It’s for your eyes, you fool. Stop squirming.”
Grudgingly, he relented, allowing the cool compress to soothe his irritated eyes. He found himself both annoyed and relieved when it was finally taken back.
“Are you quite finished fussing?” he muttered, voice rough as gravel.
“Are you quite finished trying to set yourself on fire?” Soren countered, standing with his arms crossed, looking equal parts irritated and concerned .
Dorian exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head just enough to see movement in the doorway. A flicker of pale fabric, the sound of footsteps too light to be Ariella’s.
Selene.
There was something in her expression that made his stomach twist, some weight pressing behind her eyes that had nothing to do with the fire. She held his glasses in one hand, so tightly he feared she might bend the frames.
“Get out,” she demanded.
Rookwood and Soren both looked at her like she’d gone mad. Dorian might have too, if he weren’t so damn tired. She barely even spared them a glance, her eyes locked onto him. When they hesitated, she turned her glare on them instead.
Dorian gave a shallow nod. The door clicked shut behind them.
A letter landed on his bed. Selene’s hand trembled where she had thrown it. “What’s this?”
Dorian’s tired mind struggled to catch up. He picked up the paper, unfolding it. As soon as his eyes skimmed the words, his stomach sank. It was a letter from Duke Drakefell. The one he’d sent to his father years ago.
I hope you won’t take the incident the other day to heart. We are both better men than that. I have a business proposition of a delicate nature I wish to discuss with you in person—something concerning the future of our country. If you’re amenable, please send word by this address…
Dorian had been poring over it in his study before he nodded off—an old habit. He’d stare at the ink like it would rearrange into a confession if he glared hard enough.
It was the note that had started everything.
“A note from the Duke,” he said, voice careful.
“I can see that.” Her tone was dagger-sharp. “What I want to know is why you kept it, and why your study is filled with maps of the Ashvold mountains and my grandmother’s estate.”
Dorian hesitated, the weight of her stare pressing down on him. He knew what this looked like. Gods, what she must be thinking…
“Selene,” he began, his voice still hoarse from the smoke .
She didn’t let him finish. “You cannot be in league with the Duke,” she uttered, the words falling from her lips, rushed, almost painful. “So why…” Something shifted in her face, an awful thought settling in her expression. “Is this why you married me? Do you… do you want control of Nocturne Hall?”
He froze. The question shouldn’t have hurt—it was only logical that she’d wonder—but it did. Fear had replaced her anger now. She asked it like someone terrified of the answer.
“Selene, no,” he said, forcing himself upright despite the way his head spun. “I don’t—I wouldn’t—I would never…”
“Then explain it to me!” she demanded. “Make this make sense!”
Dorian opened his mouth to explain but immediately dissolved into a fit of coughing.
Selene huffed as if he’d done that just to spite her, and hastily passed him a glass of water. “Do not expire when I’m mad at you!”
“N-noted,” Dorian croaked, drinking as best he could. When he had downed most of the glass, he gestured to the space beside him. “You may wish to sit down.”
Selene did—but not next to him. She settled herself in the chair by the window, as far away from him as she could. She crossed her arms like a schoolmistress. “ Talk .”
Dorian sighed. Then, slowly, carefully, he told her the truth—at least the part that would make sense. “The letter isn’t for me.”
“It’s addressed to Lord Nightbloom.”
“It is,” he agreed. “It’s a long story, but it starts just over four years ago, when my father received that letter from Duke Drakefell.”
Selene glanced back at the paper. “Your father?”
Dorian nodded. “My father was no fool, and he knew to be wary of any offer from the Duke. He had no love for the man, but he was curious as to why the Duke wanted to do business with him, of all people. He attended the meeting, and he gathered that what the Duke was looking for from him was… people.”
“People?” Selene’s brows furrowed. “Whatever for?”
“I’ll get to that,” Dorian said. “My father was no man of business, but he was good with people and looking out for those under his care. The Duke wanted him to find people in need of work, for a job in the north, paid handsomely—or so he claimed. My father sensed that he was in danger of getting involved in something… untoward. He politely declined the Duke’s offer, made his excuses, and left.
He thought that would be the end of it. And perhaps it would have been, had the Duke and his other allies not decided that my father still posed too much of a threat. They sent an assassin after him.”
Selene’s eyes widened. “An assassin?”
“Yes. Luckily for him, it was the assassin’s first solo mission.
The assassin’s guild in Ashvold, they do things differently.
There’s honour in killing a person that needs to be killed—one for the many, or so they say.
The assassin reached his mark before attempting the kill and found he had qualms about it… particularly when I got in the way.”
“You—you were there when this happened?”
Dorian nodded. “I begged the assassin to stop, and so did my father. He appealed to the boy, made him put down the weapon… and he did. He told my father everything he knew. Which, admittedly, wasn’t much, but it was enough for my father to draw the connection between Drakefell and Ashvold.”
“What… what happened next?”
“My father adopted the assassin.”
“Your father…” Selene stared at him, repeating the words like learning a new language for the first time. “Your father adopted the man who tried to kill him?”
“Soren’s hardly a man. He was only thirteen at the time, and, to be fair, he didn’t exactly try very hard.”