27. A Moment of Peace
S elene’s silence on the journey back to Ebonrose was a deafening, palpable thing.
Dorian wondered if he’d done the right thing by telling her about Luna and the baby, or if that had just placed another wall between them when he was trying to tear them down.
He desperately, desperately wished he could be honest with her, but how to explain that she was Luna, that he didn’t want to lose her or their child again?
Finally, mid afternoon, they arrived back at Ebonrose.
Ariella came out to greet them. Dorian wanted to check in on Soren, but Ariella told him he should wait until morning.
Selene announced her intention of going for a walk, rebuffing his offer of company—though not unkindly.
He took the trunks upstairs instead, unpacked his own, and summoned Marta to attend to Selene’s.
It felt too personal to be rifling through her belongings .
He checked on the horses, cleaned himself up, and then, the temptation becoming too great, decided to check in on Soren.
He was most surprised, when he got there, to find Selene already installed in a chair by Soren’s bedside, her voice filling the quiet space as she read to him.
She hadn’t noticed Dorian standing in the doorway yet.
He lingered, watching, realising how wonderful a mother she would make.
He hated that he was keeping that from her, and that he couldn’t even fully explain why.
Soren had drifted off by the time Dorian found the strength to speak.
“How is he?” Dorian asked, keeping his voice low.
“He’ll be fine.”
Dorian exhaled, stepping closer. He wanted to believe her, but his gaze lingered on Soren, taking in the fragile, fever-damp state of him. “Thank you,” he said, because it was easier than voicing everything else.
Selene shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Dorian wasn’t so sure about that.
He gave her a small, unreadable smile before looking at Soren again. His fingers twitched at his sides, useless. He had seen Soren bloodied before, wounded from battle, but this—this helplessness—felt worse. A soldier could fight back. A sick man could only endure.
Selene closed the book. “I’ll leave you with him.”
As she rose, Dorian caught her wrist, just briefly, her skin warmth beneath his fingertips. “Stay?”
She hesitated, then nodded. They sat together in silence, watching Soren sleep. Selene continued to read her book, closing it after a few more pages.
“Dorian?” Selene’s voice was soft.
“Yes?”
“I don’t regret last night.”
Dorian sighed. “I don’t, either.”
It was all he could bring himself to say.
Dorian sat with Soren long after Selene had departed. His brother seemed very much asleep, so Dorian eventually busied himself with tidying up his room, picking up discarded clothes and rags and sorting through his books.
He frowned at the tomes on poison. While Soren was skilled at the art of poison, it seemed unusual reading for the sick bed.
Even more unusual was the discarded syringe lying underneath them.
Dorian paled. It could be nothing, of course, but Soren was seldom careless with anything sharp, and his room was usually immaculate.
He sat down, chin perched on his hands, and quickly decided the anxiety would eat at him if he didn’t ask. He shook Soren’s arm.
“Soren,” he said, more loudly than he meant to, “why are your poison books out, and why do you have a syringe?”
“Please,” Soren hissed, his voice strained. “Don’t shout.”
“Then answer the question,” Dorian said, keeping his voice soft.
Soren exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his temple as if the light itself pained him. “I… I may have accidentally ingested poison at the Duke’s residence,” he admitted.
“You may have done?”
“I… I did.” He swallowed, grimacing as though even that was an effort. “I spilled one of the vials while I was investigating. Obviously, I made a mess of cleaning it up. Ashberry usually has to enter the bloodstream, but I must have had a tiny cut on my hand…”
He held up his left hand. One finger was swollen and bandaged, the skin around it still an angry red.
“It takes a while to take effect,” he continued.
“I managed to make myself an antidote before it got bad, but…” His fingers trembled as he lowered his hand, and he clenched them into the sheets to hide it.
“You let me go off to Dashridge’s while you were poisoned—”
“I wasn’t in danger,” Soren insisted, though the hoarseness in his voice betrayed him. “And you wouldn’t have gone if I’d told you.”
He was very right. Dorian absolutely wouldn’t have gone. He had seen firsthand what Ashberry could do to a person. It was what had killed his father. He wouldn’t have let it take his brother too—or even let him suffer through the symptoms alone. It made your blood feel like you were on fire.
Soren must have seen the way his expression darkened because he sighed and slumped further into the pillows.
“I know how much you want to find out who’s working with the Duke,” he went on, voice quieter now, as if talking itself was exhausting.
“So you can make this timeline the last one. I see how hard you’re trying, Dorian. This was what I could do.”
Dorian wanted to argue. And perhaps he would—when Soren was feeling better. Because he would go through another dozen loops before he risked losing Soren again. But there was something painful in Soren’s expression, something beyond the physical. A weariness deeper than the poison.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Dorian said quietly.
Soren attempted a shrug, but even that seemed to hurt him. His jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose before speaking again. “You have more to lose this time,” he murmured. “And so does she.”
“She read you one bedtime story, and suddenly she’s your favourite person?”
“How long did it take for her to win you over?”
Dorian flushed. “That’s different.”
“It certainly is.” Soren shifted, stifling a wince as he tried to get comfortable. “Besides, she isn’t my favourite person. You are.”
Dorian decided not to be mad anymore. He picked up the tome on poisons and flipped through it. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’ll be fine in another day or two,” Soren promised, though the way he spoke—slow and deliberate, like each word had to be forced past lingering nausea—didn’t inspire much confidence. “I administered the antidote quickly. No lasting damage.”
Dorian sighed and slumped into the seat beside him. He took Soren’s hand. It was too cold.
“If you can’t tell me next time,” he said, “please tell someone.”
Soren squeezed back, the pressure weak. “Only if you do, too.”