30. A Grave Man
H eat burned through Dorian’s veins, licking at his skin like fire. He barely felt himself hit the floor. The world around him blurred—shadows shifting, voices distant. His pulse pounded in his ears, an erratic, unsteady rhythm. He tried to move, to speak, but his body refused to obey.
Somewhere far away, Selene was screaming.
“Help! Someone, help!”
She was close. He could feel her hands on him—gripping his shoulders, shaking him. He wanted to tell her to stop, to reassure her, but the words tangled in his throat, lost to the fever building inside him, to the pain spreading rapidly across his limbs.
Footsteps. The door crashing open. A sharp intake of breath.
“What happened?” Soren’s voice.
“I don’t know! He just—he just—” Selene’s voice broke.
The floorboards creaked. Another presence knelt beside him, quick, sure fingers pressing against his throat. Ariella. She exhaled sharply.
“Get the physician,” she ordered.
Dorian forced his mouth to move. “No physician.”
It came out as a rasp, barely more than a whisper. The effort left him dizzy. A physician couldn’t help. He knew what this was. He’d seen it before. Everything felt too hot, too close, like the fever was pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs.
His hand felt the worst. His hand felt like it was on fire.
“Hand…” he murmured, hoping that they’d understand.
Selene stilled beside him. For a moment, she hesitated—then he saw the realisation dawn in her wide, frightened eyes.
He tried to lift his arm, but it was too heavy, too slow. His right hand throbbed, a deep, searing ache radiating outward. The skin was swollen, flushed an angry red. Thin, black veins sprawled from a small wound near his knuckles, creeping like cracks in glass.
Soren cursed under his breath.
“Poison,” he said grimly.
“Poison?” Rookwood’s voice cut through the thickening fog. “Dorian’s been poisoned—”
Selene gasped. “The Duke,” she stammered. “The Duke did this. He grabbed Dorian’s hand—”
Soren seized Dorian’s wrist, inspecting the wound. Pain jolted through him, a sharp spike that sent nausea rolling through his stomach. He groaned, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Soren muttered, gentling his grip.
Their voices tangled together—questions, orders, tension thickening in the air. Dorian caught snatches of them, pieces slipping through the fever haze.
“Can we amputate?” Rookwood asked bluntly.
“No,” Soren said, before Dorian could dwell on such an action. “Not once it’s in his bloodstream. That won’t save him.”
“Then what will?” Selene’s voice, desperate.
Silence.
Dorian tried to focus. The darkness pressing at the edges of his vision deepened.
“Soren.” Selene again, her voice sharper now. “ What will? ”
Soren exhaled, jaw tightening. “There’s an antidote,” he admitted. “I usually keep some on hand, but—”
Selene’s breath hitched. “You used it.”
Soren didn’t answer.
“You used it on yourself,” she realised. “You were poisoned and you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want anyone to worry.”
Selene let out a strangled noise—half a sob, half frustration. “We’re worried now! Dorian might—” She cut herself off, voice cracking.
Might not survive.
Dorian felt her grip tighten around his hand, her fingers trembling.
Soren’s entire frame tensed, fists clenching. “I can get more.”
Rookwood was already moving. “I’ll get a horse ready.”
“No.” Ariella’s voice was firm. “I will. I’m faster on my feet.” She turned to Soren, her expression brooking no argument. “Pack your bags. Rookwood, get provisions. Selene—stay here with Dorian. We won’t be long.”
Dorian barely heard the rest. Everything was pulling him down, dragging him under. It was so hard to think, to concentrate…
But he felt Selene’s hand, still gripping his own, ignoring the fevered burn of his skin.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
The voices blurred together, distant and meaningless.
Footsteps retreated, doors opened and closed, but none of it mattered.
Heat pressed against Dorian’s skull, smothering, suffocating.
Every breath came too shallow, too fast. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, but even keeping his eyes open felt like too much effort.
A cool touch brushed against his skin. Small, familiar hands slipped beneath his shoulders, lifting. He groaned, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea crashing through him. His limbs felt distant, sluggish, barely responding .
“I know, I know, just help me a little, please.”
Selene.
He tried. Gods, he tried. But his limbs weren’t his own, leaden and useless. The moment he put weight on his legs, they buckled. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision. If not for Selene’s grip, he would have collapsed.
Somehow, she got him to the bed. He barely noticed when the mattress met his back, only that the room spun and his chest heaved, the heat swallowing him whole. His head lolled against the pillows, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead.
In the pit of his gut, something curled, turning everything inside him sour. His stomach cramped, twisting violently, and a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He clenched his jaw, trying to will it away, but the sickness only surged higher.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispered. The words scraped out of him, hoarse and unsteady.
Selene was gone and back in an instant. A cool rim pressed against his lips—he didn’t have the strength to lift his arms, to hold it himself. The moment he turned into the vase, his body lurched, and he convulsed with dry, wrenching heaves.
Agony tore through his gut, hollow and merciless. The tremors didn’t stop, not even when there was nothing left. When it finally subsided, he slumped against Selene, too drained to move, too fevered to care.
The vase clattered against something, but Selene didn’t pull away. Her hands remained on him, though he barely felt it past the fever burning through his skin. He must look like an absolute wreck. He didn’t have the strength to care.
Slowly, she eased him back into the pillows. He wanted to open his eyes, his mouth, anything. He should tell her… something. Reassure her. Apologise for vomiting. But his tongue felt thick, his thoughts sluggish, lost in the fire coursing through his veins.
The moment Selene peeled his sweat-soaked shirt away, a shudder wracked through him. The touch was barely there, but it didn’t matter—his entire body recoiled, pain lancing through him like a knife .
A broken sound escaped him. He couldn’t stop it. Fabric peeled away, cold air rushing over sweat-slick skin. He shuddered involuntarily, his body recoiling from even the lightest touch. A hiss of pain slipped through clenched teeth.
“Sorry,” Selene murmured, voice tight with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
His throat worked around the effort of speaking, but no words came.
A deep ache radiated from his right hand, the throb of it setting his nerves alight.
His fingers twitched, but only his left responded.
The right remained lifeless, swollen, the dark veins spidering out from the wound like ink spilled beneath his skin.
A damp cloth pressed against his forehead. Dorian sighed at the welcome relief, the coolness seeping through the fever, offering the smallest reprieve. But the relief didn’t last. Heat built again beneath his skin, unbearable. He shifted, his body wracked with restless discomfort.
“Too hot,” he mumbled.
“I know.” Selene’s voice was soft, steady. Another cloth, this one trailing along his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Each touch soothed and stung all at once. He barely had the strength to flinch.
The blankets were pulled away. A window cracked open. The night air did little to quell the heat rolling off his skin, but it was something.
The world tilted again, fading in and out. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Still, he turned his head slightly, seeking her out, needing to anchor himself to something, someone.
“Selene…”
“I’m here.”
A hand, gentle and cool, smoothed back damp strands of his hair. He wanted to say something—anything—but only a breathy sigh escaped before darkness pulled him under again.
Heat. It pressed against him, heavy and stifling, seeping into his bones, wrapping around his limbs like chains.
He drifted in it, somewhere between waking and dreaming, where time curled in on itself and nothing felt real.
Shadows moved at the edges of his vision, voices dipping in and out of focus, some sharp, some soft, all unintelligible.
The world came and went.
A hand—cool, steady—pressed against his forehead. Selene. He knew it was her, even before she whispered his name. He tried to speak, but his throat was sandpaper, his lips cracked. All that escaped was a rasp, a breath, a ghost of a sound.
She shushed him gently. “Don’t talk. Just rest.”
He didn’t know how long he’d been there.
Hours? Days? The fever coiled around his thoughts, turning them to smoke, slipping between his fingers when he tried to grasp them.
He remembered flashes—Selene’s voice murmuring to him, Ariella’s cool hands lifting his arm to bandage it, Rookwood’s name spoken somewhere in the distance.
At times, he was cold, shivering so violently that his teeth chattered, and Selene was there, pressing warm cloths to his skin, murmuring reassurances.
Other times, he burned, heat radiating from every inch of him, and she peeled back the sheets, dabbing a damp cloth along his collarbone, his wrists, his forehead.
Once, he tried to move. A spike of pain lanced through his hand—his right hand, the one that no longer felt like his own, swollen and stiff, veins dark and wrong. He gasped, body jerking, and Selene was there in an instant, pressing him back down.
“Shh, I’m here,” she breathed, fingers brushing against his. “It’s all right. Just rest.”