34. Very Much Married #2
He laughs, the sound warm and quiet in the dimness between them. “Fair point.”
Her fingers trace idle shapes along his ribs. “Do you genuinely have no idea how many loops you’ve done now?”
He nods, his expression sobering. “More than ten, less than twenty.”
Selene cannot comprehend that. The breath she takes feels too sharp, like she’s inhaled cold air too fast. What that must be like… He’s had Soren for most of it, true, but not all. So much time spent alone. Too much.
But not anymore.
“How old are you?” she asks.
Dorian groans and rolls onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. “I knew you were going to ask me that…”
“It’s just, if you’ve come back in time so many times, you must be older than—”
“I’m not sure,” Dorian admits, letting his arm drop to the sheets. “It’s a bit hard to calculate. It’s rarely a full year, you see. A few months here, eleven there…”
“An estimation, then?”
“Thirty?” he says, glancing at her. “At a guess.”
Selene props herself up on one elbow, lips twitching. “And here I was, sure I’d never fall for another older man…”
Dorian groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “Selene, please.”
She trails her fingers down his chest, over the warm skin and faint ridges of his ribs. “I’m glad your body is still young.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you so shallow?”
“I’m so selfish, ” she corrects, voice softer now. “It means I get to keep you longer.”
Something flickers in Dorian’s gaze, his smile wavering, but she doesn’t have time to fixate on it. He swallows her worry with a kiss, slow and deep, until his fingers flex against her hip, holding her close.
“Any other questions?” Dorian asks when she pulls back, though his voice is rough now.
“You’ve told me the truth before, and it’s worked out well,” she says. “Why not tell me this time?”
Dorian hesitates, his fingers stilling against her waist .
“Because this was the first time you’d ever been my wife,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t want to risk that for anything.”
Something tightens in her throat, and she kisses him again, pouring every unspoken promise into it. She kisses him, and kisses him, until—
Dorian suddenly sits up in bed.
Selene startles, her first instinct that something is wrong, that the fever has returned, that he’s in pain. But no—his expression is one of mild panic, not suffering.
“We didn’t… I didn’t—” he starts, looking at her with wide eyes.
“Didn’t what?” she asks, propping herself up.
“We didn’t take any precautions.”
“Oh,” Selene says, realising what he means. “Is that really so terrible?”
His jaw tightens. “If I get you with child again, if I lose you again—”
She doesn’t let him finish. Selene grabs his face, firm but gentle, forcing his eyes to hers. “You are not going to lose me again,” she insists. “We’re going to change things. We’re going to be fine.”
Dorian swallows, his hands settling over hers. “I don’t want to have children with you until I know we’re bringing them into a safe world.”
Selene smiles, tilting her head slightly. “But you do want to have children with me?”
He lets out a breath of a laugh, almost disbelieving. “I’m sorry, did I not make that clear? Yes, absolutely, I want to have children with you—I want to have a family. A bigger one than we already have.”
“When we’re safe?”
“When we’re safe.”
She nods, satisfied. “You spoke of precautions?”
“There are… things you can do to minimise the risk,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Nothing fool-proof, of course, but still… better than nothing.”
Selene hums, running a hand down his bare arm. “I can work with that… ”
A slight spark of something ignites in Dorian’s face, sharp enough to make him tense. He exhales through his nose, pressing a hand to his side.
“What’s wrong?” Her fingers tighten on his arm, and she’s already shifting, ready to bolt upright, ready to summon help—
“Nothing,” Dorian says quickly, catching her wrist before she can move. “Just—lingering effects of the poison.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Should we call a physician—”
Dorian shakes his head. He rubs at the spot absently, rolling his shoulders as if to shake it off. His temple is pinched slightly too. “The physician came while you were asleep. He assured me it will pass. I should be fine in a few more days.”
Selene hesitates, her eyes flicking over his face, searching for any sign that he’s downplaying it.
“I promise,” he says, softer now, squeezing her hand.
She presses her lips together, still clearly unsettled, but after a moment, she nods. Slowly, carefully, she pushes his hand aside and replaces it with her own, resting her palm over the ache. “Here?” she murmurs.
He hums an affirmative, his breath hitching slightly at the warmth of her touch. Her fingers move in slow, gentle circles.
“You mustn’t hide things from me again,” she tells him. “ Especially not about your health. When I think about…” She swallows, not wanting to remember. “You must have been feeling awful for hours before you collapsed. If you’d let us know before, if Soren had a head start…”
She’s shaking again, the panic fluttering in her chest. How many loops would it take for her to forget finding him that way, watching him almost die?
“It was very close,” she says quietly.
Dorian pulls her close again. “I’m not dying, Selene.”
“No, but you were.” The words come out too fast, too raw, and she swallows, blinking down at her hand as though she’s only just realised it’s trembling against his skin.
Dorian’s expression softens. He cups the back of her head, pulling her down until their foreheads touch. “I’m really sorry. ”
“It wasn’t your fault, and dear gods, even if it was, you paid for it.”
She breathes him in, his scent familiar now—warm and clean and hers . Her fingers still against his stomach, then slide up, resting over his heart. Its steady beat is a reassurance she didn’t realise she needed.
Dorian kisses her temple. “We’re going to be fine.”
Selene draws back just enough to meet his gaze. Her fingers linger against his chest for a moment before she pulls away entirely. “A bath would help,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Warm water for the pain. It’ll help your muscles relax.”
Dorian exhales, his lips curving in a faint smile. “That sounds suspiciously like an excuse to get me into a tub.”
She arches a brow. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
His chuckle is quiet but genuine, and Selene doesn’t wait for further protest. She slips off the bed and disappears into the adjoining washroom, where she busies herself with drawing the bath.
The sound of water rushing into the tub fills the space, steam curling into the air.
She tests the temperature, adjusting as needed, and sprinkles in a few herbs from the small collection kept on the shelf.
Their fragrance blooms in the rising heat.
When she returns to the room, Dorian is already making his way towards her, moving slower than usual. She watches him carefully, noting the way his fingers twitch slightly at his side before he forces his hand away. He’s still in pain, though he’s trying not to show it.
“Come on, then,” she says, reaching for his hand and leading him inside.
Dorian watches as she kneels by the tub, dipping her hand into the water. “Is it to your liking, my lord?” she teases.
He huffs a soft laugh, then reaches for the ties of his nightshirt.
She steps back, giving him space, and he eases out of the fabric with deliberate care.
The sight of him, bare in the candlelight, steals her breath for a moment—the sharp angles of his collarbones, the shallow cut along his ribs, the strength in his arms despite his weakened state.
He lowers himself into the bath with a quiet groan of relief. The water ripples around him, lapping at his skin, and he leans back against the curve of the tub, eyes slipping shut.
Selene watches him for a moment before stepping forward, reaching out. Her fingers find his hair—damp now, curling slightly at the ends. It’s longer than it looks when it’s tied back, falling past his shoulders. She marvels at it, letting the strands slide through her fingers.
Dorian cracks one eye open, his lips quirking in amusement. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, actually,” she murmurs, undeterred. “I never realised how long it had gotten.”
His chuckle is low, reverberating through the warm air. “I suppose I should have it trimmed.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Her fingers continue their slow exploration, smoothing through the silken strands.
It’s oddly intimate, this quiet moment between them.
Dorian watches her, his gaze half-lidded, his breathing steady as she moves.
And then, without a word, she unties the sash of her robe and lets it slide from her shoulders.
Dorian’s breath catches, his fingers curling against the rim of the tub as she steps in, the water rising to accommodate her presence. She settles against him carefully, mindful of his body, and he exhales, letting his hands rest against her waist.
For a while, they simply sit together in the warm water, hands moving in slow, deliberate motions. Selene reaches for a cloth and begins to clean him. He mirrors the gesture, his fingers tracing over her arms, her back, mapping the contours of her form with quiet reverence.
It’s something neither of them has quite had before—this slow, deliberate care for one another, unhurried and unguarded.
She knows without asking that this is not something he ever experienced in their shared past. This is something new.
A part of her feels awful for the memories that will never be hers again, but she knows that there will be so many more.
Selene trails the cloth along his chest, over his shoulder, down the length of his arm. “Better?”
Dorian hums in agreement, shifting slightly so he can press a kiss to her temple. “Much.”