35. A Sparring Match #2
Rookwood barks a laugh, nearly choking on his drink. Ariella sighs as though she’s exhausted by the lot of them.
Selene calmly selects a piece of bread from the tray, tears off a corner, and throws it at Soren’s head.
It hits him squarely in the forehead.
“Infant,” she says, shaking her head.
Soren grins. “And yet, you’re the one throwing food.”
Selene and Dorian butter themselves some toast and dig in.
They’ve eaten well these past few days—there is no other way to eat when Rookwood is the cook—but there’s something about eating down here that Selene’s missed, no matter the comfort of their cocoon.
It takes her a while to realise what it is.
Her family. She’s missed her family.
She has a feeling she’s been missing them her entire life.
I have to make this cycle the last one, she promises herself, and them. She doesn’t think she’d survive losing this.
“Are you all right, my darling?” Dorian asks, his arm curving round her back.
Selene smiles at him. “I am quite content.”
They nuzzle their noses, and Soren pretends to vomit.
“How old are you, Soren?” Selene asks, not just because he’s behaving childishly, but also because, if, like Dorian, he’s lived a lot of timelines, he’s certainly older than his appearance suggests.
“Seventeen,” he responds, helping himself to another piece of toast.
“And how long have you been seventeen?”
Soren looks up from his plate, glancing at Dorian as if to gauge what to say, but Dorian is still reading the paper.
“Um… a while?” He kicks Dorian under the table, casting him a severe look. “Did you— ”
Dorian looks up. “What?”
Soren jerks his head towards Selene. “Have you… spoken to her… about… about our journeys ?”
Selene laughs. She’d quite forgotten that they’d yet to inform the others about the fact she was a traveller, too.
“Oh, Soren,” she says, “do I have a story to tell you.”
“So, not only has Dorian told you literally everything, in painstaking detail,” Soren remarks after she finishes her story, “but you’ve come back in time too?”
“That is correct. But only once.”
“Huh,” says Rookwood, refilling everyone’s cups.
“And you came from a future where Soren and Dorian were already dead?” Ariella says.
It’s barely a question. Her voice is quiet and horrified.
Selene understands why. She is imagining her, and Rookwood, alone in this place.
Clearly, Soren and Dorian hadn’t told them where they were going, or they never would have reported them missing.
She’s thinking of the two of them without the boys, the two of them alone and wondering.
The two of them not knowing if time would be reset, if they would cease to be, or if they would be missing them forever.
Selene hopes Dorian’s theory is correct, and that there are no other timelines drifting around. Ebonrose is meant to have all of them.
It’s meant to have her, too.
She nods her head. Ariella sits down. When Rookwood takes her hand, she squeezes it.
“So,” says Soren eventually, “what happens now?”
“Well, now that everyone knows everything, I’d like to take the opportunity to do something I’ve been waiting years to do…” Dorian starts .
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Travel to Nocturne Hall and not sleep in a tent.”
Soren barks a laugh. Selene looks up at him, blinking. “You want to visit my grandmother?”
“Don’t you?”
“Desperately,” she admits.
“There might be something in her library about the temple. Either way, it would be great to visit the place and be able to wander around freely during the day.”
“I shall write to her this morning.”
“I’ll start packing,” Ariella says, standing up again. “Shall we aim to leave by the beginning of next week?”
“You’re coming too?”
“Let’s all go,” says Rookwood.
Dorian seems surprised by this—but pleasantly so. Selene recalls that they’ve never made the journey with him before. “Wonderful,” Dorian replies, stretching his arms over his head. “That gives me just enough time to stop feeling like a useless sack of bones before we travel.”
Selene arches a brow. “You mean before we travel in comfort?”
“Yes, and I’d like to be able to walk through Nocturne Hall without looking like I’ve just crawled out of a sickbed.” He turns to Soren, a familiar glint in his eye. “Spar with me?”
Soren leans back in his chair, considering. “You sure you’re up for that?”
Dorian scoffs. “I’ve spent a week doing nothing but breathing and existing. If I don’t move, I’ll forget how.”
“You’ve spent a week being poisoned, ” Ariella reminds him.
“I spent three days being poisoned and the rest of it recovering. Don’t be dramatic.”
Soren smirks, pushing to his feet. “All right. Just don’t blame me when you end up back in bed.”
Soren heads off to collect the rapiers, and Dorian proceeds outside to the terrace, Selene following.
The sun hangs high, casting long golden streaks across the stone.
A faint breeze stirs the leaves in the garden below as Soren and Dorian take their positions.
Selene settles into her seat, her teacup balanced elegantly in her hands.
“You aren’t watching me because you’re worried, are you?” Dorian asks, rolling his shoulders as he loosens up.
“Oh, I will be watching you,” Selene replies, her lips curling into a small smile, “but not for that reason.”
Dorian frowns, glancing at her in clear confusion.
“Can you roll your sleeves up for me?” she asks.
Dorian’s grin returns, slow and teasing. “Only if you hold my cufflinks.”
He slips them off one by one, pressing them into her palm with deliberate care. She closes her fingers around them, feeling the warmth of his skin still lingering on the metal. As a final precaution, Dorian slides off his glasses, too.
Soren, standing a few paces away, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Are we fighting or flirting?”
Dorian smirks. “Why not both?”
The moment the match begins, it’s clear Dorian is at a severe disadvantage. Soren moves like liquid shadow, his blade striking fast and precise, always a fraction ahead of Dorian’s parries. Dorian fights well—his form is solid, his movements fluid—but Soren is simply better.
“You’re not even going to go a little bit easy on me?” Dorian huffs, blocking a strike that sends vibrations up his finely-toned arms. Selene is barely even watching the blades at this point.
“Nope.”
“Really? In front of the wife?”
“Yup.”
Dorian exhales sharply, stepping back to avoid a low cut. “Is this revenge for almost dying?”
Soren’s blade flicks forward. “Perhaps.”
Dorian barely manages to deflect the next attack before Soren disarms him entirely, sending his sword clattering across the terrace. He stands there, breathless, as Soren sheaths his blade with an infuriatingly casual air .
Selene, for her part, has been utterly transfixed. Watching Dorian fight—even when he is clearly losing—is unexpectedly thrilling. There’s something about the way he moves, the way he braces himself, all tension and control, that sends a pleasant heat curling in her stomach.
She rises, gliding toward him as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. Wordlessly, she presses her teacup into his palm. He takes it, eyes flicking to her, reading something in her expression.
Before she can second-guess herself, she reaches for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss.
Dorian makes a surprised sound before melting against her, his free hand settling at her waist. The taste of tea and the faintest hint of salt from exertion lingers on his lips, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest.
He chuckles against her mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. “So, you enjoyed the show after all?”
Selene hums, pressing closer. “Very much.”
His grin is smug, but she silences it with another kiss, letting herself get lost in the warmth of him.
Dorian smiles against her lips, triumphant and teasing, but Selene isn’t in the mood to let him gloat. She presses closer, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He exhales sharply, caught off guard for only a moment before his free hand finds her waist, his grip firm and possessive.
The teacup in his other hand is forgotten as he sets it down blindly on the terrace railing, freeing both hands to slide over her hips. Selene feels the warmth of his palms even through the layers of her dress, and a delicious shiver runs through her.
Dorian leans into her. His hands slip up her back, tracing the elegant line of her spine before one tangles into her hair.
A quiet sigh escapes her, and she feels his breath hitch in response.
He tilts his head, pressing closer, his body heat bleeding into hers, and suddenly, the world narrows to just the two of them.
From somewhere behind them, Soren clears his throat.
Neither of them pull away .
Soren sighs, muttering something about newlyweds , and then, without another word, he turns and strides back inside, leaving them to it.
Dorian barely acknowledges his departure, too busy chasing another kiss, his hands now resting firmly at Selene’s waist. He grins against her lips. “Alone at last.”
Selene smirks, brushing her nose against his before kissing him again, slow and deliberate. “You were quite handsome while losing.”
Dorian groans dramatically, pulling her flush against him. “I think you mean gracefully conceding .”
“Out of interest, have you ever won against Soren?”
Dorian purses his lips. “Twice,” he says. “Once when he was recovering from a stab wound, so I’m not sure that counts.”
Selene groans. “You two are so alike.”
“As long as you never confuse the two of us…”
“That would be quite hard…”
He kisses her again and Selene’s hands fasten around the opening of his shirt. The tops of his pectorals shimmer with the soft sheen of sweat. Her fingertips glide against his skin. He inhales a breath, and suddenly Selene is ripping his shirt off his body. Buttons ping off along the terrace.
Dorian’s pupils go wide.
“I can fix it,” she insists. “But don’t you dare rip my—”
Dorian’s mouth slams against her neck. His hands fix around her thighs, staggering back to the wall. Selene lets out a gasp as they collide, one of his hands coming up to cradle her head.
He grins into her mouth. “How fond are you of your undergarments?”
Selene’s throat dries. “I am less attached to those.”
Dorian lifts her easily into his arms despite her protests. It’s not her she’s worried about. This strenuous exercise can’t be good for him—
He doesn’t listen. She finds she cares less. He carries her off into a secluded corner of the garden and lays her down on the ground. She wants him so badly her entire body aches .
He grabs her ankle and pulls her closer. Gentleness takes over, only for a moment, as his hands trace the sensitive inside of her thigh. He smirks wickedly as she gasps under the pressure, letting out a soft, desperate sigh.
He hikes up her skirts and dives underneath them, ripping off her undergarments with his teeth. He smiles against her insides, letting his breath ghost her centre, before spreading her out on the lawn like a picnic.
He devours her. She lets herself explode on his tongue.
When she’s gathered enough of herself again, she frees him of his shirt, hands gliding over all of him. She fumbles for the opening of his breeches, letting him spring free. His body cages over hers.
“Don’t you dare be gentle,” she demands. It’s half a demand, half a desperate plea.
Dorian can’t stop smiling, though his mouth arches the second he thrusts himself inside her. He lowers himself down, moaning against her shoulder. Her arms crawl around his back, fingers digging into his skin. She barks instructions in his ear. She wants more of him, and she will have it.
Dorian rocks against her, harder and faster, over and over until stars spot her vision. He releases with a long, desperate breath, and collapses on top of her.
Selene wraps her arms around him. They lie there in the damp grass until their tongues feel like their own again.
“You didn’t lie after all, Lord Nightbloom,” Selene remarks.
Dorian is still barely capable of speech. “Lie about what?” he pants against her neck.
“You really can be wicked. ”