The muscles in Chloe’s neck tensed almost imperceptibly, and her posture stiffened. She was no longer langourous on the stool, draped like a fine silk…she was nocked and ready to fire. Or flee.

After all this time in each other’s beds, he knew the intimate details of her body—the way she carried herself, how her body reacted to his, how she fearlessly took up space in his presence. He knew her in pleasure and he’d seen her in pain. He’d even had the privilege of witnessing her awe, bewitched by the artworks that lined the halls of the High Commander’s museum.

But Chloe’s reaction to this was visceral.

As if his good news was not, in fact, good news.

He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d imagined this moment a playing out hundred different ways since his visit to Wymberly. But this? Not once had it occurred to him she may not react with the same unbridled enthusiasm he felt. And yet he’d seen it! Just for a moment, as brief as a flash of summer heat lightning, her eyes had shone bright with the emotion he’d waited days to witness. True to the blue-gray storm that always churned in her gaze, however, the clouds darkened. The curtains fell. The walls rose. She’d allowed him in, and then just as quickly slammed the door in his face.

Well, the general, too, could build a fortress. The warmth in his expression faded as she spoke, replaced with a practiced cool indifference that belied the hollow ache that had carved itself into his chest. “Thank you for the congratulations, Miss Paice,” he replied, allowing his hand to slide back to his side. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further. She’d struck a nerve, but he refused to let her see it. He didn’t step away; he kept his body angled toward her, despite the change in her manner.

“I fear you’ve misunderstood me,” Quinn continued, a smile tilting his lips—exactly what one might expect of a general with a reputation such as his. “Where exactly did you imagine this going, Miss Paice? I’m hardly proposing marriage here.” A laugh, nonchalant. “I simply thought you might appreciate a night out. A chance to wear one of your fine gowns.” He hummed. “Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company. In more ways that one.” Memories of their wicked trysts darkened his gaze, but rather than excite him, the thoughts only amplified the discomfort in his gut. Still, he kept that part of him hidden carefully away.

“But you are absolutely right,” he drawled, “and I understand.”

Except he most definitely did not understand.

His casual tone was alarmingly convincing, as if he’d been through this same process a hundred times before. There was nothing in his body language that indicated how impossible it felt to drag himself away from the seamstress. How the distance of the counter between them felt like a mile.

He had to force himself to look back at her as he slid open the lock and tugged at the door, amber meeting storm in a collision that made him feel unsteady. “It was fun while it lasted, Miss Paice, but every flame is bound to burn itself out eventually. Take care, please.”

Their mouths met. Not the collision of monstrous titans, warring for dominance, but affectionate. It was brief but so inviting, warm and comforting - like home. Shock slid through her at the thought, leaving her a bit dazed. The general’s words wrapped her up with their sincerity. Each word he spoke was another battering ram against the walls she wanted to keep between them. Stormy gaze searched his face, amazed at the boyishness of his features. He was elated, truly and utterly thrilled to talk to her. To talk to her, not to take her to bed. Walls crumbled, leaving her exposed and excited. She smiled gently, briefly looking down at how he rubbed at her hand, almost nervously. The feel of his calloused skin against her knuckles was like a balm to the anxiety coursing through her. Perhaps…

Milliseconds was all her mind needed to run rampant with the idea. The idea of coming home to him. The idea of sitting together and sharing their lives. His mouth on hers in that tender, warm way that reminded her of a sensation she had not felt in decades. Quinnley Belvedere could be hers. Truly and totally hers.

The intensity in his gaze when their eyes met again startled her almost as much as his news. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. He was a general in the High Commander’s military. He was responsible for rooting out enemies, responsible for supporting the oppressive regime that she was fighting with every single breath she took. And he was moving up in those ranks. That meant - she swallowed hard, searching his face. She knew what he wanted from her. She knew what he needed from her. Because it was precisely how she had felt last night. She wanted to share her life with him, her hopes and dreams and activities. If he was doing precisely what she was doing then that could only mean that she was not alone. He - he - he couldn’t. No. No. No. No.

The emotional whiplash was too much.

Suddenly, it was like she was drowning and falling all at the same time. The ocean roared in her ears and the earth was pulled out from beneath her feet. Major General Quinnley Belvedere. Major General. As suddenly as it hit her, she returned to her senses. Clover’s body was on autopilot with years of training kicking into gear. She smiled, weakly, looking down at their hands. As she squeezed them gently, the seamstress felt an entirely new sensation. A tight, crushing grip grabbed her heart and squeezed with all its might. Her hands withdrew and she took a step back before meeting his face again.

“Congratulations, General. The High Commander would be a fool to not recognize your talents and reward them appropriately.” Clover gave him another small smile as her heart was breaking, as she rebuilt those walls for the sake of the Resistance. For something bigger than herself. At the expense of what might have been happiness, what could have been love if she let this go further. But it couldn’t. He couldn’t feel for her. She had to end this now. “You honor me with the invitation,” the words were stiff, as if forced but she kept her tone lighter. Every ounce of training from Rose was utilized to keep from caving. “But I thought we both understood what this is, what this was.” Everything. “I am a seamstress and you are a Major General. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further.” She fought the urge to look away, to hide the feelings beneath that he might see lurking. Clover kept her gaze on his face, her expression pitying even as she longed to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. “I am sorry if I gave you any different impression.”

Maddening, of course, because their wicked escapades had become so addicting. It was pleasure, nothing more, that kept the two of them coming back again and again. Worth it, to be sure; the thought of it was enough to stoke the embers that perpetually smoldered for her, and he wet his lip with his tongue, studying her. She was dressed in what he recognized as one of her standard workday outfits, with a soft measuring tape slung casually around her shoulders and bits of snipped golden thread stuck to her lap. His smile broadened. Her intensity radiated even like this, in the middle of the workday, and he knew her well enough to see it. Or maybe she felt comfortable enough with him now to let him see the real her.

The thought thrilled him more than it should have, and the monster that dwelled behind his ribs stirred to life.

Boldly, perhaps too boldly, the general reached over and flipped the ‘open’ sign in the window to ‘closed’ and twisted the lock closed. “I have something to share with you,” he said, his voice betraying his excitement. He strolled around the counter, closing the gap between them. A magnetic pull dragged him forward and he pressed his lips gently to hers. Warmth spread from his core to his fingertips and back again. “I missed you,” he heard himself say when he pulled away. He’d meant it to sound tantalizing, but what came out was raw earnestness, his heart skipping a beat.

Quinn cleared his throat and stood straighter, reaching for one of her hands. “I’ve been counting the minutes until I could come back here,” he admitted, running his thumb over her knuckles, tracing the silvery scar there. He kept his amber gaze low, looking at their entwined hands. “It was torture to wait. But I received some very exciting news last week. It’s part of the reason why I was kept away…” He trailed off, then looked suddenly upward, capturing her stormy stare. “I’ve been promoted.”

His heart picked up its rhythm, thrilled to finally speak the words out loud. “It’s not being announced to the public for another couple of days. But I had to tell you. You’re looking at Major General Quinnley Belvedere, now. It's...well, it's something I've been working toward for a long time.” He grinned crookedly, but his gaze was sharp, watching for her reaction. “There is to be a celebration in my honor at Wymberly next week. Miss Paice, would you consider joining me there?”

Even Dennis questioned where her attention was, bringing it to her notice that she had stitched a golden bird on Ms. Aryn’s cloak instead of the white dove. Shaking her head, dark strands fell against her cheeks. “I just don’t know where my head is at today. Thank you for catching that before I had the sleeves completed.” She reached for her seam ripper and a small, precise pair of sewing scissors. She removed all of the golden thread (a costly mistake but not irreparable fortunately) and set the entire project aside.

Clover needed to clear her mind and the best way to do that was with a thorough talk with Aaron. She wouldn’t divulge the extent of her transgressions but she could receive enough of a scolding to wake her from this stupor she’d been in for the last month. At a military man’s beck and call. Certainly, she had garnered useful information and not just having been able to save Marigold, but it wasn’t her purpose for the relationship and that’s what was so frightening. They also needed to discuss who the man was that was rooting out their spies. He was decimating her carefully orchestrated network and it was making it exceedingly difficult to recruit. And with the idea that other countries were no longer on their side…the difficulty was increasing and rapidly.

Fortunately for the rebel leader, the General in no way felt how she did. To him, this was a convenient fuck. It was a great lay but she knew someone of his status would never deign to truly engage with someone of her station. She took comfort in that fact and convinced herself that the relationship could be maintained for that reason. It was a dangerous game she played - not of spy and rebel but of the heart. So much more frightening.

“I should probably just close the shoppe with how out of it I am,” Chloe waved a hand. There were no pressing galas, no formal weddings - nothing urgent. “Take the rest of the afternoon off.” She could go see Aaron, grab a drink at the bar and try to sleep over the insanity that had come over her. Hopefully, though, her sketch would be lost in his pile of mail and his interest had waned. To be ghosted was the best that she could hope for. If Quinn would just be a phantom haunting the corners of her mind, she could survive it.

“You sure?” Dennis asked, even as he began packing up. Clover knew he had a little woman he’d taken a shine to and a few extra hours with her was exactly what he wanted.

“Of course. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved him off and heard the door chime shortly after. Clover hung the cloak up in the back hall, securing it on the hanger. She heard the door chime again and frowned, wishing she had asked Dennis to lock the latch behind him. “Just a minute!” She called out, brushing back the errant strands of hair and putting on her best Chloe as she entered the front of the shoppe.

A broad smile, a true smile that she would have recognized anywhere, greeted her. Quinn. Clover’s heart stuttered in her chest. She abruptly came to a halt, startled by both his presence and the twist in her chest. “Not at all.” She immediately smiled back, settling onto the stool behind the counter. A little distance between them should help. “Though I admit this is a surprise.” She closed her ledger and set her pencil atop, gray eyes meeting gold. “How can I be of service?”

Captain Smith, clearing his throat, spoke first. “Our initial two persons of interest in Earl’s Crossing has turned to three, and they’ve been under our surveillance for several weeks now.” He shuffled some papers, using pins to stick two highly detailed typewritten profiles to the corkboard.

Quinn stood to the side, looking directly at the High Commander. The regime leader hardly blinked, his hazel eyes returning the general’s gaze like a predator ready to charge. “This is the first of our targets, Antoine Wacker,” Quinn began. “Early twenties. A farrier by trade, tending to local horses under his father’s tutelage before he was conscripted. Now he serves the military stables in Earl’s Crossing. He would be a smart recruit for Clover, being close to mid- and high-ranking officers when they aren’t expecting to be overheard.”

“But,” added Smith with a smirk on his scarred face, “easier for us to keep an eye on.”

The High Commander nodded once, which Quinn knew to be a good sign. Smith filled in a few more details before they continued to their next profile.

“The second has proven more difficult to track,” prefaced Quinn. “A woman, Bryn Tidewater, lifelong resident of Earl’s Crossing. Mid-thirties, no children. She and her husband Gerald owned the general store that was ransacked during the siege. Gerald was executed for treason alongside his brother and nephew. Since then, Bryn has taken over the business and is attempting to rebuild. It puts her in a position to be communicating with vendors and shippers and townsfolk, including traveling soldiers who use the store for bulk goods on their way through the mountains.” He paused. “Clover would be a fool not to take advantage of someone in a position like hers. And we know he is no fool. To be frank, I suspect Clover had already begun to make moves in Earl’s Crossing when the other rebellion broke out. I still don’t believe they are connected.”

Quinn gnawed at his lip. “The third is a new discovery, and less well positioned from a strategic standpoint, but we believe she has been passing messages between third and fourth parties. A local baker named Marigold. Our intelligence flagged her as suspicious after a few visits to Bryn Tidewater’s general store for supplies. We’ve had eyes on her for…”

“Two and a half weeks,” Smith provided with a confident nod.

“What are your recommendations, General Belvedere?” the High Commander asked.

“Stay the course with Antoine Wacker indefinitely. He lives in the militia barracks and works long shifts in the stables. Keeping tabs on him is easy. We bring him in if his behavior changes or he attempts to leave town. Until then, I recommend we start planting information—nothing important—just to see if we can link him to a leak.”

“And the Tidewater widow?”

“Mrs. Tidewater has been more of a challenge to surveil, but our efforts have dredged up some promising leads. Including the baker.” Quinn smiled then, his amber eyes dark. This was the thrill of the chase. A strategic burn. A plan coming together. “It’s too risky right now to feed either of them false information. Given the slow rate of activity in the aftermath of the attack, I recommend we continue watching them for another fortnight. Use them to get to others. Then we employ more…direct measures.”

Another nod from the High Commander as Captain Smith moved on to logistics, pinning more papers to the board in quick succession. Quinn could feel the Walther man’s eyes on him. Appraising. Calculating. But for what, Quinn couldn’t guess. He knew his work was solid. He knew his strategy was smart. Still, feeling the sharp attention of the nation’s most dangerous man garnered mixed emotions—honor, anxiety, pride, revulsion.

Not for the first time, Quinn wished his father Marius was there.

As if his emotions weren’t mixed enough.

———

The next two weeks were a whirlwind. Progress at Earl’s Crossing was moving faster than any of them had imagined, the wheels in motion gaining a momentum that had no sign of slowing down. Energized by the excitement of it all, Quinn Belvedere spent every spare moment in the company of Chloe Paice. At Avondale. At her shoppe. In the carriage. As the sun shone, the night fell, as snowstorms raged—he couldn’t get enough of her, until every waking thought tethered him back to the seamstress.

Yet the more time they spent together, the more insistent the feeling that twinged behind his ribs became. Warm, like embers, but bitter, like longing. Until he couldn’t deny it anymore.

But he could ignore it. At least for now.

Never mind that the wintry sky, dark on the horizon, reminded him of her inquisitive gray eyes. Or the heavy snowflakes, they way he pictured them shining like constellations when they caught on her dark hair. He could ignore those things, too.

Although his strategic successes had thus far outweighed the setbacks, there had been some minor snags and developments that were weighing on him, and keeping him from spending as much time with Chloe. He wanted so badly to recount his days to her—the wins and the losses, the gains and the frustrations. More than once he found the words on the edge of his tongue, begging to be released.

So when the High Commander summoned Quinn to Wymberly, the vague invitation penned personally and sealed with the Walther’s infamous crest of twin serpents, his first instinct was to tell Chloe. The darkness in him stirred to life at the thought of it. He even imagined her accompanying him there. But that was ridiculous; he had made the seamstress part of his routine (a daily one, of late, he realized with a smirk to himself) and it was simply habit that had conjured the thought.

The High Commander was waiting for him in his study, a fire crackling in the hearth.

“Have a seat, please, General Belvedere,” the man said, gesturing with a smile to the empty leather armchair facing the fireplace.

Quinn saluted, his expression curious as he glanced around the room. This was the first time he had been summoned directly to the High Commander’s personal study, and the impressive space felt more like a library, or a clubhouse, than an office. He took his seat, and to his surprise, the Walther man reached over to pour him a glass of gin. The two men were alone.

Quinn didn’t dare take a drink before his superior did, but the man neither moved nor spoke. Just stared at the general, eyes glittering dangerously in the firelight. Had he misinterpreted the summons? “Is this about the missing Earl’s Crossing informant?” Quinn heard himself ask, suddenly on edge. “Because I can assure you, we have several leads as to the baker’s whereabouts, and this virtually confirms our suspicions—”

The High Commander held up a hand, which silenced Quinn immediately. The general quirked a small smile, trying to dispel whatever strange tension had settled between them. If this meeting wasn’t to discuss his mission’s setbacks, then—

“Major General Quinnley Marius Belvedere.”

Quinn’s brows shot up. "Sir?"

“I’m promoting you.”

What?

The High Commander’s face broke into a broad smile, and he lifted his glass. “Major General Quinnley Marius Belvedere,” he repeated, his smooth baritone enunciating every syllable. “I have also listed you as next in line for Chief of the Academy, once General Baxter retires from his post.”

Had Quinn not been so adept at schooling his mannerisms, he might’ve dropped his glass of gin. “Sir,” he said, not bothering to hide the shock on his face. “I…it’s an honor, sir.”

“This is well deserved, Quinnley. You are young yet, but you have proven your capability and your loyalty since the moment you stepped foot into the Academy as a trainee. And before.” The High Commander took a sip of his gin at last, freeing Quinn to do the same. “A fine soldier. A bold leader. A clever strategist. A true testament to your lineage. I should always like to have a Belvedere by my side.”

Any other time, the possessiveness in that statement might have made him bristle; now, however, caught up in the surprise of it all, Quinn felt nothing but pride ballooning in his chest. The jump from Brigadier General to Major General was no small thing, and as the High Commander had alluded, he was on the younger side for such a rank.

Let them object. Let them talk. They already did.

“Thank you, sir,” was all he could manage.

“I’ve arranged a celebration,” the High Commander continued. “In a week’s time we will make the announcement and mark the occasion with a party. Here, at Wymberly, if that suits you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Welcome to the upper echelon, General,” the High Commander drawled. “I hope you enjoy the view.”

———

Whether it was the gin, the wine, or the overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Quinn practically floated back to Avondale that night. It was well past midnight, and the fire in his bedroom blazed hot, warming his bones as he undressed from his formal blues and slid on his wool robe. His bed was disappointingly empty, and he grinned at the thought of summoning Chloe again—she’d been furious at his audacity, and hadn’t been afraid to let him know about it—but it was far too late to send a carriage now. He would simply have to wait to deliver his good news in person.

Disappointment swept over him. Quinn didn’t want to wait. He wanted to fill her in on all the details, not just of his conversation with the High Commander, but everything that had led up to it. His strategies, the rebels he’d tracked down, the spies he’d caught. How he’d won over the other captains and generals at Compound. He wanted to see pride in her gray eyes. He wanted to see that smile she donned when she thought he wasn’t looking—intense but soft, intimate, almost like…well, like she might feel…

No, certainly not that. They were kindred spirits, nothing more. The alcohol in his blood was clearly clouding his judgment.

Yet the thought of that was suddenly all his swimming thoughts wanted to focus on. He climbed into bed, and as he settled beneath the quilts he could have sworn he felt her svelte form pressing against his back, her arm draped over his waist, pulling him to her. And he sighed deeply, contentedly, as sleep took him.

———

Five days. Five excruciating days. That’s how long it took for Quinn to have enough free time to call on Chloe Paice. New strategy briefings, council meetings, and preparations for his promotion announcement had consumed his days.

But his thoughts? Those were consumed by the seamstress. Excitement buzzed beneath his skin, skittering like lightning down his limbs as he pushed through the shoppe door. He paused at the counter like any other customer, although he decidedly did not look like a typical customer. Rather than his standard military blues, he wore civilian clothing this time—a rich burgundy shirt beneath a thick black winter coat, and slate wool slacks tucked into fur-lined boots. His hair had been disheveled by the hands of the wind, and cropped stubble coated his jaw.

“Just a minute!” came a familiar voice from the back room. The sound of it, as pure and clear as the bell that had announced his arrival, caused a flutter in his abdomen. Just the anticipation, of course. That was all.

The moment she rounded the corner, he broke into a smile. “Miss Paice,” he greeted, quirking a brow. “Is this a bad time?” He stepped forward, leaning against the counter. “I’d like to speak with you about something.”

But then there he was. Her Quinnley. Her General. She surveyed him, bashfulness at being caught gone completely. Clover licked her lips, held his gaze and smirked. “Why should we have to choose just one?”

And they didn’t. The following morning they even commandeered the kitchen and the dining table and the floor. Savages. Ravenous. Like their time apart had not dulled the ache for one another. Chloe was so spent after their time together, she fell asleep in the carriage on the way home, clutching her satchel to her chest. Cheek pressed so firmly against the tassels pillow from the carriage bench that when she awoke, blearily, strings were imprinted into her skin.

The General found his way to her shoppe on more than one occasion over the next two weeks. Once he even dared to summon her to Avondale, smirking charismatically when she arrived heated and angry at being called like a pet. But the smirk gave him away, he knew that she’d be furious and that her fury would be taken out on him. That night they broke furniture. That night she had never had a better apology.

Duties were not forgotten but she became even more efficient. She completed her tasks precisely and swiftly, in case he would come to her. She managed to receive word after a month that Marigold had be safely relocated with her child. Stolen in the night beneath the noses of this new commander’s spy-hounds. It had been a tedious task but Clover had been insistent to Aaron. The baker could identify her. Knew her name. Knew her face.

Even as she reveled in that small success, she felt a burn in her chest. She longed to share that success with someone other than her second-in-command. She felt this itch she couldn’t manage to scratch and her left her with a nervous energy for the better part of a week.

Coincidentally, it was the same part of the week where the Belvedere heir failed to materialized. Clover felt so strange. Strange, because suddenly she wanted to tell him about her day. She wanted to make him laugh. She wanted to lie in his arms, sated and happy and listen to him talk about everything and nothing at all. She wanted to feel the rumble of his snores beneath her head and how his fingers absently traced her spine even in sleep.

Chewing on the corner of her thumb, she wondered if she should send him a summons. Return the favor, so to speak. The idea made her smile but it felt too needy, it felt…well, it left her feeling exposed. Something less obvious, then. So she spent an entire candle and evening sketching. Snow fell outside the window in thick, heavy flakes as winter became to settle in. She felt the chill in her fingers ease with each brush of the graphite against the page. Clover finished in the very early morning hours of the following day, fingers gray from smudging and eyes a bit red rimmed. The seamstress didn’t even bother to move to the bed, as she fell asleep in the chair by the window.

Light streamed in the window, falling over the unconscious seamstress when the door open down in the shoppe. Wearily, she opened her eyes and rubbed her hands together before cursing herself for not washing up last night. Undoubtedly, she’d have some smears on her face. It took her a moment to wash up, change and become presentable for the day. Gray eyes caught sight of the sketch from the previous evening and she smiled. She removed the page from the very expensive sketchbook the General had gifted to her. She laid a scrap price of cloth over the image before she folded the pages and sealed it within an envelope she used for her customers. From memory and without pausing for a moment in the recollection, she scrawled Avondale’s address on the front.

The missive was off to Avondale before most of the other shoppe’s opened and she wondered if he would receive it tonight when he returned from Wymberly. She wondered if he was even in Thebes. Surely he would have told her if he was leaving? No. No what obligation did he have to her. She hoped he might have told her. For the cause of course. For the intelligence, naturally.

She felt her heart lurch at the thought of not knowing where he was. She worried of the danger he might be in. Something else crept up alongside all these emotions, foreign and warm. It slide along her skin, not like a serpent, but like a blanket. It enveloped her in a sense of comfort, of a new type of want.

And alongside of it, suddenly, fear. It wouldn’t be what she thought it was. Clover would not have been so foolish. The Resistance leader, lost daughter of Northam, would not have been so reckless as to fall in love with General Quinnley Belvedere, loyalist to the High Commander.

He closed his hand around the missive, crumpling the paper against his palm, and dragged himself away from her—but only a step, still close enough to see the storm in her gaze. He paused, holding her stare, drinking in the devilish gleam in her expression. A strange pang twisted in his chest, and for a moment, he was lost for words. “I have to go,” he finally said, stuffing the note into his pocket. “Someone will come for you shortly.”

The general reluctantly left, distracted—but not by the message that had interrupted them. The odd twist of feeling behind his sternum lingered even as he exited the room, and it cut through his desire in a way that did not douse the flames—not even a little—but rather fueled them, like thick timber stacked atop a hearth. This wasn’t a simple flare, burning hot but fast until only smoldering ash remained; this was fuel for a sustained burn, meant to endure, steady and searing.

It made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t identify.

And it took a lot to make the Executioner of Earl’s Crossing feel uneasy.

He paused at the top of the staircase to straighten his appearance, pushing his hair back and buttoning his crisp white shirt. The message had directed him to meet one of his captains outside—

“Master Belvedere?” The maid’s voice was soft, and it came at the exact moment a loud rapping sounded from the front door. Quinn gestured for her to wait a moment, and he tugged open the doors himself, greeted by a gust of icy wind and two high-ranking soldiers dressed in their military blues.

“Captain Smith. Captain Clarke,” Quinn said, arching a brow. He pulled the crumpled note from his pocket and waved it in the air. “This is the first I’ve been home in a week. What’s this about?”

Smith, one of Quinn’s finest men, who had fought valiantly at Earl’s Crossing and returned only recently, smiled apologetically. “You’re going to want to hear this, General.”

Quinn beckoned them inside and turned around, catching sight of the maid, who had stepped to the side and looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else but standing in front of three soldiers in the foyer. “One moment, please, gentlemen,” he said, turning to her. “Beverly, what is it?”

She held out a folded scrap of paper. “Your guest wishes to send a note into town, sir…”

Notes seemed to be the theme of the evening. Quinn nodded, taking it from her, skimming the short message…something about pink chiffon and pearls in the window. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. Please see to whatever she needs.” He turned back to the captains, who had exchanged knowing looks. Quinn rolled his eyes and gestured for them to follow him.

They entered a side room on the lower level, where the three men conversed in hushed tones. Evidently, their presence in Earl’s Crossing was beginning to pay off much quicker than he’d anticipated. The rogue rebels with no Clover affiliation had already been eliminated in Chambrook village, but they’d be fools to believe the threat was completely neutralized. Where there was rebellion, Clover was sure to follow. And with the population decimated, it was more difficult to hide. The Ace squadron members had identified two possible connections, both of whom were under careful surveillance.

“So there has been movement?” he asked, intrigued. “So soon?” The general ran his fingers along his jaw thoughtfully. “Tell the agents to stay the course. They’ve been lying low and they don’t have the numbers for another large-scale attack. We need to keep watching them. Learn as much as we can about how they operate. Their panic is our gain.”

They spoke for several more minutes, Quinn spelling out orders to give the other ranks, but all in all…it was good progress. Not just for Northam, but for Quinn himself. The High Commander would be pleased.

His company left as abruptly as they’d arrived, and the general practically levitated up the stairs to his awaiting seamstress. But she wasn’t waiting for him in the guest room. Had she fallen asleep? He pushed open the unlocked door to find the room empty when she didn’t respond to his gentle knocks. Huh. He narrowed his eyes and turned, catching the muffled sound of something scraping from across the corridor. It was coming from Maria’s room. Specifically, the closet.

“Miss Paice.”

He clearly startled her, because she whirled, meeting his eyes with the guilt of a child caught sneaking a sweet from the kitchens.

It shouldn’t have surprised him to find her here, really, but there was no trace of amusement in his expression. Quinn was protective of his sister, whether she needed it or not, and this felt…well, wrong. “I see you’ve discovered Maria's closet,” he drawled. He stepped closer to Chloe, eyeing the dress she’d been examining, and smiled, although a little stiffly. “She wore that one for the last summer solstice gala. Made a big deal about importing the material from the Carib Territories.”

Gently, he reached for her hand and led her back into the hall, closing the door pointedly behind them. “You are my guest here, Chloe, and entitled to whatever luxury you wish,” he said, “but I’m afraid that does not give you free rein.” His amber gaze softened a little. “I hope you understand.” He reached up to tuck a strand of her still-damp hair from her forehead. “Now, to business.” His expression darkened and he dropped his voice. “My room…or yours?”

There was to be an interlude then. Such an opportunity had not presented itself since she sewed Maria Belvedere into her wedding gown. Anticipation of a different sort began to crawl beneath her skin as the familiar adrenaline began to pump steadily through her veins. Clover hummed thoughtfully, stepping out from her corner of shadows when he beckoned her. She slid her fingers over his exposed skin. It took all her training to not look pointedly at the paper in his hand, keeping her eyes focused on his handsome face.  While the contents of the telegram would be invaluable, it wasn’t worth it to seem even remotely interested in what it said. Quinnley was a general in her father’s army. His loyalty was to the High Commander - not an occasional fuck (no matter how well they fit together.)

“I suppose. But if you keep me waiting too long exhaustion may take me instead of you…” a devilish smirk played her lips as she slid her leg between his, their bodies flush against one another. “But perhaps I might occupy my time alone with a bath.” It was both a statement and a question to which he readily acquiesced. Departing to find her a maid and complete the interrupting business, the  commanding man left Clover blissfully alone in his bedroom. She cast a glance at the open door, making certain that she heard his footfall on the stairs. Leaving her feeling chilled by his absence but invigorated by the chase, she slid swiftly over to his desk.

The spy kept one ear trained for footsteps and she hurriedly scanned all the papers on his desk. Some were invoices from town vendors for their services - nothing sticking out. The desk was annoyingly tidy, making a movements she’d make have to be retroactively replaced with precision. She dared not thumb through any of the piles because the maid’s arrival was imminent. Yet something drew her attention to a crumpled message that hadn’t quite made it off the corner of his desk and into the bin beside it. She unfolded it hurriedly, scanning it.

Suspect under surveillance. Earl’s Crossing.

Clover’s blood ran cold. Marigold. The woman had children. She hadn’t wanted truly to pick up her town’s mantle but she did hate the regime. The spymaster had recruited her directly. Without pausing, she balled the paper back up and set it delicately where she had retrieved it from. Silently, she made her way back to the couch, retrieving her satchel on the way.  She lowered herself on it, and withdraw a scrap of paper and her sketch pencil. She hastily wrote on it, making the instructions clear. It was late, but she feared greatly for the woman’s safety and she worried (hoped?) she might be detained her through the next few days since the General was on leave from his assignments.

Please change the dress in the window from the lavender to the pink chiffon. Layer the long pearls on top. Finish the trim for Percival’s wife’s apron. I may be away for a few days.

She folded it securely, knowing unquestioningly that the staff would read it and report on it. There was not a doubt in her mind that correspondence to and from Avondale was closely monitored. But Aaron would understand the urgency and see the dress change. Pink meant informant danger. Pearls indicated the location. Right as she put away her sketchbook and pencil, a maid arrived.

“Would you be able to send out this message for me tonight? I have written the address here,” she indicated the top of the folded page.

“Of course, Miss.” She dipped her head and escorted her to a medium-sized guest room with an en-suite.

“This room is too much. I don’t need something so….grand.”

“You are Master Belvedere’s guest, Miss. We have been instructed to use this room specifically for you.”

“This is for someone far above my station. I think that mattress alone is bigger than my entire loft.” It was an exaggeration of course but the Belvederes had clearly spared no expense for the comfort of their guests. The maid smiled politely, the embodiment of professionalism.

“Master Belvedere likes this room best for guests. It has excellent morning light and a view of the gardens.” Clover turned to look at the window. With curtains drawn for the evening, she couldn’t tell but she imagined the magical morning light that would stream in. Perfect to sketch by. Thoughtful bastard.

“Well, I am very appreciative.” She didn’t have the feign being overwhelmed - thought it was at the thoughtfulness and not the extravagance.

“If there is anything you require, there is a bell in the bathing room and in the bedroom.” She dipped her head and departed, leaving the spy alone. There would be no beneficial information in this room but a warm bath did sounds so inviting.

Clover bathed quickly and still the general did not appear. Withdrawing, she towel dried her hair, making certain to comb through the strands to prevent any curl from forming. A robe hung in the closet and she donned it readily, sinking into the plus comfort of the fabric. It was well-made, not that it surprised her. She debated putting her clothes back on, but decided the robe would allow her hair to dry enough without dampening her shift.

Peeking her head out of the guest room door, Avondale was eerily quiet. No maids. No movement. No general. Sighing, almost disappointedly, Clover decided that waiting in the guest room was not going to benefit anyone. She wandered barefoot around the upper floor, making a mental map of the layout. As she wandered, she came upon Maria’s room and curiosity got the better of her. She doubted anything of worth would remain but it was worth a look. The layout was similar to her twin’s. A cursory evaluation of the desk and its drawers didn’t reveal anything of note before she found her way into the closet. It was sizable to say the least, full of articles of clothing that she hadn’t needed to take with her to her new home. The excess surprised Clover even though she should have known better. Just because she liked the heiress, did not mean she was not a product of the environment that made her.

Noisily, she fingered the fur of some coats, holding them out for inspection. As she ran her hands down one, she felt something in the pocket. Brows furrowed and she reached inside, finding a receipt for some goods but they confused the spymaster until she looked at the bottom. It was an Espana company - one that had previously vowed to support the Resistance’s cause. The receipt must have been for something to do with Maria’s fiancé’s company but how it came to be in this pocket she wasn’t sure. Those fuckers were playing both sides. Lining their pockets. Fury boiled inside of her and she shoved the paper back into the pocket right before she heard footsteps enter the room. She froze briefly before relaxing her limbs and moving to another section of the closet, loudly pushing around hangars.

“Miss Paige.” His voice was a familiar, if not concerned, hum. Clover twitched, feigning surprise, whirling to meet his golden eyes as her hand came to her chest.

“Well if you were determined to scare me half to death, I’m afraid you succeeded.” She dropped her hand from the dress she had been examining. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest even as she gave him an amused smile.

Despite all the duty and distractions, he’d been plagued by a need he hadn’t realized had been so potent until he’d glimpsed Chloe through the perfumed haze at Catherine’s.

No, not just a need. In the back of Quinn’s mind, steamed though it was with desire in this moment, he knew what it really was: a longing.

That thought should have unnerved him. But as he threw open his bedroom doors and backed Chloe around the corner, all he could think about was the sensation of her back in his presence. He didn’t want to conquer her, he wanted to consume her. The monster stirred behind the cage of his ribs, waking with a growl that manifested as a rumble low in his throat.

Her hands, still cold from the drive, slipped beneath his shirt and found the skin of his abdomen. He shuddered at her touch, at her fingers that roved the tone ridges of his muscles. It was not so much a caress as a search, as if she were looking for the opportunity to possess him. And he wanted nothing more than to be possessed by her.

In their haste and hunger, however, the door to the bedroom remained ajar, spilling a pyramid of light into the dimness. The sound of a man clearing his throat suddenly dragged Quinn from his reverie, and he looked up to see the silhouetted shadow of his butler cast long over the carpet. Chloe sprang away into the deeper shadows, but the general had no such reaction; he raked his fingers through his disheveled hair and swung open the door, uncaring about his half-unbuttoned shirt or flushed cheeks. It wouldn’t be the first time business had interrupted a tryst, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

If the butler was shocked, he was too professional to show it, but Quinn knew the man was unfazed by his employer’s nighttime dalliances. “Thank you, Vernon,” he said, taking the slip of paper from the silver tray. His eyes skimmed the telegram in the light from the corridor, and he heaved a sigh before latching the door, properly this time. He flipped the switch over Chloe’s shoulder, flooding the room with a soft ambient light.

“Miss Paice,” he drawled, reaching for her hand and tugging her close, “I would very much like you to finish that sentence.” Annoyance darkened his amber gaze. “Please do me the courtesy of holding that thought until I deal with…this.” He set his jaw tight and rustled the paper in his fingers. “I’ll be right back. I trust you’ll be waiting for me when I return?”

I’ve missed this banter. Another startling flash of thought, warming her through even as something hissed a warning in the back of her mind. Clover smiled at him, remembering the desk that their first encounter had not utilized - though the couch had made a more than adequate substitute. A glimmer entered her gray gaze at the memory and the ghost of his hand against her throat. The lurch of the carriage brought her out of that entirely different memory. I wouldn’t mind more memories like that. With him.

Avondale warmed her against the early chill, along with the promise in his tone. She let him lead her up the staircase, a thrill sparking like electricity up her spine. Each step made the fire inside of her burn hotter, hastening her steps. Even though his room was not far, desire swelled inside of her. Patient was not a virtue she possessed tonight. Perhaps it was from the memories of what had occurred beneath this roof or the want that had built without outlet after the museum, but Clover could not wait for him to be in that room. She pulled him towards the wall, between an antique walnut dresser and a tall clock steadily ticking. Her mouth found his hungrily as she dropped her bag beside her feet. It landed with a thump that fell on deaf ears. Eager hands tangled into his hair, helping her mouth lay claim to him. They traveled down to his shoulders and under his military blues. She pushed the already unbuttoned jacket off, letting it slide down before she discarded it in a heap atop her satchel. Drawing his lip between her teeth, as she had envisioned inside of Catherine’s, Clover let out a hum of want and satisfaction.

Leaning back, releasing her claim on his mouth, stormy eyes searched his face. Fuck. This was how she liked him best, the spy decided suddenly. Disheveled hair. Stubble along his jaw. Lips swollen from her attention. She liked him best when he was hers.

“There’s been this…” slow but deft fingers began to unbutton his shirt, “recurring dream I’ve had where you are on your knees -” Clover stopped abruptly when someone cleared their throat a few paces away. She hadn’t even heard them coming. She shrank back against the wall, dropping both her fingers and her head, hiding her smile behind a curtain of raven hair.

“Master Belvedere. My apologies for disturbing you. There is a telegram that is marked urgently from the High Commander.”