[astro] From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. [18+]

“Mmm,” she hummed softly in response, remembering the howl of the storm that trapped them in their cabin. The recollection of other, softer noises made in the loft also flickered to life in her mind’s eye. A slight shake of her head did herself of those both painful and pleasant memories but was unable to shrug them off. Lost in thought as she moved toward the hall, she felt his fingers featherbrush her shoulder.  The admission fueled the thoughts of their loft. Want. Want. Want. Remy always wanted so much but did not have the ability to follow through. He wanted to tell her about his identity. He wanted to spend the night in her bed. He wanted...no. The anger would wait for tomorrow.

A smile kicked up her lips, showing the white glimmer of her teeth. “Could not be more thankful to no longer have to suffer through your squirrel soups.” She leaned into his hand against her hair before it was withdrawn. Crystalline eyes caught the whisper of memory that danced on his face and her stomach squeezed. Madison raised her fingers up to brush his jaw, run up into his hair but stopped halfway. Jerking slightly and attempting to recover the blunder, she slipped the hand around his arm and rested in the crook of his elbow. The contact send warm waves of comfort washing over her. Whether it was the vivid evocations or the wine, the huntress leaned into him as they strolled. To anyone else, anyone outside the woes of Northam, they were familiar lovers on a wintery afternoon, not a care in the world.

Shadows danced along the wall due to the gas lamps that the servants had distributed along their path to light their way. The cold was kept mostly at bay by the heat from his body, but goosebumps still danced along her arms beneath her sweater. Shimmering gaze turned to him immediately when he began to speak, letting her brow knit together over her nose in confusion when he paused. The request surprised her and she ceased walking, tugging him to a stop with her. A myriad of emotions waged a war inside of her.  He had taught her how to read, the repetition of the embarrassingly few books they had taken from the cabin. He explained the differences between homophones and homonyms. He taught her to anticipate the next work before she even said it aloud. The doctor amply rewarded her for her slow trek to literacy, all while teasingly punishing her for her blunders.  She just stared at him, eyes flickering over his face and examining the hurricane in his gaze.

Swallowing, Madison licked her lips before pressing them together. Without saying anything, she started their walk again. For a long moment, unbearably so to the physician she was certain, they strolled in silence. As if in protest, the wind beat against the window panes resulting in a clattering rattle. “After dinner.” She finally breathed when they arrived outside the sitting room entrance. “After dinner, I’ll read to you.” He’d have to sit apart from her. He’s have to be across the room. Because if he sat at her side, if she was touching him...the huntress would not be able to stop herself and she knew, she knew she’d betray everything if he read to her in return.

Releasing his arm, she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and entered. Alice and another servant were just setting the bourbon cocktails down at either end of a small table with two cushioned chairs. Occasionally, the huntress would dine in here when Lawrence and Elora were away on business. She liked the exterior lights that illuminated the small garden. The staff had been able to coax a generator to life and electricity buzzed in the room and cast a glow among the snow outside the large glass window. All the bushes and trees were densely packed with fresh snow and the look was ethereal. It was the Grafton Inn again. They were alone with a fine meal between them, wine-stained lips and the hum of alcohol beneath her skin. With the ease of a woman that had grown accustomed to comfort, Lawrence’s mistress seated herself in the burgundy chair. The room had a small fire that warded off the chill, saving the generator for the lights and turning off the central heating.

Alice coordinated the meal that was swiftly placed before them. The scent of the food caused a small grumble of hunger from Madison, despite having picked at the board from the library. “Balsamic-glazed steak rolls around crisp carrots topped wither a fried oyster.” She gestured to the other small plate between them, “and pumpernickel bread with chive butter. If anything is not to your satisfaction, Commander, please let us know.” She said as she placed a carafe of water on the small table.

Madison set to eating with punctuated grace, before she stole a glance at him to see him looking at her. Cocking her head, she smiled softly. “You look nice in fine clothing. It suits you.” There was no venom in her voice. The genuine tone kept soft in the close proximity. “Though your hair has gotten a bit unruly at the ends.” He wore it longer, almost enough to tie back. Nothing could hide how handsome and well-groomed he was. To her, to someone who had been so intimately acquainted with the High Commander’s son, it was not to her Remy. It reminded her of the length it was when they first arrived at their little cabin. A mischievous expression danced across her face, making her eyes glisten alluringly.

“I’ll read to you,” said said again, pausing as she took a sip of the cocktail, “if you let me cut your hair.”

The soft shuffle of their footfalls on the tile was a duet whispered to the shadows, their strides lapsing into a familiar rhythm as they departed the library and set off into the darkness of the corridor. For a moment, they weren’t navigating the halls of a vast Thebesian estate toward a prepared dinner, but rather wended their way through the wilderness all over again—rooms becoming caverns in a craggy mountain cliffside, marble columns transforming into rows of old-growth pines. Even the chill in the air loaned itself to the illusion. Remy leaned into his former lover on instinct, just as she pressed lightly into him, and the quiet that settled offered a glimpse of the comfort they had once found in one another’s silent company.

Still, as they approached the heart of the house and found themselves in the faint glow of the gas lamps lit by the servants, he knew it wasn’t to last. Despite its best efforts to dole out the karmic punishment he knew he deserved, the universe seemed to be delivering fleeting moments of reprieve…and he devoured them like a starving man before a feast, desperate for a taste of the contentedness he’d known with Madison before the disaster of his betrayal. He only hoped his request would not put her off further, that he could savor what remained of their evening before fate decided to throw him back to the proverbial wolves.

Remy’s heart fluttered in protest when she pulled away, and her hand on his elbow halted him alongside her just outside the sitting room door. Schooling his expression, he met her gaze in anticipation. The moment stretched long between them, and he couldn’t quite interpret the look on her face. Her voice was surprisingly soft when she replied at last, as though she still hadn’t quite made up her mind even though she verbally agreed to his personal appeal. Despite himself, a small smile tugged at one corner of his lips. He balled his fists at his sides to keep himself from reaching up to cradle her face, and he nodded slowly, trying not to let on that a thrum of anticipation had raised gooseflesh on his arms. “I’d like that,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

The physician straightened his crooked smile as Madison led him into the room. Alice and another servant he didn’t recognize quickly acknowledged him with deferential bows before finishing up their tasks. Two cocktails glinted in the electric light, which pulsed faintly with the unsteady current from the generators. But what really drew his eye—aside from his companion—was the impressive broad window that allowed for an expansive view of the gardens, as promised. The air was noticeably cooler near the glass, but with Madison so near and the syrupy warmth of the alcohol heating his blood from within, it made little difference.

He stepped up to the window as Madison slid gracefully into her seat, watching her in the golden reflection for a moment before his attention wandered out to the snowy landscape. The drifts were already impossibly high and sculpted into smooth mounds by the unrelenting wind. “We’ve weathered worse,” he commented quietly, more to himself than to the huntress. But it was true—what the pair of them had endured in the mountains put this squall to shame. A surge of longing swelled in his chest with the next snowy gust. He would have traded the whole of the Terril estate, the whole of Wymberly, the whole of Thebes, just to be back at their cabin in the mountains…

A flicker of motion in the reflection prompted him to turn around as their food arrived, and Remy took his place in the exquisitely upholstered chair across from Madison. He sat as a high-ranking officer should—back straight, shoulders back, chin high. Formal, but not uncomfortable. He waited for the huntress to begin eating before he helped himself to a piece of pumpernickel bread and a swallow of the bourbon cocktail. Swirling the glass in his hand, his storm-gray gaze was drawn, as it always was, back to his companion.

The compliment startled him, how easily it seemed to flow from her painted lips. Was it the booze, or was there no trace of derision in her tone? “Thank you,” he said, taking a sip to mask his surprise. On reflex, he reached up to run his fingers through his hair, which had become irreparably tousled in the heat of their library tryst. “It has gotten a little…unruly,” he admitted with a loose chuckle. He shook his head back and forth exaggeratedly, the locks tickling his neck with the movement. The action made the air feel as though it were made of liquid, the room swimming just enough to coax a wider amused grin. He’d built up a tolerance for alcohol since his return to Thebes and could hold his liquor far better than the malnourished teetotaler he’d been at the cabin, but the evening’s generous indulgences were beginning to make themselves known.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” he protested, popping a piece of perfectly cooked steak into his mouth. “But you did so well last time. A tempting offer, to be sure.” This time, when he shook his head, it was with nostalgic amusement as he continued to eat. “Okay,” he finally said, “I’ll agree to your terms if—and only if—you promise to keep me presentable. I can’t imagine the Terrils would appreciate a reputation as a barbershop. Let alone a bad one.”

He poured two glasses of water, sliding one toward Madison and suppressing a small but not unwelcome shiver as the icy liquid reached his stomach. A fierce breath of wind sent a mournful howl resounding through the room. “Sometimes I wonder what our old friend Mrs. Grafton is up to,” he commented. A hint of wickedness flashed in his smile, and he leaned back in his chair, one hunger satiated while another seemed determined to stir back to life. “Do you think her timing has improved at all?”

His agreement to her addendum to their evening activities caused a slow smile to curl her lips. Madison cast her gaze away from the tousled hair and stormy eyes, focusing on the wind whipping up small gusts of powdery snow. It swirled, twisting on itself and appearing much like she imagined a miniature tornado might. Suddenly, the wind would die down and the dance of the snowflakes would abruptly cease.  Turbulent thoughts were drawn to it, feeling a kinship with the snow. Remy Walther was her wind - she just a dusting of snow. Calm, quiet purpose filled her without him, but drawn up into a confusing, turbulent dance when he rushed into her life. Everything had been so singular before that fateful dinner party.

The offered water drew her back to him and she accepted the non-alcoholic drink. It would be best if she didn’t drink anymore wine. She knew that if she didn’t stop, if he didn’t stop - she’d have found a way to take him to bed, even if she had to coax him, beg him. So instead, the huntress delicately brought the water to her lips and took a long slow sip. Setting it down, Madison was grateful that she had swallowed before he asked about the inn’s proprietor. The question stopped her heart for just a breath - just a second which felt like an eternity. Emotions warred inside of her, raging and churning and tearing at her. The gleam in his eyes fanned the flames of her burning desire, and yet it was salt in a very fresh wound. He denied her, rebuffed her all for the sake of his pride, some ridiculous moral code. And then he asked her questions that shoved her back into a place of love, of happiness. Fingers flexed on the glass of water, tightening around the container in a effort to keep herself from responding immediately.

The memories of the Grafton Inn flooded her. His wound, her worry. The vow. The fulfillment of all his promises in one perfect afternoon. Now. The knocks on their door at the most in opportune moments. His amused grin. His fingers running along her skin for the first time. His mouth exploring the curves of her waist and the dip of her hips. The feel of his lean muscles beneath her wandering hands. How many times had he said he loved her? How many times had he breathed her name against her neck? How many times had she unknowingly run her nimble fingers of the tattoo that would undo them?

Exhaling softly, the huntress could not meet his gaze directly. If she had - if she had, she was uncertain of what she would say. Would it be anger? Would it be a please? She didn’t know. Instead, she focused on the dying storm outside the large windows. “I imagine her aptitude for interrupting has only increased.” A soft shadow of a smile brushed her lips.  “I pity any guests that seek solitude at that inn.” The stout woman, whose son they rescued from a hellish fate, had been someone she attempted to think about as infrequently as possible. After all, any thought of Mrs. Grafton led her to the inn and the inn faded into thoughts of the man she loved, the man she hated.

“Though Alice is determined to best her, I think.” Crystalline eyes flashed as she turned her head towards him, falling into the storm of his gaze. Madison did wonder if the library might have ended differently, gone down a different path if Alice had not arrived. Attention shifted to the door that remained ajar, wondering if speaking of her was enough to summon the young servant. She half hoped the woman might appear and save her from the spiral she had lost herself in. In a flicker of self awareness, the commander’s ex-lover focused back on him. She allowed her eyes to roam over his hair and scruff along his jaw. Devastatingly handsome. Frustratingly attractive.  It was the kind of attraction that would destroy her in the end, she knew. He would never be that same man again - hungry, soft-spoken yet insistent, only hers. Now he was commanding, a powerful force. The Commander.

“Little for her to interrupt though, all things considered.” Madison gave him a knowing look, raising a brow at him. “Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind from a night of reading to something more….” Heat ran over her shoulders, a memory of lessons flickering in her head. “Something more instructive.” She concluded as Alice appeared once more to clear their plates.

“Is there anything else I can get for you , Commander?” The inquiry was answered by the huntress. It was appropriate to address the highest ranking member first. He was, after all, the next leader of Northam - the long lost heir returned to take his rightful place at the head of a brutal military regime.

“A pair of hair shears, Alice. The ones you use for Carl’s hair would be perfect.” Confusion danced along the servant’s fave but she nodded, doing Madison’s bidding. The huntress finished her water before filling it once more. Delicately she ran her finger along the rim of the glass, absently giving herself something to do. All the pent up energy buzzing beneath her skin with no outlet. Fucking doctor and his ridiculous moral compass.

“Now would be the time to back out, if you like your hair to remain in such a state.” A smirk played her lips as she gestured to his unruly locks.

With the air viscous in his lungs and his skin aglow with boozy warmth, the anguish Remy had grown so used to carrying lifted from his shoulders almost without him noticing. He’d drank himself to sleep more nights than was probably healthy, but the relief was only ever a temporary paresthesia, a numbness that manifested as indifference at best and anger at worst. This, by contrast, felt like an embrace. The pain was a barely a shadow on a distant horizon, so obscured by shifting curtains of falling and blowing snow it was easy to ignore. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was permanent, or that eventually the fire wouldn’t burn itself out or that the cold wouldn’t settle in his bones once more…but being aware of its absence meant he could enjoy the moment while it lasted. And if it was all they had, then he was going to savor it.

“The other guests were probably glad we were there,” Remy mused, downing the rest of his water. “They could finally get some uninterrupted rest, no doubt, what with Mrs. Grafton constantly rapping on our door instead.” Unconsciously, his hand went to the place on his thigh where the scar from his long-healed wound lay beneath his trousers. He couldn’t feel the slightly raised flesh through the weave of the thick fabric, but his fingers knew its exact path, and they traced it now in remembrance. But it wasn’t just memories of the physical pain that flooded him then. It was far more than that—layered and raw, like the sutures Madison had bravely sewn in his leg. It was everything she’d done for him, from helping him limp through the forest, to the medical procedure itself, to reassuring him she was his. They had survived the crisis because they had each other.

Then again…they’d only been in danger because of his suggestion to track down the Grafton boy. A familiar tendril of guilt twisted in his gut. Their current situation—sitting across from one another, fighting their magnetic pull while being torn down divergent paths—was his fault, too. And although he’d revealed his identity to save her life, it was his deceit that had landed its fatal blow. A cruel justice served.

But with the sweet reassurances of the whiskey and the wine whispering in his ear, all of that seemed so very distant, and so very irrelevant. The physician’s thoughts drifted back to the library, to biting their tongues in the shadows when the well-meaning maid interrupted their rendezvous in the stacks. “Mrs. Grafton has a protégé in Alice,” he agreed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the edge of the table. His gaze flicked down to Madison’s wine-stained lips, and a flare of heat blossomed beneath the scruff on his jaw. Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind from a night of reading to something more… He met her gaze, and a familiar thrill shot through him. “Given our history of reading lessons,” he said, the words gliding uninhibited from his tongue, “I think we’ll have to be very…careful.”

He smiled politely at Alice when she appeared to take their empty dishes, shaking his head with as much gratitude as possible when she asked him if he needed anything else with his meal. Still, the woman’s expression was a combination of fear and mistrust. But it quickly turned to bewildered at Madison’s request for hair scissors, however, and it was all Remy could do to withhold his laughter until she’d left them alone again.

Alice returned with the shears after only a few minutes, handing them off to Madison with a harsh glance toward the commander that he did not fail to notice. Ignoring it, Remy pushed his chair back from the table and moved to perch on the edge of the seat. He reached up to ruffle his locks experimentally. The tresses fell across his cheeks in a thick cascade of deep blonde, momentarily obscuring his vision of the huntress.

With a lopsided grin that only thinly veiled his hesitation, he swiftly unbuttoned his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “A deal is a deal,” he quipped. “And I’m just drunk enough to think this is an acceptable idea. Unless, of course, you’re too drunk not to put out my eye.” He raised his chin to her expectantly, wincing melodramatically when she neared with the shears. “I don’t have my suture kit with me this time.”

Eyes glimmered like sapphires in the dim light of the makeshift dining room. Heat flared up along her spine at his words, his reference to their lessons. Images of the cabin flickered through her mind. Their first fight - how loud his voice had been, how thick with emotion. Their first kiss - bruising, angry need. The first time he told her he loved her - the well of affection, creation of a bond not easily broken. The heat created between them in the chill of the loft - a promise of something more. Madison’s breath hitched in her throat and she swallowed roughly to clear the blockage.

The huntress rose fluidly, taking the shears in her left hand as she crossed over to him. The shaggy hair fell over one eye now, making him look a bit boyish when accompanied by that devilishly attractive grin. She paused before him, as though on the precipice of something great or terrible. Crystalline gaze flickered over his seated form, now without the jacket. She took in the buttons, ones she had undone in the library. Grip tightened around the shears and she met his eyes, searching them for something, hoping for a small chink in the armor of his steely resolve. How she wanted to drop the scissors, slip both hands around his neck, straddle his lap and whisper directly against his mouth. Run away with me, roadwalker.

Instead, the physician’s ex-lover rounded behind him on the chair and worked her right hand through him hair. The movement was a stark contrast to the rough way she had tilted his head back in the library. Deft fingers moved gently against his scalp, lifting the hair up from the roots. Appraising, she made a slow show of her work as the sheers remained completely immobile in her other hand. It was softer than it had been in the cabin, in the Grafton Inn. The life of luxury at Wymberly agreed with him, rending his locks soft against her fingers. Still, as she toyed with the strands, Madison took a deep inhale of cedarwood. He favored the same scents. Perhaps this deal had been a mistake.

Committed to seeing it through, she took an unused napkin and draped it over his shoulders. The floor would be littered with the excess, but there was nothing to be done. Nimble fingers brought the silver shears up and began to snip away at the ends, letting it cascade down and onto the seat behind him. As she did so, her body pressed against his chair, brushing his warm skin occasionally. Working slow, savoring the moment with him in the quite of the windowed room, Madison licked her lips before speaking. “Is this the style among men now?” She teased, the soft snip of her shears filling the silence. “Looking like an unkempt wild man?”

It didn’t take long to tame the blonde strands into some semblance of decency. She examined the back, then above his ears. Finally, she rounded to the front, standing before him. His knees were mere millimeters from her legs. Placing the cutting instrument down on the table without looking, Madison tilted his head upward just as she turned hers down to capture his gaze. She held it for a long moment before examining her handiwork. “There.” She whispered it, leaning down until their faces were not far apart. “Now you look like him again.” She raised her hand and brushed back a few strands from his forehead, touch lingering. “Remy.”

Remy shook his head back and forth playfully as the huntress circled his chair and sorted her plan of attack with the shears. The curtain of hair tickled his face, several stubborn strands clinging to the stubble on his jaw. The gentle pressure of her palm on his scalp stilled him, and a shiver rocketed down his spine. Her touch, as always, was electric; no matter how much or how little he drank, whether the air between them crackled with anger or lust, whether her fingers found skin or cloth or hair, the sensation never changed, never dulled. Madison was the flame to his tinder. And even if it consumed him, he would surrender willingly to her blaze every time.

Her quip about contemporary styles was a purr in his ear from behind, and it took everything in him not to lean his head back until their cheeks brushed as she leaned down. But the words, lighthearted though they were, sent a deep, shattering ache through his core. He’d certainly been an unkempt wild man when he’d first stumbled into Thebes with Briggs’ squadron, emaciated and bleeding, his life ripped apart. His father had used those same words to describe his state then…spoken, of course, with the disdain of a man who would not suffer embarrassment. But when Madison said them, even in jest, they sounded like flattery. “You’ve seen me at my wildest,” he replied, more softly than he’d intended. “And you tamed me then. I only ask that you don’t take too much of the wild out now.”

Tears might have welled in his eyes if he wasn’t so practiced in wearing a mask—mistiness born of frustration and anger as much as with grief. But as it were, his expression remained steady, the storm in his eyes fierce and raging where his features were calm. He wouldn’t delude himself into believing Madison would have been fooled if she hadn’t been distracted by her current task; that was his only saving grace. She knew him better than anyone ever had and ever would. Even before she could confidently read words on a page, she could decipher his inner workings as though she’d designed the cogs herself. And as exasperating as that could be when he wanted to prove a point, it was most often a blessing, one that spoke to the connection they’d forged together on their journey. They didn’t need to speak. They simply…understood.

But the bond they shared was a two-way avenue. He could sense a similar turmoil within her, too, even now. How the pain laced the pleasure, how she warred within herself over whether to trust him again. How the echoes of their love rippled with alternating rings of passion and loathing.

Her fingers combed through his hair as she worked with a gentleness that almost surprised him. His heartbeat quickened, a swift but steady drum behind his sternum. The first time she’d offered to trim his hair, while a similar blizzard raged outside their cabin, they’d been significantly more intoxicated—and she’d been much rougher with his locks, forcefully tugging at the hopeless snarls between fits of mutual inebriated laughter, and him exaggerating his discomfort. Now, her touch was a caress. If she hadn’t been holding the scissors, methodically snipping at his mane, he might have pulled her into his lap, encircled her in his arms, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips while his troublesome blond tresses fell to tickle their cheeks. And then show her how wild he really could be.

Maybe he wasn’t drunk enough for this.

And yet it was all over too soon. He glanced sidelong at the huntress without moving his head, holding still beneath her assessment. He must have passed inspection, because she placed the scissors on the table behind her and leaned close again, her thumb deftly cradling his chin and tilting it upward. A gust of wind whistled at precisely the moment their eyes met. His breath halted in his lungs, stolen by the affection that glimmered suddenly in her ice blue gaze.

“Thank you,” the physician whispered. Her deft fingers lingered on his forehead, and a quiver shook him before he could suppress it. The reverberation of his name from her tongue still rang in his ears, and for a moment, they were someplace else—far from the Terril estate, leagues from Thebes. Without breaking her stare, he reached up and wrapped a hand tenderly around her wrist. He should have gently pulled her arm away; he should have made a joke about her skills as a beautician and gone to look at his reflection in the window, putting distance between them. But he didn’t. Instead, he held her touch in place against his face, lowering it only enough so that her palm might rest against his cheek. “I never want to be anything but Remy,” he murmured, tilting his head so that their lips might align should either one of them move any closer. The reverence in his tone was thick with emotion. He slid her hand forward and turned his face to press his mouth to her palm. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

The gentle pressure of the pads of his fingers pressed against her thrumming pulse at her wrist. Did he feel how erratically it beat? Could he feel the way it called out to him, for him? Did he know that she was far weaker in conviction than anyone assumed? All it would take would be for him to ask, and she might abandon it all for him. She hated that realization, loathed that part of herself that would fall to her knees before him. He was her weakness just as much as she was his. Where they once had been stronger together, now they were weaker for it.

Warmth slid through her palm as the stubble of his cheek brushed her skin. Madison applied gentle pressure, savoring the moment with a brief close of her eyes. When her lids parted once more, his face was closer than it had been. she could smell the whiskey on his breath and was utterly enveloped in cedar. She inhaled slowly, but deeply, locking her eyes with his. The storm in his gaze made her heart ache and lightening cracked between them as she longed to kiss him deeply. All she had to do was lean just a little further forward. The tone of Remy’s voice startled her, despite it being barely above a whisper. Drawing back just a fraction, the huntress pressed her lips together.

“I made you a promise once.” She should pull away, move back to her seat and drink the remainder of the water in the carafe. “That I would always find you.  No matter how hard you try to hide from me, from everyone…” She ran her thumb against the soft skin of above his cheekbone. She brought her other hand to run through his hair and pause at the nape of his neck. “I keep my promises.” Emotion roared to life in his eyes once more and she watched the tumult of warring feelings. It was a mirror of her own soul, the battle that rage within in since the second he arrived for lunch with Lawrence.

Madison slid closer, one leg slipping between his just slightly to create a gentle pressure against her knee. Heat flared up and across her stomach. Remy Sterling remained a bright beacon in the dark skies that had become her life, even if he was the one to plunge her into darkness to begin with. Perhaps it was too much wine, or too much loneliness, but she was incapable of moving away.  A shiver slithered through her and her fingers twitched against the back of his head.

“My offer stands.” She breathed the words, alluringly, against his mouth in what was not quite a kiss. “You could be Remy again, if just for tonight. Just with me. One last time as who we were…as the people we won’t ever get to be again.” Madison leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes, unable to witness the refusal. While she would fulfill her end of the bargain and read to him, she knew it would not be like their prior reading lessons. It couldn’t be. He had made certain of that. She would read to him from a curled position on the couch before the fire, while he sat further away in a high-back chair hand selected by Elora years ago.

The pulse in her wrist beat a steady cadence beneath the gentle pressure of his fingers. Compared to the frantic stammer of Remy’s own fractured heart, hers drummed a quick but regular rhythm—a constant, his anchor in a storm. Its acceleration aligned with the gleam of longing in her crystalline eyes as she captured his stare, the expression so earnest that he wondered if what he saw was only a reflection of the emotion churning in his own steely gaze.

He almost couldn’t believe it, though he wanted to with every cell of his being. His beautiful, intrepid huntress, whose fury he had rightly earned, who had cursed him as many times as she’d kissed him that night alone. The way she looked at him now offered a rare glimpse of vulnerability—her carefully crafted mask discarded, whether she’d intended to bare her emotions to him or not—and the sincerity he found there made his chest twinge. Let’s get out of here, he wanted to say. If anyone can make it in this storm and disappear, it’s us. They could vanish right into the squall, untraceable. They could disappear back into the forest, the mountains, the plains, the desert. They could run until Thebes was nothing but a hazy fever-dream fading in the backs of their memories.

As if reading his thoughts, the wind rattled the windowpanes. But was it with admonishment, or encouragement, that it raised its voice in such a mournful howl? He swallowed back the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. In that moment, for the umpteenth time that evening, he didn’t know whether to thank or bedamn the storm that kept them trapped together.

Heat bloomed behind his ribs as her thumb caressed his cheekbone, melting away the wintry cold of regret before it could settle any deeper in his bones. Desire, and something more. Longing. Wistfulness. A poignant ache that tiptoed the line dividing pleasure and heartache. He leaned his head into her palm, nuzzling it, his eyes fluttering closed. Her words were…well, she may as well have notched an arrow and loosed it straight through his flesh. Indeed, he might have preferred the sting of physical agony to the tender feeling of her opposite hand cradling the back of his neck, so full of the affection he felt but fought. A flurry of memories, too many memories, were conjured by that simple declaration. I made a promise once. They both had. A shiver raised goosebumps beneath his sleeves.

“And I made promises to you,” hummed the doctor in reply, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her—lavender and wine—like a drowning man resurfacing for air. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he wanted to say, but his tongue couldn’t form the apology again. His gray eyes had darkened with it instead, pleading. “I meant every word of them,” he rasped at last, desperate gaze falling to her parted mouth and back again. And then, as if to prove it, he inclined his head and briefly united their lips—a glancing, featherlight kiss that he broke too soon by rising to his feet. She stood so close that when he drew himself up, the knit of her sweater brushed against the buttons of his shirt. He looked down into her eyes, capturing the huntress’ gaze in the dimness.

The kiss he gave her next was slow, but not hesitant, bowing his head to her mouth as though in deference. “I will always be Remy. Your Remy,” he told her, tone thick with hushed vehemence and burgeoning need. He reached up to her face, tracing a hooked finger down her cheek. “That’s a promise, too. No matter what happens.” Still, the heady tension of her unspoken question hung suspended between them, a bowstring pulled as taut as his desire. He’d managed to stop himself before, but now…if she propositioned him again any more directly than that, he wasn’t sure he would have the power to resist.

He might’ve stepped back, to make it easier to endure her pull, but he was trapped between the chair and the very source of his torment. The only way out was towards her, closer even than they already were. Moving to her ear, he murmured, “I’ll take your offer under advisement,” before straightening again, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Have you decided what you’d like to read me?”

The kiss was barely a graze of their lips together and left her with a deep ache settling into her stomach. But before she could even lean further forward. He stood and she with him. Suddenly, she was looking up into his eyes - into a hurricane swirling above churning seas of glittering blue ocean.  Madison remained close to him, feeling his chest brush hers with each breath they took. Wanting lips parted slightly in an attempt at speech seconds before he leaned to kiss her once more. The union of their mouths was slow, magical, and yet still too short.  She sighed into the space between them. Her Remy. He said always, but she knew when the day dawned and the storm broke that he would once again belong to his family name.

They should part. They should step away, the huntress giving the commander the room he needed to move away from her. Being this close, with such emotion burning between them, was such an unbearably delightful sensation. His hand on her cheek, his chest against hers and the storm raging outside. Winter storms, in all their majesty and fury, would forever remind her of the doctor she had fallen in love with, of the man that had taught her to love and reintroduced her to pain.

His question caused laughter to bubble up out of her. She stepped back then, creating a sliver of space between them.  Raising both of her eyebrows, she let the amusement twinkle in her eyes. “So now I have to read to you and choose the subject matter? Absolutely not.” She shook her head and gave him a light, playful shove before walking away. Alice appeared as if she had been waiting for distance to come between them. She hovered silently until Madison addressed her. “We’ll be returning to the library for some reading before retiring. What rooms are made up for the Commander?”

“The quest room at the end of the hall, next to Master Lawrence’s second story study.” The maid responded, clasping her fingers together. “Is there nothing else I can do for you Mistress?”

“Perhaps a few blankets for the library. I don’t want the Commander to catch a chill while he examines Lawrence’s collection.”

“Of course, mistress. Would either of you like coffee?”

“Perhaps a warmed chocolate for me.” Madison had developed no love for the caffeinated beverage. It made her hands shake and her heart race. Neither of which were particularly useful for a huntress. Alice departed after taking the order of the High Commander’s son.

“Shall we?” She motioned to the door, leaving the thick snow covered windows behind her. “The short walk will give you time to decide what you want me to bore you with. “

She stepped back, the physical distance still short enough that he could have reached out to brush her shoulder, or even leaned forward for a kiss. Still, the space felt entirely too vast. Insurmountable, in the ways that mattered—the blood in Remy’s veins hadn’t changed, and despite her present cordiality, he knew the huntress was far from entertaining forgiveness. But it would be so easy to close the gap once more, to stand close enough to read the mysteries in the depths of her ocean eyes, to count the constellation of freckles scattered across her nose. It took every ounce of willpower the alcohol had left him to resist the magnetic pull, and even still, the part of him pliant with whiskey was all too eager to give in. So his eyes roamed her face from a torturous arm’s length away instead, blue-gray gleaming with a mélange of wistful want, affection, and sadness.

The glow of the lamplight painted one side of her face in a gold as rich as the evening sun, the other cast in muted blueish shadow whose contrast only heightened the elegance of her features. What he wouldn’t do to kiss those lips again and again—as softly as the swirling snowflakes, as intensely as the wind. His surname might have belonged to Northam and its grisly regime, but he—Remy, physician, adopted son of his mentor Dr. Edgar Sterling, the man with a heart too soft and a mind too sharp—belonged wholly and completely to Madison Gallow.

She was stronger than he was; her playful shove, amusement twinkling in her eyes, was the only thing that broke the spell and allowed them both to step apart. Despite the longing that tightened his chest, he couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure we’ll find something suitable to read,” he said as Alice rounded the corner. He nodded his acknowledgement, but the young woman refused to look at him longer than propriety dictated. “A coffee, please,” the physician requested, realizing that a dose of caffeine might be wise after the long day he’d had, and knowing what little chance he stood at getting any meaningful sleep at the Terril estate.

Remy offered Madison his arm once more as they strode back to the library, and her warm presence against his side was a balm to more than just the chill in the corridor. The fire in the cavernous room had died back considerably in their absence, but the air still felt warm, as if it had absorbed the electricity between them only a handful of hours prior. A twinge of desire stirred in him all over again at the thought.

The physician cleared his throat softly and moved to the fireplace, kneeling to add more fuel. The hungry flames licked up the sides of the new kindling and logs, springing to back to life from the embers. He remained near the fire for a moment and watched as Madison beckoned in another servant, one he did not recognize. Their chess game and wine glasses had been cleared away while they’d been at dinner, and the young man placed their tray of warm beverages on the table between the armchairs. The poor boy trembled at the sight of Remy—even kneeling though he was at the hearth, although it was probably odd to see the fabled Commander stoking his own fire—and left them alone without uttering a single word.

The sweet aroma of chocolate and the nutty perfume of coffee blended with the faint scent of smoke. He rose to his feet and sauntered to Madison. He stopped an arm’s reach away, biting the inside of his cheek against the overwhelming compulsion to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close. Instead, he added a splash of milk to his coffee and brought the mug to his lips. Over the rim, his blue-gray eyes glittered through the steam as he caught the huntress’ gaze.

“Coffee reminds me of my mother,” he murmured, inhaling the steam. “She drank it every morning when I was little. Her hair used to smell like it, too, sometimes.” He lowered the cup to the table thoughtfully, one corner of his mouth quirking into a small half-smile. “My sister and I used to beg for a taste, but of course it was vile to a little kid. Mother used to tell me I’d like it when I grew up. I couldn’t imagine it then, but I guess she was right.” He wondered, briefly, if his sister would agree with him if she were alive. A flicker of uncertainty and sadness crossed his features. Not a day had passed that he didn’t think of Azalea, but so far he hadn’t encountered any evidence that she was alive…and his father had not once mentioned her name. It was as though she’d never existed at all.

Madison watched him kneel to stoke the fire, to give it the fuel it needed to stave off the chill. She was thrown back to their cabin, to the night he first kissed her - bruising and fumbling but full of passion. An ache settled beneath her heart, tightly wound and heavy as a stone. Part of her longed for that man again, the one with the boldness to yell at her, to rage against her lack of empathy, to catch her up and devour her mouth. As he turned, so did she, not wanting him to catch the longing in her shimmering eyes.

Instead, she allowed her gaze for track the frightening servant before he skittered off. Attention returned to Remy over the rim of his steaming mug. His words cause her by surprise as her brought up his mother. He had told her about his mother before - about the salt and the sugar and the amusing mistake. But now, now that she knew who he was she doubted the veracity of the tale. Had he made it up? Had he altered it to suit his needs at the time? Emotions swirled again, the mix of prior longing with the subtle pang of betrayal.  But she did not interrupt, despite the internal conflict she was suffering through.

The Commander spoke so affectionately about his mother that she knew he had lived her and from what the Terrils had told her, she hadn’t been like her husband as far as they knew but she had died in the Uprising along with Remy’s little sister. Madison knew that he searched for her with the vain hope of a man with nothing else left to keep him afloat in the tumultuous sea of his own emotions.  “Mothers often are.” She responded, reaching for the warmed chocolate dissolved in a mixture of milk and cream. “We never had coffee, so I never developed a love for it. My mother drank a tea of herbs we foraged and very rarely my father was able to obtain sugar if hunting had been especially generous that year.“ The huntress turned her eyes to the fire as it began to hungrily devour the fresh wood. “She’s always save some for my birthday, to make a small sweet cake”

A smile flickered against her mouth like a light fighting it’s extinguishing. Cradling the mug in one hand she shook herself from her reverie and made an lotion to the library with the other. “I keep my bargains ro-“ she stumbled briefly over the desire to call him roadwalker, their term of endearment, the tease she whispered when he was the love of her life. “So what will you choose?” Madison kept her gaze on anywhere but his face, knowing he’d recognize her stumble and not quite reward to brave the consequences of the blunder.

Desire and reason warred behind his ribs, his heartbeat thundering like gunfire. Roadwalker. The nickname—first an insult, and later a term of endearment—had nearly escaped the huntress’ lips. An old habit as easy to slip into as a well-worn coat.

She didn’t need to say it in full; the word rang in the air silently between them, half a prayer, half a curse. You are a complete and utter idiot, moron, imbecile…worse than a roadwalker, she’d once shouted, wielding the term like a weapon as the storm raged outside their cabin as furiously as her temper. And then later, with an inebriated smile and a touch across his brow so tender it had shocked him, Not bad looking now. For a roadwalker.

A wave of longing washed over him, a gentle sadness this time. His fingertips itched to reach out to her, but he fought the reflex and curled them around his coffee cup instead.

“It was all true, you know, the story I told you about Azalea,” said Remy quietly, seeing the faraway look in Madison’s eyes and realizing she was thinking just what he was—of the childhood memory he’d shared after the huntress had fallen in the river. He cleared his throat. “She really did scoop salt into all that tea and coffee. She got away from my mother and the governess that day…she always liked the dining room because of the stained-glass windows.” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes gently tilted his lips before it faded again, replaced by decades-old weariness. “Only it wasn’t our neighbors coming for harvest, it was a group of generals in town from the Northam outposts. And we didn’t laugh about it afterwards.”

Remy gripped his warm mug of coffee tighter. “But Azalea had embarrassed him in front of some of the most important representatives from the remote territories. It was crucial that these men not question anything about my father’s command, given their physical distance from Thebes. I hate to think what he might’ve done to her…” He trailed off and shook his head, the firelight gilding his newly trimmed hair. “But I took the blame. My father knew I was lying to protect her, but that didn’t stop him.” The memory of the lash-whip’s bite sent a shiver down his spine, and he reached up to cradle the back of his neck with his palm. “He wanted to make sure I understood the consequences of being noble on top of it. It was probably the worst lashing he ever gave me. Normally he was good at hiding the marks and the bruises, but that time I was in bed for a week.”

The doctor shook his head and tried to muster a smile. His blue-gray eyes, haunted though they were by the memories, did not stray from Madison’s face. He hadn’t intended to digress so far into his past, but he’d also promised never to lie again—and Azalea’s story, as inconsequential as it may have been in the grand scheme of what their relationship had once been, was another truth he owed her. Searching her expression for a reaction, he lowered his half-empty mug to the table and drew a measured breath.

“Come on,” he said, this time giving in to the urge and wrapping his hand gently around her elbow. “Let’s find something for you to read me.” He tugged her after him, and together they plunged down the shadowy aisles of towering bookshelves. In the dimness, he glanced over the titles emblazoned on the spines; they traipsed past cracked reference volumes, ancient encyclopedias, countless novels whose names he didn’t recognize. But he didn’t stop, not until he found himself standing before a section of shorter books, less worn. A thin coating of dust blanketed the surface of the wooden shelves in front of the collection. Poetry.

Remy scanned them quickly, peering through the shadows, until at last he spotted a familiar name. He released Madison’s arm and reached up to retrieve it, the deep forest green linen of its cover soft against his hand. Angling it toward the distant firelight, the silver stamped letters on the front glinted like ice—Memories of Mountains & Snow: The Complete Collected Poems of Robert Frost.

“Here. This one.” He stepped closer to her, perhaps too close, and pressed the sturdy book into her hands. “Choose any of them you like.”

The truth settled like a stone in her stomach. It didn’t surprise her, not really, that the High Commander would beat his own child. But it twisted the hypothermic memory inside of her, casting a shadow on the evening where he first told her that he loved her. The tale had been one that comforted her, as she had settled against him, shivering from her unplanned swim. Now she knew the reality from which it had been spun and Madison did not quite know how to address it.

Fortunately for the huntress, the Commander was pulling her down a row of books as he searched for the tone from which she would read. Darkness club to them as they traversed the dark columns of books, flickers of light from the fire and some small lamps. Dust tickled her nose as he withdrew a book and she struggled to hold back a sneeze. She turned to sneeze and then laughed softly, before turning back to face it.

The doctor was suddenly very close again, pressing the book into her hands. She felt his heat in the cold row of books as they tarried away from the fire. The lump in her throat suddenly too difficult to dislodge, words were kept inside. To conceal her tumultuous emotions, Madison examined the cover of the book. Memories of Mountains & Snow: The Complete Collected Poems of Robert Frost. The title was a dagger to her heart. Mountains and snow. The cabin. Their bodies entwined and loving words whispered into heated spaces. As suddenly as she read it, she was somewhere else entirely with a different book in her hand. There lay a nearly unending difficulty in drawing herself back to the present, finding it unbearable to leave the pleasant ignorance of the memory.

With hands that shook slightly, the huntress began to flip the pages slowly, skimming the words on the pages before her that hadn’t seen the light of day in what she suspected was decades.  As if led by an unseen force, blue eyes settled on a particular poem that resonated deep inside of her. She read it slowly, the silence punctuated by his slow breaths. Finally, she found one and knew it the first moment she read it. To be certain, crystalline gaze roved over the printed words on the old page beneath her fingertips. The choice was not choice at all, once the words twisted themselves inside of her and around her fractured heart.

“All right.” Madison tilted her head upwards and searched his eyes. Envelopes in the darkness, surrounded by the nonjudgmental comfort of books, it would be easy to rock forward on the balls of her feet. Closing the book, hands wrapped around the small volume and brought it to her chest. The space between shrunk infinitesimally but she felt infinitely closer to him. To Remy. Swallowing, the huntress took a step back and then another. The cold air that rushed in to fill the space was icy against her skin. “Come on now. Let me pay off my debt.”  Turning on her heel, she soon settled herself into the plush cushion of the couch. As she had slipped to her chosen seat, she grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair. The fire coaxed to life by the heir to Northam crackled and hissed, almost irritated by their departure. While the flames chastised the couple, Madison wrapped the soft fabric around her feet beside her. Knees bent and she wondered if she looked as small as she felt in the grand library.

Opening the book, she focused on him once more. “Are you certain you don’t have a preference for which one I read? What if you despise what I choose?” A light twist of one side of her lip ticked up.

The flutter in his chest as they returned to the fire, although having taken flight from the wind of anticipation, brought a bitter tang of sadness to his mood. Remy remembered that same quivering sensation behind his sternum in a very different context—long ago now, in a cabin deep in the mountains, with the harsh wind screaming outside, the fire wild and crackling on half-damp kindling, and the featherlight brush of tentative fingertips on bare skin.

The howl of the storm outside did little to distance him from the barrage of memories, which in turn did little to dampen the ache that had settled in his chest. That pain was a familiar old companion by now, but he couldn’t help but think that all this—being thrust back into Madison’s magnetic presence, trapped together by a raging storm—had ripped open the gash all over again. Was it destined never to heal over? A doctor perpetually wounded, unable to staunch his own bleeding?

As Madison settled onto one side of the couch, Remy chose the opposite end—near her, but not touching her, with a full cushion bridging the distance between them. He leaned into the corner where the back met the upholstered arm so he could face her, and he watched silently as she tucked her legs beneath her and settled in with the plush blanket. With the shadows disguising their lavish surroundings, they almost could have been anywhere, been anyone. Madison tucked in with a book, bathed in golden firelight, her eyes bright and familiar; Remy settled over the other end, one arm draped over the soft curve of the back of the sofa, attentive and contemplative. 

A faint, sad smile crinkled his eyes but didn’t quite reach his lips. Madison’s concern with his opinion of reading material—What if you despise what I choose?—was strangely touching, but the raw truth was that she could have read straight from the dictionary, or from one of Lawrence’s dreadful ledgers, and he would have been just as enthralled by the music of her voice. “I could never despise it,” he murmured, unsure how many of those feelings to disclose. This strange new comfort between them felt fragile and foreign, and the last thing Remy wanted to do was jeopardize the tentative stability they’d managed to eke out from an otherwise chaotic reservoir of passion.

“There’s not a wrong choice in the whole book, if you ask me,” the physician finished truthfully, biting back the words his heart longed to speak. Your voice follows me like birdsong, he wanted to say. It grounds me like falling leaves in the autumn. It guides me like the moon and calms me like the snowfall. I hear it even after all this time. My conscience and my challenge. My navigator and my love.

As if to clear the thoughts away, Remy cleared his throat. “Sometimes my mother would recite poems to Azalea and me when we were small, all from memory. She always kept a book of poetry in her sitting room,” he said. “I never actually saw her read any of them. But she must have done, because the books were always changing and moving. Her volume of Robert Frost had a bright yellow cover. I remember the spine crackling when I opened it once and tried to read some of it.” A lopsided grin tugged at one corner of his lips before his mouth curved into a full smile. “That was before I was old enough to appreciate poetry, of course. Luckily for you, I’ve matured.” He drew a slow breath, exhaling in a long, controlled sigh that blended with the sound of the wind beyond the library walls. “I’m ready when you are.”

The location of the Commander just inches from her on the couch made her blood heat beneath her skin. Madison tamped it down, grateful for the pillow barrier between them. It was like the night in the cabin had just happened- awakening that never ending need inside of it. It wasn’t that she would throw herself at him - despite her foolish attempts, she knew he wouldn’t take her to bed - but the urge to slide into his arms, head against his chest, as she read was overwhelming. His arms would wrap around her and she would silently wonder at the muscular definition that was so in contrast to the Remy she had known. The pair of travelers were so strikingly different from the people they had been, yet Madison would give anything to go back to that starving, freezing girl she had been without the knowledge of who she traveled with - if just for a moment, a night.

Such hopes, such wishes were pointless. And so she focused her attention on the book before her as he began to divulge information about his mother. The fondness he held for her and his sister was endearing, pushing thoughts of his father’s abuse to the back of her mind. It seems life as the High Commander’s son wasn’t all terrible. He had books, education, and the love of his mother. Opening to the page of the poem she chose, Madison rested her head on her fist and met his eyes. That lopsided grin playing his face made her stomach lurch and a deep longing twist itself again inside of her. The huntress doomed to constantly fall under his spell, to lose all reason and sense at the sight of his storm eyes and sound of his lips forming her name.

Finally, she focused on the poem and read it twice in her head before speaking. The fire hissed and spit like a viper in the silence, fierce anger in its snaps. Poetry was beautiful, but for someone who had been reading for barely a year, it was still difficult to read it without a bit of practice. So she took her time before licking her lips slowly. Bright blue eyes flicked up to him, smiling sheepishly as nerves seized her. “All right then. But don’t hold it against me if it is not quite right. Or if it’s a horrendous choice.” Swallowing, the once illiterate woman placed her finger beneath the first word and began to read the poem she had selected. The choice had been difficult, but something about this one spoke to her, rooted itself deep inside of her. Madison had no idea if this was one that Robert Frost was well known for when he was alive, or long after his death. Now, no one knew who he was - except Northam’s elite.

“Out through the fields and the woods
     And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
     And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
     And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
     Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
     And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
     When others are sleeping.”

Madison’s voice was soft as she read. The once-angry fire seemed to quiet, allowing the doctor to hear her words with clarity. She dared not look up at him as she read, for fear the sight of him would cause her to stumble over the words.

“And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
     No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
     The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
     But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
     Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
     To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
     Of a love or a season?”

Somewhere amongst the final words, tears pricked at her eyes and she wasn’t quite sure why. The poem was not particularly emotional - at least she had thought so when she had initially read it. Yet something deep inside of her cracked as she spoke the words allowed in the best cadence she could manage with her limited experience reading poetry aloud. Her experience reading to him however…had always led to a different use of their mouths. Sorrow slipped itself in her veins and squeezed her heart tightly as she raised her head. Tears glimmered along the edge of her lower lash line, threatening to spill over. Throat worked on words trapped inside her chest. I love you. I’ll always love you, you stupid roadwalker. Reason be damned. Madison’s lips parted but nothing came out. Tonight, her heart would win out over reason if he let it but tomorrow…tomorrow she would be Lawrence’s again, she’d be dedicated to her mission once more.

Not even Remy could change that.

Madison’s voice gave wings to the words on the yellowing pages, bringing the poem to life in a way that only the huntress could—softly, tentatively, her confidence rising as she continued until the cadence of the lines flowed from her tongue like snowmelt in the mountain streams. There was music to it, and beauty, and candor and sorrow and uncertainty. A symphony of feelings, raw and bare.

It was more than just the meaning of the words that struck him with such force; it was the earnestness of Madison’s delivery, from the occasional sweet stumble (he might once have teased her, then reassured her with a brush of his lips) to the quiet emphasis of the rhyme. How was it possible to feel such warmth blossom from someplace so deep within, for such stinging heat to bloom from the bitter ice that had frosted over behind his ribs? Like a crocus coaxed forth by the first whisper of spring, it burst through the packed snow of his sorrow with a strength and determination that belied the delicacy of its violet petals. It was as much a flash of hope as it was a painful reminder. A symbol of new beginnings—fresh starts from old roots.

Was it true, as the poem said, that bowing one’s head and giving up on the heart’s desires was its own type of treason? Or was its point that the coming and going of love, like the seasons, was inevitable? Either interpretation was an arrow through his chest, nocked and loosed by his beloved huntress. Remy felt the threat of tears sting his gray eyes. The piece was appropriate in its cruelty. But no less painful.

The physician couldn’t tear his gaze from Madison as her recitation came to an end, not even as the ghost of the words—and their shared pasts—lingered like the swirl of snowflakes on the furious wind outside. Firelight glistened on the moisture that clung to his lashes, but the tears did not fall, not even as he saw the same emotion on the huntress’ face. They sat in charged silence for a long while, neither daring to break it. But something had already shifted, something the doctor couldn’t define. The fire crackled gently on the hearth. The wind whistled through a loose windowpane somewhere deep within the library. But Remy suddenly felt, with so much force that it was a wonder his ribs didn’t burst from it, that this night would be the last time they would ever be together like this again. That the universe had offered them this final chance to make their private peace…the concluding chapter of their ill-fated romance.

Wordlessly, Remy rose to his feet and stepped to Madison, stormy eyes glinting as he gazed down at the woman he so hopelessly loved. A physical ache radiated from his chest. He reached out, running a hooked finger along the curve of her cheek, then leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. If his lips lingered a little too long, if he breathed the perfume of her hair a bit too deeply, he certainly didn’t notice; he stretched the moment as long as he could before it threatened to snap, until the familiar magnetic pull of their kindred hearts became too much to bear.

He pressed his cheek against her hair. “Good night, Madison Gallow,” he whispered, the sorrow heavy in his words. The smile he offered her as he pulled away was devastating. It took all his willpower to step back, to keep one foot moving in front of the other until he found himself alone in the darkness of the corridor.

A startled servant offered him a hasty salute as they nearly collided around a corner, the young woman apologizing profusely for not having heard the commander’s soft-stepped approach. Remy flashed her a half-hearted smile and asked for directions to the quarters that had been made up for him. When she offered to escort him, he politely declined, but didn’t miss the fear in her dark eyes when he dismissed her.

Remy felt like he was sleepwalking—a drone going through the motions, drained dry of his capacity for feeling. Where minutes before he’d been overwhelmed with emotion, now a hollow numbness took its place. He slept fitfully, waking every handful of minutes expecting to discover Madison sleeping at his side in the enormous bed. It was a knife to the gut anew every time he turned to find himself alone, knowing that she slumbered somewhere beneath the same roof, probably just a few doors away…

He was already awake and dressed when an urgent rapping sounded at his door. “A message from General Belvedere, sir,” the jittery servant announced, extending a small folded piece of paper on a brass plate when Remy opened the door.

Remy glanced at the handwritten note, penned in the same scrawl as yesterday’s radio transcription. He frowned at the vagueness of the communication. Report to Wymberly immediately upon receipt, it said. Transportation en route. A spike of anxiety accelerated his pulse; they were still riding the wake of the nearly-successful attempt on Quinn Belvedere’s life. Had there been more shamrock activity during his unexpected absence?

“Thank you,” Remy said, following the servant down the winding staircase to the Terrils’ grand atrium. Another gathering of staff awaited him, Alice among them, who stood with his coat near the front door. He donned it gratefully and stepped into the bitter cold as a horse-drawn carriage on sleigh runners glided through the impressive snowdrifts that obstructed the long front driveway. The roads would be impassable for any other form of transportation for a good long while, until the worst of the accumulation could be plowed away.

A small gust of icy wind ran its fingers through Remy’s hair as he stepped up to the vehicle, but the cold was an old acquaintance of his, and he breathed it deep into his lungs like a balm. He paused, one foot resting on the platform, and turned around to look up to the window where he’d glimpsed Madison all those months ago, after the dinner with his father.

Because he would always look back. Even if he knew she wouldn’t be waiting there. Even if nothing would ever be the same again.

————

Remy hadn’t quite known what to expect upon arriving at Wymberly so early in the morning after such an urgent missive, but it certainly hadn’t been empty corridors and uncanny silence.

Despite the protection of its woodsy landscaping, the blizzard had tucked massive drifts of snow against the outer walls, some of them mountainous enough to reach the windows. Had the sky been clear, the reflected sun would have illuminated the sprawling mansion’s interior with blinding swaths of light, belying the nasty winter weather that had befallen them the previous night. Instead, a shroud of dense gray clouds overhead cast everything in shadow. Remy felt as though he were striding through an empty cavern. The electric lights had been switched off to save on power during the storm, and even his boots on the marble floors seemed muffled somehow.

Bafflingly, he made it to his quarters without encountering a single other person. Yet the fire had been lit in his room, and it crackled contentedly over fresh logs on the hearth. He locked the door behind him—Quinn’s attack fresh in his mind—and wondered exactly why he had been summoned to return with such haste.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he was startled by a knock at the door. He knew it would be the Belvedere general before he even slid open the lock.

Quinn slipped inside—upright and steady but looking otherwise unwell. His uniform glistened with melted snowflakes on the back and shoulders; he must have come straight from Compound, and Remy had beat him to Wymberly with the state of the roads.

Remy immediately became a physician again at the sight of the wounded general-turned-spy. “Have you been able to keep your arm still?” he asked, leading the general to the bathroom. He gestured to the bench opposite the shower.

Quinn gratefully took a seat without responding, wincing a little as he unbuttoned his navy military jacket. “I had to be outside all day yesterday,” the general explained with a wince, shrugging off the coat to reveal the standard long-sleeved woolen layers beneath. He peeled each slowly over his head and wounded arm until he sat with his bare torso on the bench. Belvedere’s eyes fluttered closed with a weary sigh.

Remy had seen Quinn without a shirt a handful of times before, always in the soft early morning light of the Beloit during training. In the electric brightness of his bathroom, however, the general’s immense collection of scars glowed in a spectrum from silvery white to faded mauve against his olive skin.

As if he could feel the physician’s appraising gaze behind his own closed lids, one corner of Quinn’s mouth twitched upward. “Add this one to the collection,” he drawled, cracking one eye open.

Remy peeled back the old bandage. “Your faith in my suturing technique is flattering,” he returned without looking up.

“Forgive me,” the general said, sarcasm lacing the faux apology. “Medics are hard to come by. They hoard the competent ones in Thebes, which isn’t usually where the worst injuries happen, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

This time, the doctor did look up. “So there’s a medic shortage among the militia?”

“Worse, there’s a good medic shortage. You might know that my father oversaw a lot of the distant camps and outposts…he was advocating for proper medical training as part of his reform proposals. The man was a brute, not an idiot. We were losing too many remote soldiers to injury and disease.” Quinn opened his eyes for a moment, watching the doctor as he worked. “Quite the pair of boots to fill. It’s coming up on my agenda for the Academy, but there’s…a lot to do.”

Remy listened as he prepared fresh gauze and antiseptic. He unwrapped the material holding the old bandaging in place and peeled back the pad of gauze, which was almost completely saturated with red.

“Can you just…” Quinn leaned his head back against the wall and waved his hand. “Can you just talk about something? Anything.”

Although it was still strange to think of the powerful general as a patient, that’s precisely what the wounded man was—and Remy was happy to oblige his need of distraction. “You know, when I was told I was to be trained by General Belvedere, I expected your father to show up.”

“Anything but that,” snapped Quinn, an old pain thinly veiled with boyish annoyance.

Fair enough. Remy changed the subject, perhaps too hastily, because the first alternate topic to enter his mind was, “The Terrils send their regards.”

Quinn grunted. “The Terrils…fuck, I’d rather talk about my damn father.”

Remy bit back a chuckle. “We are agreed on that front,” he commented mildly.

“Lawrence is an insufferable bastard.”

The physician grinned. “I can’t argue with you there either,” he said, dabbing at the blood on his patient’s bicep. “Thankfully, I spent most of the time with his…” Remy faltered on the word. What was Madison to Lawrence? His beau, his lover, his…betrothed?

“Current plaything?” Quinn filled in. “I haven’t had the pleasure of making this one’s acquaintance.”

Remy privately bristled at the flippant term. “His female companion,” he finally settled on, loathing the words as his tongue formed them. “Her company is…much more tolerable.”

“I make it a point to interact with that family as little as possible. I wasn’t even aware he was engaged.”

“He’s not,” Remy said, perhaps too quickly, but the general didn’t seem to notice. “At least not that they mentioned.”

“It would be the talk of Thebes if he was. The bastard is a serial bachelor.” Quinn tensed at the antiseptic’s sting. “You know, I heard you were with a woman when Briggs first brought you in.” 

Thankfully, Remy’s back was to the general as he wrapped the sullied bandage and gauze in a paper cloth destined for the fireplace. “I don’t see a wedding band on your finger,” he countered quickly, composing his mask before turning around. 

Quinn just shrugged, accepting the evasion. “I’m a busy man.” A dodge for a dodge. “It’s been…a long day, Commander.” Quinn gritted his teeth, annoyance tainting the pain. “I mean…Remy,” he corrected with a sigh. “That’s going to be a tough habit to break.”

Remy looked up, but his amusement faded quickly when he saw his patient’s pale sheen. “I’m a little concerned about this bleeding,” he told him, chewing on his lip as he studied the line of stitches. “It might just be residual. Or it might be from movement. It doesn’t look to be actively bleeding now, but if it’s that artery…”

Quinn nodded in understanding. “Brachial artery?” he filled in. “Don’t look so surprised. You don’t get to where I am without learning where all the fatal vessels are. Shitty medics or not.”

“If you want to get technical, it’s the superior ulnar collateral artery I’m worried about.” Remy leaned back to meet Quinn’s amber eyes. “Fortunately, the ulnar nerve is intact.”

“So you’re a show-off too. Little commander, full of surprises. Where did you learn all of this?”

A pang of sadness momentarily engulfed him, and Remy genuinely did not know how to answer—it was too long a history, with more chapters than a single response could do justice. He leaned back on his knees and studied Quinn, who, aside from his obvious pain, was as unreadable as ever. “An old friend,” was all he offered in reply.

The general took the non-answer in stride.

“You were lucky,” Remy said, changing the trajectory of the conversation.

The general snorted. “Not lucky. Skilled.” There was no arrogance in his tone this time, in jest or otherwise. Simple statement of fact. “A lesser soldier would not have been able to interrupt her strike.” He inhaled sharply as the doctor pressed a new pad of gauze to the wound. “But a lesser shamrock operative wouldn’t have gotten far enough to get to me, let alone to land a blow. Considering she had the element of surprise on her side, we were a decent match.”

“Praising the enemy?” asked Remy, an offhanded joke. 

Quinn abruptly bristled, either not catching or purposely ignoring the physician’s attempt at humor. “And just who would you say is the enemy, Commander?” he demanded, his tone suddenly familiar…and dangerous.

It was Remy’s turn to raise his hackles. “I would love to know, General,” he shot back, defensive irritation sparking in his chest. Despite the sharp edge to his words, his hands were swift and gentle as they secured the bandage around Quinn’s bicep. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, I thought it was you.”

To Remy’s surprise, Quinn laughed—an acerbic chuckle, with more than just physical pain gleaming suddenly in his dark eyes. It was yet another rare glimpse behind the mask, and Remy felt his sudden frustration falter at the sight. “Unbearable, isn’t it?” the general said, his voice hoarse. “The isolation. Trust me, Commander”—the title carried only a hint of bitterness this time—“I can relate.”

Remy tucked his feet beneath his legs and rose lithely to a stand, offering a hand to his patient. This time, unlike the instance when Remy had bested his trainer in the gym, the general clasped his palm and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. Quinn eased his arms back into his jacket, forgoing the bloodied base layer. Remy would burn it later along with the used gauze and bandages. “How about a drink?” The physician offered. It was early, but he had barely slept. He had a feeling General Belvedere hadn't either, and could probably use it. Frankly, so could Remy.

Quinn met the physician’s gaze and held it for a long, appraising moment. “Look at us,” the general finally drawled, releasing Remy’s hand. “An heir and a general. A doctor and a shamrock.” Something akin to amusement darkened in his eyes even as his expression softened. “A traitor and a traitor.”

Remy’s brows twitched together, but there was no trace of menace in his face.

“A drink, you said? It’s not even nine in the morning.” One corner of his mouth twitched into a smile that was almost sheepish. “Better make it two.”

Flames danced enthusiastically beyond the mantle of the living room fireplace, combating the extraordinary chill of the winter morning. Quinn eased himself into one of the armchairs nearest the heat source, and Remy brought him a generous pour of whiskey from the bottomless decanter. “A shame we’ve so much ‘official business’ to discuss today,” the physician said jokingly, settling into the seat opposite the general and tossing him a grin.

Quinn snorted. “You do require an inordinate amount of hand-holding,” he agreed, playing along with such dedication that he adopted his impenetrable business tone…and became, as though a switch had been flipped, the infamous and terrifying Belvedere the world knew. “I should think you would have made faster progress, given your pedigree. But needs must, and all that.”

“Fuck,” Remy breathed, impressed and, frankly, startled at the abrupt shift. He lifted his own glass in acknowledgement, the patterned crystal glittering vermilion in the firelight.

General Belvedere flashed his teeth in a boyish smile, breaking the character—or at least giving up one character for another. “I know.” He rolled his right shoulder back with a wince, twisting his neck to lean against the padded wing of the chair.

Remy knew (or thought he knew) a lot about Quinnley Belvedere the Brigadier General, the Chief, the Commander’s Confidante, the Executioner, the warrior—but he knew next to nothing about Quinn the Resistance operative, the shamrock, the spy, the traitor. The general curated his persona with as much terrifying skill as the high commander himself, and it was too soon in their allyship for Remy to have determined which version of the man’s personality was the real one…if he had even seen it yet. But the general worked for Clover, and that was an irrefutable thread of truth that Remy clung to. A lifeline in the hellish sea upon which he’d been adrift since his return to Thebes.

“You know, the other night, when I came here…” The infamous Belvedere paused a moment, staring into whiskey that glowed nearly the same color as his eyes. “I figured if I was wrong about you, I would be dead either way. I hadn’t expected you to be…”

Remy raised his eyebrows and his eyes glinted with mirth. “Unpredictable?” he supplied, referencing Quinn’s mantra from training.

A bark of startled laughter shook Quinn’s shoulder enough to coax a groan of pain. “How incredibly droll, Commander,” the general retorted. “So you have been listening. But you have a point. I didn’t come here last night expecting to be rescued. I came here to control the story. And to protect what’s mine.” He shook his head, incredulous. “But what do you know, Gregoray Remington Walther II is a fucking doctor. And I lived to see the sun rise twice.”

Remy took a drink. “Does Clover know you were attacked?” 

“Not from me. From the shamrock and her handler? By now? Maybe.”

“Clover would send someone to assassinate her own operative?” Remy asked, surprised.

The general stared into the flames. “Not exactly,” he said with levity. “But she can’t stop them either. Not without blowing my cover.” He looked over to his newfound companion, his expression mixed. “It’s an occupational hazard. I knew what I was getting into.”

“And you’re sure she was after you, specifically, and no one else?” Remy asked. He’d assumed there was no further threat, either to himself or anyone else under the Walther roof—but it begged the question of security, and Remy did not want to know how his father might react to a massacre in his absence if nothing was done to thwart it. It made sense that a faction of the Resistance might want to strike while the commander was abroad; his absence drew out key high-ranking players into vulnerable positions, changing up what was usually a very strict, very guarded routine.

It also seemed logical that Quinn would rank at the top their list of marks. He was the commander’s official stand-in, and personally responsible for more atrocities and bloodshed in his regular position than Remy cared to think about. Then again…what if it had been Remy they were after, and Belvedere just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

“She was clearly waiting for me,” Quinn explained, instantly dispelling Remy’s theory. “I was the last officer back from Compound that night, and there are certainly enough reasons to want me dead. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been a target.” He leaned his head back again, cradling the stiff muscles in the back of his neck with his left hand. “I know what I am.”

“And what are you?” 

Quinn looked away and remained silent, downing the rest of his whiskey in two large swallows. Remy watched him carefully. Despite the man’s athletic physique, he suddenly managed to look small, half of his angular face shrouded in shadow. As though withdrawing from himself, from the world, allowing the stalwart walls to crumble just low enough for Remy to peer across.

“Tell me what happened,” Remy prompted softly, leaning forward to refill the man’s empty glass.

It took him a moment to speak; he swirled the liquid in his glass but did not bring it to his lips. “I got in late from Compound, much later than planned. They knew the high commander was abroad…and they knew I would be here, outside my usual surroundings, and that I would be unfamiliar with the house staff.” He sounded irritated. “It was a solid effort, actually. She came out of a service stairwell on the west side of the hallway, dressed like a Walther maid but very obviously not a maid. Her mannerisms, her posture. No member of the High Commander’s staff walks with that kind of confidence. I hardly had time to react.”

“Where was your guard?” Even when the commander was at home, the highest ranking generals nearly always had a set of guards nearby…if not directly on their heels, then within a modest actionable distance. Even Remy was trailed by specially trained soldiers whenever he set foot off the Walther grounds; the pair who had accompanied him to the Terril estate had spent the night in the staff quarters and accompanied him back to Wymberly that morning.

“Shift change,” Quinn explained. “I sent Milhauer and Abrams home from Compound, and Larson and Tran were already on-duty outside my room here. I’m ten times the fighter of any of them anyway, I shouldn’t need them…” More annoyance twisted his lips. “I’ve been puzzling through it all day. There’s no way the shamrock could have anticipated the gap in my guards’ shifts. That’s highly atypical, even for me. My best guess—because it’s what I would do—is that she waited inside my room, and then aborted mission when my arrival was delayed. She would have wanted to get out of there before she had to explain herself to the soldiers who would soon be posted outside the door.”

“And you think she saw an opportunity to salvage the mission when she discovered you alone in the hall.” Remy ran his fingers through his hair. The assassin’s move had been bold. “Impromptu.”

“But no less effective. I deflected her arm, and she still nearly succeeded. She’ll be feeling that for a good long while, at least.” Quinn gritted his teeth against the freshness of the recent memory, then twisted his grimace into a smirk. “She’s going to be pretty confused if she saw me out and about today, business as usual. Thanks to you.”

“How did she escape?”

“Through the same service door. After that, who knows.”

“Do you think she could still be here?”

“If things had gone her way, her only witness would be dead, so she might’ve stuck around with no one the wiser…but I imagine she got away as fast as she could since I wasn’t quite as dead as she would have preferred.”

Remy frowned. “So we can’t guarantee the threat is gone.”

“If you see a maid with short blonde hair, a black eye, and an injured right arm, I’d maybe take the long way around.”

This time, the general’s flippancy grated on Remy’s nerves. “If we can secure the manor and the grounds, then my father can stay none the wiser.”

Quinn’s demeanor shifted then, and he swiveled to face the doctor with every trace of mirth vanished from his expression. “He can stay none the wiser until I report the incident to him upon his return,” the general said tersely.

Remy’s bewilderment quickly turned to indignation. “You’re going to tell him? Why?” he demanded. “So the man can torture his innocent staff for answers? So he can start Niles or Crenshaw or fuck-knows-who-else on a whole new round of so-called interrogations?”

“We cannot keep this from the High Commander. Do we need to write him to return right away? No. The immediate threat has been neutralized. But there’s been an attack in his own home, against one of his most trusted advisors. I’m playing a role here, Comman—Remy. I can’t break character, no matter what. There’s too much at stake. One breath of a coverup and it’s my neck in the noose. Clover’s network might be vast, but I’m the highest-ranking asset they have.”

When Remy finally responded, his voice was low, almost a growl. “What if you weren’t the highest-ranking asset they have?”

Quinn stilled, immediately catching his companion’s meaning. “Absolutely not.”

“Introduce me to Clover,” Remy implored. “If I have to bear this title and this name, then I need it to be for something more than a body count. I want in.”

“Impossible,” the general countered. “You’re a Walther.”

“It will be like hiding in plain sight.”

“No. I’m hiding in plain sight. You…you are a liability.” Despite his injury, Quinn sat abruptly forward, eyes flashing. “I don’t know anything about you, Remy. You show up here out of nowhere, back from the dead…I don’t think I’ve ever seen the High Commander blindsided like that. When I met you, you were as rough and starved as a stray dog, talking like some backwoods mountain serf. Where were you hiding out all these years? Why did you come back, and why now? And how in high hell did you become a doctor?” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand and lowered himself back into the chair. “You saved my life, and I’m grateful. But you can’t be involved with Clover.”

Silence settled over them like the fresh blanket of snow outside, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fire and the howl of winter wind against the windowpanes. Remy took a sip of his drink, aware of Quinn’s eyes on him. “I can’t do nothing,” he finally said, looking up to find that the general had not shifted his intense focus.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Quinn’s tone was peremptory, a general about to dictate his strategy. “I have this place on lockdown—no movement from any unauthorized personnel until further notice. I’ll lift it this afternoon, but we’ll need to initiate some additional Wymberly security protocols in its place, which I would like you to oversee. When we report the breach to the High Commander on his return, there will be no question of your capability and your role in initiating the response. Saving my life and establishing your authority over your family’s domain demonstrates your loyalty to blood and state.” The general leaned back. “It’s certainly obvious the High Commander’s opinion of you has risen high of late. Whatever you can do to prove his trust is founded and increase your involvement in his affairs, I want you to do it. And I mean that.”

Remy narrowed his eyes. “You’d rather have me groomed to fill his boots than let me help your cause?”

“I want you groomed so that when he ultimately entrusts you with deeper secrets than even I am privy to, you can pass them along to me,” Quinn explained, “and then I will funnel the intel to Clover.” A brief flash of physical pain crossed his face, and he rolled his injured shoulder back with a grimace. “No one in the organization would trust someone with Walther blood. Surely you can understand that.”

The whiskey suddenly tasted sour on his tongue. Remy imagined his father’s face, those piercing hazel eyes switching from warm and affectionate to murderous and bloodthirsty in a single blink. He imagined himself, performing his coup de grâce at Compound and everywhere else over the past several months, fooling even the most astute and cold-blooded military personnel into thinking he was made of the same stuff. No one but Madison—and perhaps not even her—had any idea the true nature of the man behind the title, the name.

“You’re right,” Remy admitted, glaring into the fire. He closed his eyes against the ghost of Madison’s face that day in the woods, her bloodied features twisted with anguish and fury at his betrayal. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“I’ve been in the unique position to have garnered some insight into you, Remy. I met you the day after your arrival, before the High Commander entrusted anyone else with meeting you face-to-face. I’ve spent more days with you than days without. Clover confirmed your father’s extraordinary backstory was a fabrication. I knew something wasn’t adding up.” Quinn had also shifted to watch the flames. Beyond the window, a streak of sun pierced through the dense clouds. “But with all that, not even I was sure about you until last night.”

A smoldering log caved to ash and sent a trail of sparks up the chimney, bathing the room in a temporary burst of orange. Remy should have been relieved by what the general was saying, but instead he felt angry, hating every aspect of his accursed rank and birthright.

Quinn, sensing his companion’s umbrage, continued. “To everyone else, you’re Commander Gregoray Walther II, the miracle survivor, and every bit your father’s son. You’ve played your part well. It’s commendable.”

Remy arched his brows and narrowed his eyes in quick succession, darkly meeting Quinn’s stare.

“Commendable that you’ve fooled them all,” the general clarified, his tone suddenly, and uncharacteristically, gentle. “That you’ve held on to yourself in spite of…all of it. You didn’t let them turn you. Few can say the same.”

The physician snorted. His thoughts drifted to Madison, whose accusing azure stare had burned itself into his memory. Quinn would tell him it was all part of the plan, that remaining in character no matter what happened was vital to their mission, and indeed, the only thing that mattered. But the sting of the huntress’ disappointment already ached like a dagger in his soul even after all this time. By proving her wrong in secret, he was proving her right in public—and what little remained of her frayed opinion would unravel completely. Their hard-won progress from the previous night would be lost, never to be regained. Would she approve, if she knew?

Each time I see you thriving in this fucking hellhole of a place it reminds me that every moment I spent with you was a lie. If Remy were to agree to what Quinnley Belvedere was suggesting, then he would need to appear to be doing exactly that—thriving in his father’s world. Claim his rightful place as Commander of Northam. Become a party to the atrocities of the regime that bore his name. Commit completely to a role and a title he’d spent his entire life running away from.

You’ll never outrun who you are and what you did. Maybe Madison was right. Maybe it was time to stop fleeing and face the horrors head on. To confront the nightmare and reclaim the power it had held over him for too long. It was the only logical course of action, and possibly his best chance to do the most good—and a way to help Madison’s cause anonymously, from a distance. Treason in a different sense than Robert Frost’s from the huntress’ poem, yet simultaneously a refusal to bow his head accept the expected.

The whiskey in his empty belly was suddenly uncomfortably warm. He knew what he had to do. It just wasn’t going to be easy.

“They haven’t turned you either,” Remy commented at last, sounding weary.

“I was turned.” Quinn’s chuckle was humorless. “Just in the opposite direction.”

“How? What made you join up with Clover?”

The general seemed to consider, then smiled a mischievous smile. “It’s complicated. Too complicated for today.” He sat up straighter and placed his empty glass on the side table, his grin fading to an expression of business. “Come with me to the study,” he instructed, rising to his feet. “Let’s initiate the security protocols. That is…if you find this arrangement satisfactory.” He quirked a brow in question.

Remy nodded. Tentatively at first, and then with more conviction. “I’m in. Whatever I can do, I’ll do it.”

Quinn’s predatory grin returned in a blink, his eyes glittering.

“Welcome to the Resistance, Commander Walther.”

Madison wished desperately that he had never smiled at all, in their final moments together. She wished, so hard that her chest ached as she climbed into her bed, that they had ended it in that argument after all – that their last words to each other had been callous and harsh and wounding. It was all the worse that he bid her goodbye with so much finality she longed to rip her heart from her chest so that it would cease its throbbing. The events of the evening played repeatedly in her mind as she lay there, sleep so far it might as well have been their cabin. Each word rankled, each touch scalded, each kiss stole her breath and her lungs burned with the effort.

At first, the huntress did not even realize that she had been running her nails up and down her arms. Initially it was not enough to cause any damage, but it must have gone on for hours as she laid there. She finally winced, broken from the memories, and examined them in the pale candlelight of the lamp she had brought into her room and hadn’t bothered to turn out. Certainly, it was close to burning out all the oil inside, she thought absentmindedly, examining the raw skin of her arms. Tendering, she touched the wounded area of her left arm, knowing that explaining it to Elora the next day would be terribly inconvenient.

The only balm to her wounds was, that when she awoke – if she slept – he would be gone – forever this time. There would be no more stolen moments in hallways or libraries. There would be no more soft gasps of excitements or murmurs of adoration. Madison had bound herself to Lawrence and Remy had stepped fully into the role of Commander. He would serve at his father’s behest, the right hand executing his maker’s will. She kept reminding herself of this, over and over again, silently at first and then muttering it beneath her breath as she pulled the comforter over her head and burrowed into its warmth.

---

It was dark when she heard the door slam shut the next morning and the muffled movements of the Terril servants. Part of her longed to lurch from the comfort of her sheets and press her face to the window. The other half, the sensible half, the part that almost always won out, did not permit a single muscle to move. Instead, she heard, barely audible, the sounds of the carriage being pulled away from the estate. Madison debated laying in this position for the entire day, for a full week, for the rest of the year – but that would not do. No man, no being, nothing could keep her from that flame that burned inside of her, what had been her singular purpose for years before stumbling upon Remy in the snow.

Knowing more about the Rebellion and the intricacies of getting close to the High Commander, Madison knew that his death at her hand was wholly unlikely. But she still dreamed of it, of watching the evil light die in his eyes – eyes that were like Remy’s. The spiral of despair and hatred and longing, all jumbled together, threatened to pull her down deep like it had before. Refusal sparked inside of her, and she threw off the blankets and both feet settled firmly onto the rug that rested beneath her bed. Flexing her toes, she counted slowly to one hundred and then backwards again. A small habit that she had picked up to expand her mind academically once she had begun the rigorous training regime that Elora demanded she fulfill. Mathematics was difficult for her – reading, writing, and even knitting came easily enough to her. So, she counted to “flex the muscles of her mind” as her elderly tutor advised.

There would be no formal lessons today on account of the snowfall, and she wondered if even the Terrils would be able to make it back before tomorrow. Madison made herself shower, as though the scalding water would burn away memories of the night before. A slight sting of the water along her arms, where the skin was still tender and new, forced her out before she would have liked. She dressed in casual attire, loose pants, and a comfortable sweater. She made certain to tug her socks up high and slide her feet into the plush house slippers that had just appeared in her room about a month ago.

With resolve, the huntress settled herself at one of the table in the expansive library. Alice brought her some cheese and crackers to break her fast. They had learned quickly that she hadn’t taken to the heavier breakfast fare that the Northam high society favored. A larger lunch and dinner were preferred and so the servants learned to bring something light and not sweet. As she chewed, fingers flipped through the current books she was studying. It was not an assigned topic, but one that had piqued her interest since meeting Clover a few months prior. Warfare. The Utility of Force and The Accidental Guerilla lay open before her. Another was held down with book weights to display a map of the old world – massive and expansive and beyond what she could have even begun to comprehend even a year ago. Countries were mentioned that no longer existed – places that had been wiped away by the bombs that brough about the Cold - and planes (which seemed entirely ridiculous to contain oneself in a casing of metal and be propelled through the area to a different destination entirely.) No, thank you. Madison skimmed over irrelevant topics and plucked forth bits of information she found important. Writing was still slower than she would have liked but soon she’d be able to pen letters as swiftly as Elora, even if her calligraphy did not possess the same beautiful ease.

---

The Terrils returned early the following morning, both sweeping in just before the lunch hour and as Madison was descending the stairs after a shower. She had run through her paces in the small gymnasium, utilizing the punching bag instead of Elora. Hair hung still damp down her her back as she tousled it with a small towel.

“Did you miss me, my darling?” Lawrence asked, dropping his bag at the door – which Kris quickly scooped up and began his ascent to the heir’s bedroom. He swept her up into his arms and spun her around. She laughed and the towel fell from her hand. He planted a kiss to her forehead and settled her back on the floor. Madison didn’t mind his touch. It was familiar, brotherly and mostly amusing.

“Terribly.” She responded, brushing her damp strands out of her face. She cast her eyes from Lawrence’s shining face to Elora’s stern one. Brown eyebrows shot up on her forehead before furrowing at the heiress. “What?”

“Well?” Was all she said, handing her small bag and coat to Alice, who followed the butler’s path up the stairs.

“Well, what?” Madison said, as an invisible tight hand squeezed her heart. She dreaded having this conversation, had hoped that it would never occur. Elora’s emerald eyes bore into hers momentarily before the returning woman straightened the golden bracelet on her wrist. The huntress sighed, running her hand along her face for a second.

“Perhaps over lunch.” Lawrence interceded, stepping in before tensions rose further. He clearly wanted to know as well, she knew as he maneuvered the pair towards the dining hall. Madison had not failed to notice the quick once-over he gave her when he entered – looking for visible signs of confrontation, roaming her face for signs of puffy eyes. She was grateful that she had pulled on a loose, long-sleeved sweater to hide the small scabs that littered her arms.

And that is precisely what they did. Madison divulged as much as she was willing to, leaving out bits that were not relevant – emotional components. It clearly pained her, as she kept her eyes focused on the half-eaten bowl of soup before her, moving around the vegetables within with the back of her spoon. They floated in the broth idly. Lawrence took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze while Elora cut in.

“So, he can be turned.”

“I- I don’t know. I don't think so. He seems settled in this role. He wants,” she exhaled softly, “so many things but I think he is resigned to his position, his place, his future.”

“You can turn him.” It wasn’t a question, and it was a rehashing of conversations they had had before.

“I am not a spy, Elora. I don’t have the subtly to recruit him and he will not take me as a mistress.” She admitted, realizing she had left that out – had left a lot out to avoid looking pathetic in their eyes – to hide how desperately she had thrown herself at his feet. Despite how badly I begged last night. She thought bitterly. The thought stung as the words filled the air around the trio. “Not while I am with Lawrence.” The Terril man smiled slightly, amused.

“He is right to fear me.” Lawrence added, making Madison roll her eyes but finally give a slightly lift of her lips in amusement.

“Then call it off with Lawrence. Simple enough. My brother is quite the playboy.”

“And lose my access?” Madison’s irritation was evident at the suggestion. “And go where? Move straight into Wymberly? You know I wouldn’t last a day. I’d be dragged into the Mother’s Lament within hours for an assassination attempt.” Madison hissed back, irritated with the beautiful woman across from her. Crystalline eyes flashed dangerously while her hand visibly tightened on the handle of her spoon.

“Hmmm.” Elora leaned back, having finished her portion. A glass of Chenin Blanc held casually in her hand as she pondered, unbothered by the anger in her companions’ eyes. “Valid points. We could arrange for an apartment for you –”

“What sort of ex-lover would pay for the apartment? That would draw suspicion and then how am I supposed to insert myself into his life? Without you, I have no escort into this society. I have no means of money. I have two identifiable dogs, no source of income, and very little patience.”

“At least that is something we can agree on,” Elora responded, their eyes meeting again. Lawrence felt the need to interject, absently wondering why his sister was being quite so prickly.

“I think, it might be best to arrange for more clothes.” He said simply, releasing his supposed lover’s hand to move his used napkin to the table beside his empty bowl. Amusement flashed in his eyes at Madison’s initial exasperated surprise before understanding dawned on her.

“Perhaps a visit to the modiste would be best.” Elora mused, plotting and scheming.

“Why?” Society’s little nuances were still difficult for the huntress to glean.

“We need to fully introduce you. A day of spending my brother’s money is just the thing.” She said, laughing as she did so. It was Lawrence’s turn to roll his eyes. Confusion danced on Madison’s face.

“Introduce you more to society.  If Clover can see you in the shop, then she can gossip about you however she sees fit and disperse information as necessary – as well as gather it.” Lawrence explained to her, standing. “Please don’t bankrupt us, sister mine. I am in desperate need of a respite after the last day but will see both of you at dinner in a few days.” Madison knew what that meant and who that meant he would be spending some time with.

“We’ll go in a few days. The Avenue will be positively muddy for the next two days at least. I have no interest in dirtying my new shoes.” Elora added to her brother’s words. The man deposited a chaste kiss on the top of Madison’s nearly dry hair and strode out. The pair of women settled into a tense silence that neither seemed willing to break. Blue eyes flicked over the beauty. “Did you bed him?” She finally inquired, now that her brother had departed. The tone she used was nonchalant but did nothing to erase the tightness around her eyes.

The black-haired heiress had a propensity for choosing women (and men on rare occasions) that were entirely unavailable to her. Perhaps, she knew that she didn’t truly deserve to be happy – she didn’t deserve their love and so she chose those individuals incapable of giving it to her.  Briefly, Elora’s thoughts danced to another forbidden woman with amber eyes and a devious little smirk. One that occupied her thoughts too frequently and her dreams even more consistently.

Madison nearly bit out the response immediately but hesitated. She waited until Elora shifted in her chair before responding. “No.” A little of the rigidity in Elora’s shoulders loosened. “But if I did, it would not be any of your concern. I am tired of this.” She cut her hand through the air, annoyed. “We are friends, aren’t we?” Silence. “Aren’t we?” She demanded, raising both of her brows now.

“Yes, of course.” The raven-haired woman responded. “I do not trust him.” The admission hung in the air.

“Hmmm.” Madison hummed. “But do you trust me?”

“With him?” A long pause, speculative. “I don’t know. You are weak when he is around.”

“I am not weak.” Madison’s voice dropped low, threatening. Despite the veracity of Elora’s words, the animal inside of her did not appreciate the accusation. “And I do not trust him either.” She finally admitted as she pushed herself away from the table. As much as she had thrown herself at him, in the harsh light of the day she was ashamed of how far she had gone, how angry she had become when he refused her.

---

Rose’s was a beautiful shoppe on a long avenue of other higher end boutiques, patisseries and butchers. It was clearly where the more elite of Northam would come to procure needed items. As the carriage pulled to a stop, some high society individuals strolled the streets, mingling with servants moving swiftly amongst them at the behest of their masters. Madison looked around with a touch too much awe as she stepped down from the carriage onto the little walk beside the main path. It was certainly the most well-kept town - city – she had ever seen. The signs were clear and clean, probably freshly painted every year or two. Offensive smells did not hit her nostrils – in fact, there was presently a faint aroma of cinnamon on the wind. Attention drifted down the street towards a bakery that she would certainly have to drag Elora too.

A bell chimed as they entered, passing the beautiful cobalt gown in the window display, along with ribbons and socks and handkerchiefs folded neatly in a white display shelf. Clover – Chloe – Madison reminded herself swiftly, was making some final measurements on a beautiful woman with golden hair and brown eyes. She had been chatting animatedly to the seamstress before spying Elora and brightening even further.

“Elora, my dear.” She reached out her free hand, which the heiress accepted with a squeeze and delighted smile in return. “It has been too long.”

“It certainly has, Bonnie. You’ve let your motherhood keep you away.”

“Well, honestly, there is no one I rather spend time with than Henri. He holds me in his hands, Elora, truly.” She gushed, as Clover stood behind her, meekly. Madison studied her, the woman she had met in the study of the Terril estate so at odds with who she was seeing now. “You should give children a chance, my dear. Lifechanging!”

“I’d have to settle on a husband first and you know one man would never be enough for me.” Elroa gave her a broad, knowing smile. The other woman blushed furiously and adverted her gaze.

“You are a scoundrel, Elora. There are men present.” She gestured towards Dennis, who sat behind the counter. He was a tall lad, entering his adulthood and quite handsome.

“Dennis has known me since he was a child and I know he’s heard me say worse.” Elora gave one of her amused, indifferent laughs when Dennis made a face of acknowledgement. She threw him a wink, to which he attempted to hide his blush.

“Who is your new companion?” Bonnie said suddenly, determine to change the direction of the conversation.

“I am so happy to introduce you to Magnolia Sterling, Bonnie. She is my brother’s paramour.” She took a few steps closer to the blonde as the woman stepped off the raised dais. Conspiratorially, she leaned in and whispered, “And perhaps my new sister if all goes according to my plans.” Bonnie beamed at this, both the news and the intrigue of it all.

“Truly?!” Bonnie spun and offered her hand to Madison, who took it and shook it gentle, as she had been instructed to do during her etiquette lessons. “A pleasure, Miss Sterling. I am Bonnie Baker – I know how it sounds, blame my husband. I was Bonnie Faulkner, which sounds much less like a child’s name but alas.”

“Maggie, please.” She responded, smiling sheepishly – again, as Elora had showed her how to do. “And the pleasure is all mine.” Elora swooped in, suddenly.

“And what are you having made?”

“A new gown for my Henri’s second birthday! He is growing like a weed, and we are having some of Matthew’s colleagues over. We are hoping,” she leaned in again, “for a promotion soon. Though General Belvedere isn’t particularly keen on him, we are hoping to find another avenue.”

“Who is General Belvedere truly keen on? The man likes nothing more than to see his own reflection.”

“Can you blame him?” Bonnie whispered, which drew Madison’s attention with surprise.

“Who is the scoundrel now, Bonnie Baker?!” Elora cackled and batted at the woman’s arm.

“A woman has eyes, Elora dear. I don’t think the view makes up for the interactions though. Can’t imagine anyone being keen on the Executioner.” Bonnie said, drawing her cloak over the shoulders as she readied herself to leave.

Chloe, who had all but faded into the air behind them, suddenly appeared. “It should be ready in two weeks, Mrs. Baker. Would you like me to have it delivered?”

“That would be splendid, Chloe. Thank you as always. I shall have Matthew pay the deposit on his way home this evening.”

“Oh course, Mrs. Baker.”

“Too long, Bonnie. Someone needs to throw a gala to get us all together again.” Bonnie gave Elora’s arm a squeeze at the words.

“Fabulous to make your acquaintance, Maggie. I look forward to seeing more of you and perhaps you’re the one I can talk into having some playmate for my Henri since Elora is so diametrically opposed.” The mother grinned and exited the shoppe.

“Dennis, would you be a dear and go and grab me some of your mother’s croissants? I just have been craving them for weeks.” She withdrew a few coins from inside the pocket of her coat. The man tossed a glance at his employer who gave him a quick nod. “The chocolate ones.”

“She’s made some with a hazelnut-chocolate filling and one with lemon.” Dennis said, a blush rising into his cheeks as he spoke to her.

“Get me two of everything then! It will ease the blow of the purchases I am going to make if I take some to Lawrence.” Collecting the money, he left the shoppe with a tinkle of the bell.

Clover walked towards the counter, examining her appointment book momentarily before lifting her gaze to the newest arrivals.

“I know, I know. I didn’t precisely make an appointment.” Elora waved her hand in the easy dismissal of someone who was used to always getting her way.

“It makes it difficult to ensure that certain paths don’t cross.” The sweet lilt of Chloe had disappeared to the deeper, almost sultry tone of Clover. It was remarkable to Madison in that moment, as she stood awkwardly shifting beside the Terril heiress, how fluidly the rebel leader could drop part of the mask and leave the rest intact. It was a skill, no matter how much she practiced, the huntress would never be able to achieve. Years went into developing and honing such a remarkable skill. It made Madison feel inadequate, with all her murderous rage and rough edges. Swallowing, she flicked her attention over to her companion.

“Well, our darling Magnolia needed some new attire and there is some pressing information we wanted to share.” She turned towards the dress in the window, fingering the fabric as if pondering what she wanted to buy.  Clover perked at the prospect and moved back around the counter, picking up the last piece of her breakfast sandwich and popping it into her mouth.

“Such as?” The question came out muffled through chewed bread and cheese.

Elora turned to Magnolia and nodded her head. “What?” The brunette inquired, surprised.

“You don’t want to tell her about your illuminating evening with the Commander?” Elora asked, causing Clover to choke on a crumb as she inhaled in surprise. Regaining her composure, she caught sight of the emerald-eyed woman’s smirk and the redness that crept up from cheeks to ears on Madison’s face. The look the huntress threw could have killed. Clover raised a delicate, dark eyebrow and leaned one elbow back on the counter of her shoppe, appearing the patiently wait when in fact an oddly anxious energy was winding its way through her.

“It wasn’t illuminating,” Madison corrected, forming the word carefully as she had read it but unsure if she had ever said it aloud. “He won’t take me as a mistress so that means your little plan,” she gestured between the pair of women, “isn’t going to work.” Clover finishing chewing and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Why?” She inquired after a ponderous moment that left Madison feeling the weight of her stare a bit too keenly.

“Some misplaced sense of honor.” The doctor’s lover waved her hand in the air as she rolled her crystalline eyes.

“Honor among thieves.” Cover murmured. “Honor among murderers is more apt.”

“What?” Madison’s eyebrows furrowed and she cast her attention to Elora, who appeared just as confused as she was.

“Your Commander is developing quite the reputation at Wymberly.” Clover licked a crumb off her finger before running them along the apron over her skirt. Madison felt the anxiety begin to coil up from her stomach, twisting tighter and tighter as it made its way up around her heart. The steady cadence began to falter. She knew the spy wanted her outburst and that she shouldn’t let her have it, but it was Remy…

“What does that mean?” She asked, voice a bit shriller than intended.

“He killed five commoners just a bit ago. Prisoners of the High Commanders – only two were ours.” A pause. “Though they thought all five were shamrocks, as they affectionally call us.” Clover’s tone was factual, without emotion. Despite her apparent detachment, she watched the huntress carefully. Madison felt the anxiety turn to horror, to pain, to agony. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t kill innocent people. “An amazing display from what I understand – five bullets, five marks. Quite the shot. Instilled a fire in the recruits. They revere him now and are whispering of the return of the rightful heir.”

Madison felt their gazes on her, assessing and curious. She needed to sit down. She needed to run. She needed to throw up. The room was too small. Too hot. Too everything. And for all that she wanted to do, she in fact did nothing. She stood, frozen in that space and time where the image of him in her mind – the small pieces she had cobbled together around the gaping hole that was his betrayal – was still hers. Mental hands fumbled to hold it together as it attempted to disintegrate between her fingers.

As if in an offering of peace, Elora broke to silence and handed two slips of paper between a bank note to Clover. Deftly, the seamstress’ fingers began to open it as she moved to her ledger, as if to make note of the payment in case there were any prying eyes on the street.

“This was their correspondence. With Belvedere?” Clover said, moving a few sample pieces of fabric to the counter as if in display.

“Yes.” Elora responded. “His response seems to indicate that he is further embracing the High Commander’s practices. I do not think he is what you had hoped.”

“I hope for nothing.” Clover responded quickly. “A Walther cannot be trusted. I aspired to utilize him in some fashion and I-”

“What correspondence?” Madison interjected, broken from her reverie. Clover’s brows furrowed and she cocked her head at the Terril heiress.

“The telegraphs he received while in our home. You did not read them?”

“When would I have?”

“I thought perhaps since you were together…” Elora’s voice was pitying, only making Madison desire to crawl out of her own skin. The Gallow girl closed the space between the trio and leaned over. Eyes carefully processed each word. Not once. Not twice, but nearly a dozen times in the suffocating silence.

Attn: Gnl. Belvedere
Message received; will re-evaluate conditions in a.m.
Re: shift change—imperative to maintain pressure with incoming personnel. Do not go easy.
Signed: Cmdr. Walther

Do not go easy. Do not go easy. Do not go easy. A deafening roar in her ears, a frantic pounding of her pulse. The scraps she had been holding in her mind, so tightly as it sought to dissolve suddenly exploded. Sharp shards of their shared life scattered. His words, his touch, his love that she had been holding together with a foolish girl’s hope that maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe they would somehow survive this turned to ash in her mouth. Hate blossomed, renewed by not a second betrayal, but a third. How many more were there? How many lives had he taken in Wymberly? How many people had he used his medical knowledge on to torture, to abuse? When had he become so like his father? How had she missed the signs?

“Belvedere is known for his particular brand of cruelty.” Clover admitted as she adjusted a long ribbon at her neck beneath the collar of her shirt.  

“Cruelty is putting it mildly.” Elora added.

“I had whispered reports, not particularly reliable, that they had been spending a significant amount of time together.” Clover confessed. “If the High Commander and General Belvedere are seeing to his training, it will be extensive and effective.” Stormy eyes flicked up to meet Madison’s pale blue. “I am sorry.” She admitted, softly, as if she had once understood the pain that comes with this level of betrayal, as if she had inflicted it. The sentiment was short-lived as she continued. “I suspect there will be a much more momentous announcement of his return, his selection as heir. Another month or two – when the spring comes most likely. The bastard loves some fucking symbolism. His son reborn, just like the world awakening from the frost.” She snorted in disgust. “Might give us an opportunity.” Attention focused forcefully on the huntress. Clover’s mind had already begun to formulate the bones of a plan. “Could you still get him alone? Distract him?”

“I-” The anger was beginning, growing like a weed from the soil fertilized by his duplicity.

 “Yes.” Elora answered for her, moving a couple of fabrics around, clearly selecting them for some purpose. “She can.” The confidence that the goddess placed in her shook something loose, something that had grown soft since her arrival in Thebes. The hardness of the Cold. The dedication to her purpose. An endless wrath.

 “What do you want me to do?” Madison asked as Clover’s lips curled into a devious smirk.

Northam’s High Commander returned to Wymberly three weeks later, arriving quietly in the middle of the night.

Remy sat at his desk, hunched over a pile of mind-numbing ledgers, when an urgent knock derailed his thoughts. He closed the leather-bound tome and crept up to the door, where a young servant curtsied deeply and looked away the moment he met her eyes. “Commander,” she said breathlessly, “your presence is requested in the study.”

Remy sighed and slid on his boots, making his way down the shadowy corridor toward his father’s study. He didn’t bother to announce his entry; Belvedere would be expecting him, and the slightly more familiar, slightly more casual dynamic that had settled between them had put Remy more at ease than he’d been since his return to Thebes.

But it wasn’t Quinnley Belvedere waiting in the dim firelight.

It was him.

Remy’s blood turned to ice in his veins at the sight of his father, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the hearth. “Where is General Belvedere?” Remy asked. A cold demand.

The high commander turned, his smile disturbingly warm in the firelight. Even his hazel eyes, which could look so cruel, twinkled with fondness as they swept over Remy’s form. “Is that how you greet your father after such an extended absence?”

As if on cue, Quinn glided into the room, his expression smartly casual. “High Commander,” he said with a fist crossed over his chest. He turned to Remy, appropriately saluting a second time. “Commander.”

“See, Gregoray? Now that is a proper greeting after an extended trip abroad.”

Quinn laughed heartily, and Remy shifted his gaze to look at him. Everything in the general’s face appeared genuine, from the crooked, mocking smile on his lips to the twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. It was so convincing that Remy almost wondered if Quinn’s involvement with the rebellion had been an elaborate story, a test designed by his father—a trap that Remy had waltzed straight into. But the Belvedere man was nothing if not complicated. Quinn was almost too adept at playing the high commander’s golden soldier…it still wasn’t clear just how much of it was an act.

“Have a seat, boys.”

Remy bristled at the diminutive term; if it bothered Quinn, the general didn’t show it. They settled into their seats near the fire, Remy stiff and formal, Quinn languid and at ease. As though he were the one with Walther blood in his veins, born to the role.

“It was a productive trip,” the high commander drawled, smiling over his glass. “But the details can wait until the debriefings at Compound this week. I want to know how it went with my stand-in and my heir.” His smile softened, somehow. As if he were human. “Gregoray?”

Bile burned the back of Remy’s throat, which he tried to swallow away with a mouthful of gin. Quinn’s intense stare swiveled to settle expectantly on him. Remy schooled his expression. “Smoothly,” he said, taking another sip, “with the exception of one minor incident.”

The high commander straightened, his eyes flashing with curiosity.

Quinn shrugged and waved a hand. “A minor attempt on my life,” he replied, as casually as if he’d reported what the kitchen had served for dinner that night.

The high commander’s eyes widened—Remy feared the worst—then a hearty guffaw rang out.

Quinn downed the rest of his gin with a smirk and joined in with a dark chuckle of his own, the two men sharing a look that Remy didn’t know how to interpret. “Easily thwarted. Less than nothing.”

“Only a Belvedere might make such a joke of his own assassination attempt,” the high commander said. “I seem to recall your father saying nearly the same thing to me once, when you and your sister were just children. It was the two of you, as I recall, that intervened and saved his life?”

Remy looked to Quinn curiously, who nodded. It was difficult to imagine the general as a child. Not as difficult as imagining him as a shamrock, of course, but it seemed impossible that the stalwart man had ever been anything but dangerous.

The high commander’s amusement slowly faded, and in his fierce hazel eyes Remy saw the faintest glimmer of displeasure. “I presume all protocols were enacted,” he said, suddenly all business, the hard edge of command returning to his tone.

The physician spoke this time, which drew his father’s appraising stare. “Yes. Wymberly was locked down immediately,” Remy affirmed. He went on to explain—just as Belvedere had recommended—precisely how he had implemented and overseen the security procedures. To Remy’s relief, a hint of approval joined the other expressions on the high commander’s face.

“Clover is becoming entirely too bold,” Quinn drawled. He leaned his head back against the chair, the picture of nonchalance. “Frankly, I’m tired of swatting at mosquitoes. We need to drain the pond, so to speak.”

“What did you have in mind, Belvedere?” the high commander asked, quirking a brow.

The general shrugged. “A specialized task force,” he suggested. Remy’s stomach flip-flopped. What are you doing? he wanted to scream. How could this possibly be helpful?

“We’ve done it before. Clover retreated for a time.” Quinn placed his empty glass on the table and braided his fingers together thoughtfully. “But we know much more now, and as they’ve gotten bolder, we’ve gotten smarter.”

The high commander looked every bit a predator, a languid panther coiled to strike. “And you will head this initiative,” he extrapolated.

Quinn barked a laugh. “Oh, no, sir,” he said. “I don’t have the time to dedicate to something like that. There’s too much going on with the curriculum changes at the Academy. I have enough fools to wrangle there.” He waved a hand, then proclaimed, matter-of-factly, “Your son and heir Commander Walther will head the task force. I can’t think of a man more suited to the task.”

Remy’s gaze shot to Quinn as a grin spread on the high commander’s lips. “A brilliant suggestion, as always, Quinnley,” the dictator exclaimed, gaze boring into his heir.

Remy sensed that this was a test—both by Quinn, who was knowingly putting him under duress in service of the rebellion, and by his father, whose burgeoning trust was still in its infancy—and forced himself to smile. “It would be my honor,” he declared, his gray eyes meeting his father’s with a confidence he didn’t feel. “An attack in my own home cannot be permitted.” The words tasted vile as he spoke them. Wymberly had never been a home. The closest he’d ever had to that luxury was Madison, and the ramshackle cabin they’d shared in the mountains. Nevertheless, the high commander looked delighted at the physician’s declaration.

Whatever you can do to prove the high commander’s trust is founded and increase your involvement in his affairs, I want you to do it. Stinging and loud, Quinn’s previous words rang in Remy’s memory like a battle cry—or a funeral knell. “I will need assistance in selecting my team,” he heard himself continue, the conviction in his tone surprising even himself. He forced himself to meet his father’s gaze, then turned to Quinn. “Might I count on your assistance, General Belvedere? If you’ve participated in these task forces before, it would be foolish not to utilize your insights. I’m still getting to know our comrades.”

“I would be happy to lend my thoughts, Commander.” Quinn’s smile was all business. “I will brief you in full.”

“The day after tomorrow,” Remy said decisively. “Let’s not waste time and let them think their actions will go unchecked.”

The high commander made a sound between a chuckle and a grunt, and the man’s eyes gleamed as bright as Remy had seen them since the heir’s miraculous return to Thebes. “I’ll have it arranged,” the dictator declared, offering Remy the briefest of nods.

Their conversation shifted, steered by Quinn, and it became incredibly obvious that the Belvedere general held even more power and sway with the high commander than Remy had imagined. He knew Quinn as a warrior from their training, knew his penchant for military strategy from the handful of meetings they’d attended together over the last several months, knew his capacity for cruelty from the victims of the Mother’s Lament—but this was even more impressive. Or it would be, if it weren’t so terrifying. He’s Resistance, Remy reminded himself. At the end of the day, he’s on the right side.

Somehow that wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

It wasn’t until the small hours of the morning that the three men went their separate ways. Despite Remy’s exhaustion, energy vibrated through his limbs, and he noticed his fingers trembling as he entered his chambers and locked himself inside. A deep pit had carved a space behind his ribs, leaving him hollowed out and uncertain. Even his heartbeat felt distant as he sunk into bed. It had been his first test of many as an informant for the Resistance, and it would only get harder from there.

Whatever it takes, he thought, gritting his teeth as much with determination as with anger. He was Remy Sterling. And Remy Sterling was nothing if not a survivor.

—————

The ride to the cemetery might have been peaceful if not for the pair of guards that trailed him a dozen paces behind.

“I would like to be alone,” he said to the men, who exchanged uncertain glances but ultimately obeyed his command. “I’ll be just inside.”

Remy hadn’t been to his mother’s and his sister’s graves since he’d returned to Northam. Guilt weighed on him for that, but even that wasn’t as heavy as the grief, which had settled on his chest like a boulder he was helpless to dislodge.

He’d spent nearly two decades years running from the very life that had stolen theirs. He didn’t even know if his sister was gone for certain—he hadn’t lied to Madison when he said he wanted to find her—but searching for her would be impossible now, with his station. If she was alive, locating her would be a far worse cruelty than simply letting her go.

— Azalea Gabriella Evelyn Walther —

“Oh, Azzie…” The whisper left his lips unbidden. Where’d you go, Zee? He ran his fingertips over the letters of her name carved into the mausoleum wall, the ache in his heart so deep he could feel it in his belly. And with it came fury, a low simmer of rage that thrummed under his skin like a brush of flames. For so long he’d been afraid of the strength of his anger, hating the parts of him that reminded him of his father—terrified that he might be capable of the same cruelties—and tamping them down until he couldn’t feel them anymore.

But extinguishing those flames was not like snuffing out a candle. This fire had been smoldering for decades, building pressure, growing hotter, brighter, more aggressive. It was what General Belvedere had been slowly coaxing from him, one tendril at a time. Teaching him to harness it rather than allowing it to wreak havoc unchecked.

Use it, Quinn had shouted at him, more than once, sweat slicking their brows and muscles trembling with effort. But his anger was nebulous and slippery, and Remy still had to fight not to flinch away when he felt its heat begin to grow.

The fierce general’s words came back to him again now in the crypt as his pulse began to drum in his ears. Anyone can act out of desperation. But not everyone can learn to use it, and fewer still can wield it like its own weapon. Remy had assumed that meant in the context of physical confrontation, as the words were usually eked out between blows exchanged in the Beloit. And the day he’d finally bested Belvedere, the doctor thought he’d understood—even if it had been a struggle to capture that same mindset again in the months since.

But now…in the reverent silence of the cold mausoleum, with the names of his beloved mother and sister carved into marble walls on either side of him, Remy finally grasped what Quinn had been getting at all along.

All at once, as if triggered by the realization, the containment walls he’d built up over the course of his life crumbled away. He felt every blistering wave of his anger with the force of a wildfire—all the years of misery, of fear. Of abuse. Of injustice. Of the scent of his own burning flesh as he’d tried to sear away the devil’s mark on his shoulder. Of forging militia tattoos on his forearm. Of losing his mentor Dr. Sterling. Failing more patients than he saved. Realizing that becoming a physician was just another curse, potent as his blood in his veins. Resigning himself to fighting an impossible battle against the deaths and injuries wrought by his father’s militia.

And, of course, losing Madison, the one light in his troubled life that had shone despite all the odds against it.

The body can do remarkable things when pushed to survive.

Quinn hadn’t just meant to wield his rage as a weapon of physical combat. Remy’s ire was motivation. Justification. Conviction.

He knew what he had to do.

When he reached up to touch his mother’s name, his hand trembled.

— Zinnia Evelyn Walther —

He flattened his quivering palm against the letters of Walther, obscuring the glyphs as though he could erase them from the stone. Images of his mother’s pale, lifeless face flashed through his mind; he saw her crumpled body and the bright red pool of blood on the tiles. And worse, he felt the crushing weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder as the man forced him to look upon the carnage.

And he knew, then and there, with bone-deep certainty, that he would do whatever it took to end the regime. Whatever sacrifices his new role as Quinn’s informant required, he would perform them as the prodigal heir—his father’s perfect son, the miracle survivor, Northam’s most promising and fearsome rising star.

Remy Sterling would be Gregoray Remington Walther II…and he would embody that name as long as it took to bring his father to his knees. An adder in the shadows, poised and waiting to strike.

Precisely the weapon Quinn—and a whole lifetime of abuse and injustice—had crafted him to be.

Remy started suddenly at the sound of horses outside, hooves dragging across the frozen ground. A pang of anxiety twinged in his chest, piercing through the lingering waves of anger. He’d given careful instructions to his bodyguards to remain at the cemetery gates, but that hadn’t taken into account the possibility of someone having already been inside.

The Walther heir steeled himself, his training taking over—his muscles were primed but loose, and he peered through the narrow window of colored glass to the snowy lawn outside. The blurred outline of a black horse and singular rider was a smudge in the old panes. If this was some kind of rebel attack, then he would not be caught unprepared. But he also knew he couldn’t reveal himself as a Shamrock, not even to save his own skin.

He drew a steadying breath and reached for the door.

“Commander,” came Quinn’s voice from the other side.

Remy stepped outside, the frigid wind stinging his flushed cheeks. Quinn remained atop his dark horse, snowflakes speckling his navy uniform and catching like stars in his steed’s mane.

“You’ll forgive me, Commander, but this is an unauthorized excursion,” the general said tersely, his amber eyes dark with an annoyance that his voice barely concealed. “Visits to the mausoleum must be arranged in advance with proper supervision. I am a busy man. I don’t have time to chase after you and ensure your safety purely on your whims of the moment.”

Remy, dumbfounded, untied his horse and swung into the saddle. Quinn’s guards, as well as Remy’s, had strategically stationed themselves at either entrance to the Walther family plot. “No, you’ll forgive me, General,” he retorted, wrapping the reins tightly around his gloved hands and throwing his shoulders back in defiance. A twinge of the same fury he’d felt inside the mausoleum flared in his chest, and his father’s words from his first night back at Wymberly rang through his mind: I will remind you that you are the second most powerful man in Northam, the high commander had said, and I am the only person in this land who is not obligated to follow your commands. Which meant Belvedere would be compelled to obey.

“I am your Commander, and I will do as I please. If I wish to visit the final resting place of my slaughtered family, I will come here whenever I am moved to do so.”

Had Remy imagined it, or had that been a flash of satisfaction on Belvedere’s face, quick as a blink?

“Very well, Commander,” the general replied, his voice as schooled as his expression. “If you’ve finished your visit, will you allow me to escort you back to Compound?”

“I will not be making an appearance at Compound today. I am retiring to Wymberly.” Remy clicked his tongue and guided his horse to the gate. “Please inform the High Commander.”

And with that, guards forming a tactical escort formation around him, the physician departed into the storm’s swirl of mist and snow.

Behind him, alone now amongst the headstones, Quinn Belvedere smiled.

—————

To all the eyes of Northam, Remy became the dictator’s son.

Even when it filled him with dread. Even when it made his guts churn and his instincts scream.

Even when he thought of Madison.

And lord, he thought of his beautiful huntress every time he barked an order, every time someone flinched away from his tone, every time his father expressed his approval. I’m doing it for you, my love, he thought each time, as if she could hear him. As if it could absolve him.

As if he had any right to call her his love anymore.

Though it had been Quinn’s brainchild, Remy’s task force—nicknamed Project Groundcover—had become famous at Compound and infamous outside its walls. Belvedere acted as guide and mentor, somehow never once making Remy out to be anything other than a formidable leader. The group consisted of six additional advisors, all of whom had names and reputations that well preceded them in their notoriety.

Remy left those meetings feeling aggravated and drained. General Belvedere attended whenever his busy schedule permitted, but they reconvened every other week under the guise of status updates when they could speak more freely. To the outside world, the two had become an even more formidable pair—simultaneously charming and terrifying, both masters and masterminds. The high commander’s blood marching in lockstep with the high commander’s chosen one. Not competitors, but staunch allies.

If they only knew how true that was.

Since Clover could never know of Remy’s involvement with their cause, Quinn’s public association gave them both the perfect cover. Still, the knowledge that he was working toward the greater good did little for Remy’s conscience. He had done his best to compartmentalize, to harden himself against the atrocities his role demanded. And most days, he succeeded, fueled by his simmering desire for justice. But some nights he still found himself retching over the commode, or startling awake drenched in a cold sweat.

This night, however, it didn’t matter if he couldn’t sleep.

He had Madison to thank for his soft feet as he crept past the guards. Slipping out of Wymberly undetected would have been impossible for anyone else, but the grounds hadn’t changed much since his childhood, and he knew that the watchmen had patterns even if they weren’t supposed to.

He followed the creek outside the walls, winding by moonglow through the woods that separated Thebes from the sea. At the base of a hill, nestled in a dense patch of brush, Remy paused and waited.

The air was frigid enough to sting, but he inhaled silently and held his breath, listening like Madison had taught him. Quinn was very quiet, but not silent; he’d learned to move through the forest like a soldier, not like a shadow. And as he made his way down from Avondale on the hill’s crest, Remy’s trained ear tracked his progress even over the white noise rush of the creek. Roadwalker, accused Madison’s voice in his head. Remy almost laughed. Instead, he clicked his tongue once sharply against the roof of his mouth.

Quinn returned the signal, but he didn’t need to; Remy had already identified him by the sound of his gait. Nevertheless, he emerged from the darkness as though from thin air, startling the general.

“Christ, Commander. How do you do that every fucking time?” whispered Belvedere.

“I had a good teacher.” A pang of wistfulness tightened Remy’s chest.

“I could have killed you.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Remy shot back, although he wasn’t entirely certain that was true. “I had another good teacher.”

Quinn snorted.

“I got your note. It’s been awhile since we met like this,” Remy said. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’d like you to tell me.” Quinn’s face was veiled in darkness, but his expression was serious. “Project Groundcover is moving more quickly than I anticipated. Thanks to you.”

Remy narrowed his eyes.

“It’s as we designed it. I just…underestimated your commitment.” The general held up a hand when Remy’s lips parted to speak, silencing him. “That’s a compliment, Commander. You’ve done just what you’re supposed to do. Your troops are rallying around you. You’re inspiring them, bringing out their best. It’s the mark of a good leader. It’s in your blood.”

Remy bristled. “I’m making it worse. I’m making it harder.”

“Yes, exactly. You are,” Quinn shot back. “You have to. The investigations will never stop, Commander, so the most important thing here is information. Our number one priority is to keep our cover. We enable Clover’s entire operation to stay as many steps ahead as possible without rousing suspicion. We steer when we can, but that’s almost always too great a risk.”

The physician wanted to scream, but instead, he sighed, his breath silvery in the moonlight.

“That being said,” continued Quinn, his voice softer now, “now is one of those rare instances.”

“What?”

“You’re moving too fast. Clover needs more time.”

“You’re talking about the munitions imports?” Remy raked his fingers through his hair. “We’re at the mercy of the shipping vendors. The weather, the checkpoints…I’m not sure how much I can do.”

“Clover needs this shipment. If you intercept them before Clover can…it will set us back months and put some of our top operatives at risk. Not to mention some of our most trusted international smugglers on the crew. We need more information, and we need to buy time.”

“I presume Lawrence Terril is involved in this somehow?”

“Unfortunately.” Quinn’s sour expression matched Remy’s. “He can be…difficult. Thankfully, he is a devout follower and friend of your father’s. I hope that loyalty extends to the heir.”

Remy barked a laugh. If their last interaction was any indicator—plus the reports Lawrence would undoubtedly have heard regarding his time alone with Madison all those months ago—Remy would have his work cut out for him. But what was worse…the thought of accidentally crossing paths with his huntress again. Lawrence’s fiancée, he reminded himself bitterly.

“Your father is pleased with you. I imagine he’s planning some sort of debut. To make your return official,” Quinn mused. “You’ve done well for a stray dog, Remy. It’s almost as if you never left.”

The physician looked up, startled at the general’s use of his name. Quinn had mostly refused to use it for fear of it becoming too routine, too comfortable. But here, now, Remy got the sense it was a strange sort of olive branch—an acknowledgment of his hardships, his progress, and his dedication to their shared goal: the toppling of the regime and the reclamation of Northam.

“I’ll do what I can about the munitions shipments,” Remy said at last. “But I can’t make any promises.”

Quinn turned to leave, his back to Remy as he spoke. And when he did, the words were cryptic. “There are no promises in times like these. Not anymore.”

“Tell me about them. The Walthers.” Madison said, staring ahead at her reflection with a dispassionate expression. Clover was kneeling at her feet as she stood on the raised platform in the modiste’s shoppe. The gown was coming along nicely, and it was strongly protested by Elora, which only made Madison all the keener on it. Each time she returned for a fitting, she had another suggestion, another request. It was taking quite a bit of effort on the seamstress’s part, but she seemed enthusiastic about the idea. The stoic expression shifted slightly down to the other woman when Clover failed to answer right away. The spymaster’s face was a mask, but something felt tense about the silence.

“What, particularly, are you interested in knowing? Surely the Terrils have discussed them at length.” She kept her fingers moving but did not raise her head to meet the huntress’s eyes.

“Elora is not forthcoming with information on Remy and his sister and his mother. She speaks only on the High Commander. Lawrence would, I think, but he has been busy lately with exports and imports.” She waved her hand. “I only truly see him when we make appearances together.”

“And the heir hasn’t been at any?”

“No.” Her response was quick, forceful. A bit too quick.

“Disappointed in that, hmm?” Clover let the very corner of her mouth tick but kept her focus on her work.

“No,” a steadier reply, “but I do worry what he is doing if not attending the High Commander’s social engagements. I worry about this task force you’ve heard rumor of. He is smart, cunning and if he is working it…you’ll lose more people.” Madison’s concern was evident in her voice. It had only been a week since three spies had been rooted out of the staff at Wymberly – a blow to the line of communication.

“I am not afraid of the Walther heir,” Clover said softly back.

“Well.” It was another request, a gentle reminder. She didn’t speak again, but after a time, Clover began to describe all she knew of the ruling family of Northam.

“The High Commander supposedly had a love match with his wife, Zinnia, I think her name was. At least it was so when they wed. The early wars changed him, Gregoray the first. The love died, but they had two children. One of which I think you know intimately.” Madison stiffened slightly before intentionally relaxing her shoulders so the hem would not be uneven. “You know him better, I think, than I ever will.”

“I thought I knew him. I didn’t. I knew Remy Sterling, the doctor. I never knew Gregoray Walther, the heir. And I don’t want to.”

Clover kept up her work, her eyes downcast. She did not acknowledge the statement and continued speaking. “The second, a daughter, wasn’t well known. Too young to be shown in public but the old maids said Zinnia doted on her and her brother adored her. The flower of Wymberly, I believe they called her.”

“Because of her beauty?” Madison asked, which brought a snort from the seamstress, who finally rose to her feet.

“Because her name was after a fucking flowering scrub or some such nonsense.”

“Isn’t your name based on a flowering weed?” Madison snapped back, knowing full well that the Commander loved his lost sister. She knew the affection he held for her name, and even though anger burned constantly low in her gut at what Remy had become, she couldn’t always shake the instinctual need to defend him, protect him. Clover barked a laugh, shaking a pointed finger at her as she moved to set her remaining pins down on the counter. She tucked a black strand of hair behind her ear before she fingered the ribbon she always wore around her neck. Right as Madison was going to ask about the simple adornment, Clover continued.

“Azalea, if my memory serves. She loved to laugh until the Rebellion supposedly slaughtered her mother in front of her before turning on her.”

“Supposedly?” Madison moved to step behind the changing screen to gingerly remove the in-progress gown.

“He killed them.” The word slid out in a whisper. The High Commander.

“He killed his own wife? His child?”

“Not by his own hand, but yes. She had turned on him, tried to get her children out. I think he found out…the details of that day are hazy.” Clover paused, her hand slid slightly from the ribbon to what dangled from it. Madison, behind the screen, could not see this change in Clover’s demeanor. “The boy was left behind during the failed Uprising, and Azalea died that day.” Madison finished changing back into the soft cotton dress she wore. It was not particularly in fashion, but it was comfortable and made the alteration process easy.

As she rounded the screen, the bell at the door tinkled, and Chloe slipped behind the counter of the shop. “Mrs. Geroh, your punctuality is remarkable. I was just finished with Miss Sterling.” And just like that, the mask had slid back in place and Madison was dismissed.

---

The lock to the modiste slid into place a few hours later and the seamstress put everything in order, aware that even though the streets were dark and apparently empty – there were always eyes in Northam. It was not until she settled into the worn chair upstairs with a purring feline on her lap that she exhaled frustratedly. Project Groundcover was proving to be infuriatingly effect and to make matters worse she had not been able to contact her primary informant on the inside. It had been months and while she had known that this was entirely likely and in fact had been planned for, it did not lessen her unease. The Commander’s son was readily being spoken about now – lauded by patrons in bars across the capital. Soldiers spoke about his decisiveness, his brutality, his unwavering support for the cause.

Nausea roiled her stomach, empty as sit was from a busy day of work. She cast a glance at her little counter, scattered with a half-eaten roll and some bits of dried fruit that even the cat wouldn’t touch.

The conversation with Madison entered her mind again and she replayed it slowly, trying to piece it all together. Sometimes the plan seemed so brilliant but often, in the face of the setbacks that they had encountered thanks to Groundcover, she found it to be juvenile at best.  That was further down the road. Slow down. Slow down. You’re racing too far ahead. First, the munitions. They would need to obtain the next munitions shipment, or a decent portion of it in a coordinated raid. Lawrence couldn’t do much about it now, it would be difficult – nearly impossible - without him drawing the ire of the High Commander. And with his ire came his scrutiny. Before the doctor-turned-commander had returned, it was easier to infiltrate. She could almost always outmaneuver the smaller regiments. But he’s moving so fast, so organized. The fucking reputation that he was having with the troops, the spies…it was infuriating that he was so effective at it. But how could she be surprised? A small smirk curled her lips.

He was his father’s son after all.

----

Lawrence was raging at Elora when the huntress arrived back at the manor. Not at her, but to her. Something about tariffs…taxes…munitions? Madison had devoted countless hours to physical training, military strategy, learning the countries and general trading partners of Northam but the intricacies of economics bored her. With the potential to be dragged into something so boring, she slipped around through the kitchens and out the back to find Magnolia and Damien.

She settled into one of the worn chairs in the sunroom where the dogs liked to lie during the day when they weren’t outside terrorizing Fern’s chickens. Fern, the primary cook at the Terril residence, kept several chickens supposedly for eggs and meat, but surprisingly, none of them were ever roasted and served. Those chickens came from one of the local farms.

Cmdr. Walther.

Do not go easy. Do not go easy. Do not go easy. 

Lost to her memories and the kindling of rage, she was stirred from her thoughts when her supposed lover sauntered in. Hands in his pockets, the handsome trader gazed out through the glass in silence before addressing her. “Productive appointment?”

“I think it’s coming along nicely.”

“Elora thinks it foolish.” He admitted.

“She’s just upset that she didn’t think of it before I did.”

A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “It will certainly draw Remy’s attention.”

“Commander Walther.” She corrected. The man he was now was not who he was. It felt odd hearing his name from Lawrence, almost as it further tarnished her memories of Remy – her Remy and not the person he became. No. No, he was always a Walther. Always. The doctor was the sham. “And isn’t that the point?” Madison finally turned her eyes to him, seeing him looking down at her now instead of through the glass. His expression wasn’t worried, but there was a tension in his brows she came to know well. Blue eyes narrowed as she studied him. Lawrence hummed before turning away from her and back to the snow outside. The bulk was beginning to melt, and in another month, greenery would start to poke through here and there. The sun would warm the grounds and it was the merchant’s favorite time of year, mostly because it was the best time for riding.

“It might draw his attention, too.” He repeated, the emphasis changing.

“I can handle myself.” The statement brought a glimmer to Lawrence’s eyes as he turned them back on her. “I can. I handled the dinner well enough, and I wasn’t even prepared for him to show up.”

“Well, if being escorted out by the High Commander’s son and then fleeing the dinner was considered successful, then you nailed it.” Madison scowled at him, which made him laugh. The sound was delightful, full and hearty – like a thick blanket in the deepest of the Cold. The huntress’ eyes softened, along with the rest of her expression. The love she felt for Lawrence Terril ran deeply now and she often wondered how Northam hadn’t stolen that from him.

“I was not prepared for both of them to be there; this time I am, and he’ll be the one surprised.”

“I think he will certainly be surprised.” Lawrence said, drawing something out of his pocket. It was a square box with a little inlay of gold T in the center. Madison’s brow furrowed and the man lowered himself to a knee in front of her.

“What ar-”

“Magnolia Sterling, light of my life, my true love, would you do me the honor of pretending to marry me?” Lawrence asked, laughter dancing amongst the words like a ballerina. The box opened, revealing an outrageously large ruby ring. The laughter bubbling in Madison’s own chest halted when she beheld the contents. It was an oval cut surrounded by smaller diamonds in a bright golden setting. It sparkled brilliantly in the light of the sunroom, casting reflections about the room that caused the dogs’ ears to perk and their gazes to follow the glimmering light.

“Why did you do it like that?” She asked, gesturing to his position.

“It is tradition.”

“Why?”

“An aged custom, before the Cold, I think. Chivalry, devotion, something to do with knights I think.”

“Hmm. Seems ridiculous. Do I kiss you to accept? Or is there some elaborate dance I must perform?”

“As much as I would love to see you perform some sort of elaborate dance, no,” his smile broadened across his face, “you don’t have to kiss to accept, you just answer.”

“But aren’t we supposed to be in love? Why would you need to ask? Isn't the engagement sealed with a kiss?” Eyebrows knit together as Lawrence’s laughter filled the room once more.

“Are you going to give me an answer or continue interrogating me on customs?” He quirked a bro and took her left hand in his.

“Oh! Oh, yes, yes, of course, I will pretend to marry you.” She said, laughing to herself as the questions were carried away with the sound of his own deep laughter. He gingerly slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. The weight of the jewelry was surprising and it was cool against her skin. “This thing is massive, though, and unruly. How can I hold a blade with this? How can I dress? It could catch the fabric.” Lawrence stood up, allowing her to do the same. He looked down at her with infinite affection.

“You have certainly made this proposal memorable, my dear.”

“Well, when you do it in the future, I think some things can be improved upon.” She mused, causing him to raise his eyebrows.

“I will be certain to consult you in the future.”

“It would be wise to ensure the recipient likes the ring first, too, wouldn’t it?”

“That was my grandmother’s, and it will be the envy of all of Northam.”

“Hmm, it’s not particularly my style.”

“No,” He admitted, taking her hand and admiring the ring on it before letting it go, “but it is Magnolia’s.” Madison’s hand remained raised.

“Fair,” Madison said, playing with the stone, examining it. It fit snugly, surprisingly, and it would absolutely draw the eye of every woman in Northam – but more importantly, the High Commander’s and his son.

“With such excitement, I also have…other news.” Lawrence’s tone shifted and the huntress wondered if this was what Elora had been so fired up about. She looked at him expectantly, dropping her hand to her side. The ring was not forgotten, however, a weight against her. Despite her excitement, the honor of such a pretend proposal and the effort he put in to making it humorous, the ring felt wrong. A memory slithered forward, unbidden.

Now. Now. Now.

So much heat. Warmth of bodies. Of desire. Of affection. Of love.

Don’t go.

“The Commander has requested a meeting.” The admission broke her from the haze of memory. “At Wymberly, tomorrow.”

“For what?”A deep ache had nestled itself back under her ribs. Don’t go.

“Our upcoming shipments. I suspect they will push for a swifter delivery which is going to be nearly impossible if Clover is to access some of the supplies without incident.” The worry etched the lines around his mouth again, the same ones that deepened when he smiled. “It was my idea that you come with me.”

Madison’s attention snapped to his eyes, searching them. “Why?”

“You’re newer to the upper echelons of our society. It would not be...” He trailed off, searching for the words as he held her gaze, “out of the realm of possibility that you would be enamored with the idea of touring Wymberly. And while you did, you would get a better idea of the layout. It is undoubtedly where the ball will be held. And it’s best to be more familiar with hunting terrain, I understand.” The logic was sound. So why was her heart racing at a thunderous pace?

Remy.

“Only if you want.” He added, hesitantly.

“I am not made of glass.” She snapped, again too forcefully. Shaking her head, she heard it quickly. “Sorry.”

“Love is not so easily forgotten. It is a wound that does not heal with time, despite what they say.”

“I do not love Commander Walther.”

“No, but Remy…”

Madison turned away, already rolling the ring around her finger, letting the prong gently scrap back and forth over the pad of her finger.

“You can talk to me about it.” He said, gently and softly.

“I can’t.” A mouse would have made more noise that her whispered reply.

“I’m here – ”

“I can’t.” She whirled back to face him, tears stinging her eyes but refusing to fall. She blinked them back as she looked up to the ceiling. “I can’t. I can’t.” Almost a mantra.

“I understand.” He wrapped his arms around her and they stood still, as the huntress stuffed down that ache, that love that she hated she still held for a man that never existed. Who was never hers. Who was never real.

“I’ll do it.” Madison stepped back, mask in place, resolve settled into her muscles. The way she adopted the huntress, suppressed the feelings, terrified Lawrence more than he wanted to admit. That kind of tension, emotion, pressure would surely boil over for her one day. He worried for her – the inevitable explosion of Mount Madison.

“And I have just the dress.”

It felt like time was slipping away, like the swirls of late-season snowflakes carried aloft on the wind. Upon his initial return to Thebes, the days had dragged on like weeks and weeks had drudged on like years. Now, time flowed like the rage of the Savanne River after the spring thaw; now, time was a storm.

The support for Operation Groundcover was more than any of them had anticipated, and the enthusiasm spread like wildfire through the ranks of the militia—a momentum driven by renewed loyalty for its fresh leadership. Remy’s leadership. New, but also familiar, with a success story that gave him credibility even beyond that automatically afforded by his name. Kidnapped and held hostage by rebel forces. Tortured for years. An inspiration. A survivor. A witness.

Not even General Belvedere had foreseen such success, which was why he had issued such a dire warning. You’re moving too fast. Clover needs more time. If the smuggled munitions were found out before Clover’s operatives could traffic them, it would threaten the rebellion’s entire international network. A win for Groundcover, to be sure, but not something any of them on the right side could afford. And now, it seemed, the heir was simultaneously the rebels’ greatest threat and their last bastion of hope.

So it was more important than ever that Remy kept up his act. He’d called this meeting with Lawrence Terril not only to gather as much intel on the trade shipments as he could, but also to steer any potential delays. As insufferable as the man was—not least of which because of his status as Madison’s beau—it was the most direct way to affect the cause without drawing suspicion.

He hadn’t realized it would also serve as an invite to Madison to come to Wymberly.

He braced himself against the bathroom sink, fingers curled tight around the marble’s edge, and forced himself to study his reflection. His hair had grown long enough to tumble forward disobediently when he tried to comb it back, gentle sandy waves against his forehead; his scruff had filled in, too, a neat, tightly-cropped beard that accentuated the sharp cut of his jaw and his strong neck. The resemblance to the High Commander was undeniable now, and that, according to Quinn, was quite fortuitous—because not only did Remy act like his father, he looked like him too.

“It will impress them,” the general had said with a devilish grin. “And better yet, it will scare them. They will have no choice but to trust and obey you now, Commander.”

Remy inhaled slowly and held the breath, willing his pulse to slow. He’d spent months crafting the perfect public persona as the High Commander’s heir, bolstering his reputation alongside Quinn Belvedere all in service of the rebellion. By now he was well practiced in how to speak, how to school his expressions, how to dole out orders and spurn urgency from the soldiers. He knew he could keep up the ruse to the world.

But it made him sick to have to do it in front of Madison. Even if he was doing it all for the greater good…for her.

If only I could tell you.

He released his breath in a long sigh and dressed quickly in his casual blues, buttoning up a deep navy jacket trimmed in silver. Even if he could have shared his true alliance with the huntress, she had no reason to believe him. And hadn’t he designed it that way? To be hardened, unquestionable, stalwart, fooling even his bloodhound of a father? There was no room for error. He and Quinn were in far to deep now, with only the Mother’s Lament—or worse—to look forward to should the mask drop even an inch.

Remy cleared his throat, inspected himself one last time in the mirror, and strode out from his quarters to the central entrance hall. Servants in his path bowed their heads in deference as he passed, but he pretended not to see them; after all, a Walther heir would never pay any heed to the manor workers unless he demanded their services.

The grand entrance hall was cold, the grand armored doors having just latched closed against a cruel late-winter wind. Quinn had evidently just arrived, ascending the small staircase with snowflakes still clinging to his hair and speckling the shoulders of his navy jacket. He saluted Remy with a fist over his chest. “Good morning, Commander,” the general greeted, flashing an easy smile. “I take it things are going well with Operation Groundcover. Word at the Academy is that we’re ahead of schedule.”

“That we are,” came the High Commander’s voice, a proud purr behind Remy.

Remy turned toward his father calmly with a nod. The High Commander no longer had the power to startle him—despite the fact that the sound of it would forever make his skin crawl. “And we should gain even more ground after today,” said Remy, sounding almost bored. “Lawrence Terril will be arriving shortly if you would like to join our discussion, Father.” The word felt like a curse on his tongue, even still.

The High Commander draped a supportive hand on Remy’s shoulder. “Unfortunately, my fate is to be driven mad with boredom by General Belvedere’s curriculum review this afternoon,” he drawled.

Quinn laughed. “You know that is always my intention, sir. To have months of hard work rewarded with a yawn.” He turned to the young soldier who had walked in behind him and voiced a stern order. “Stewart, would you please deliver the folios to the High Commander’s study?”

The soldier, poised but nervous, scrambled away accompanied by two of the High Commander’s personal guards. Security at Wymberly was at an all-time high after the assassination attempt that nearly killed General Belvedere. The High Commander, of course, didn’t know how close Quinn had actually come to his end…or that he had stumbled that night to Remy’s door blood-soaked and resigned to death. But that brutal night—Remy’s skilled hands, Quinn’s shocking honesty—had marked the start of all of this, tangling their fates together, setting the wheels in motion to topple the very regime from whence both men had come.

And Remy wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

Not even when the front doors opened, and two familiar faces appeared backlit in the doorway, flanked on either side by guards.

Not even when the cold breeze brushed over his face, tossed the waves of his hair across his forehead.

Not even when his eyes met Madison’s from across the entrance hall.

Lawrence led Madison up the handful of stairs, pausing to bow as he approached Remy, the High Commander, and General Belvedere.

“Mr. Terril. And Miss Sterling, was it?” Remy greeted, his voice perfectly polite and guarded. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his father’s predatory smirk, no doubt recalling his son’s previous interaction with the blue-eyed beauty at the Terril manor. “Welcome to Wymberly.”

Quinn offered a nod to Lawrence, then reached out a hand to Madison. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, amber eyes curious. “I’m General Quinn Belvedere.”

Before Remy could speak again, a servant jogged up to the group, gloved hands clutching a note that he passed to the High Commander. His father frowned, rolled his eyes, and heaved a sigh that Remy knew was far more dangerous than a simple exhale. “Gentlemen, Miss Sterling…I’m afraid I must take care of some urgent business,” he announced, crumpling the note in his palm. “General Belvedere, if you will meet me in my study for dinner, we can commence our review. In the meantime…excuse me.”

Quinn clasped his hands together and smiled. “It seems my schedule has been cleared,” he declared, cheerful, looking from Remy to Lawrence and then back to Madison. Curiosity once again lit his brown eyes, and as it frequently went with the general, Remy couldn’t discern whether that was promising or alarming. “Perhaps I could interest the lady in a tour of the famous Wymberly while these two gentlemen meet. What do you say, Miss Sterling? Mr. Terril?”