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

Remy brushed each strand of her hair over and over until the wet locks gave way to soft, wavy tresses. She ran her fingers through them and smiled admiringly at the care that he had taken. Madison’s skilled fingers separated her hair down the middle of her head as best as she could without a mirror. Deftly, she fashioned two braids and then twisted them into each other against the base of her skull. It was a beautifully simple arrangement of hair that would have done her mother proud.

Stomach full and clothes drying slowly against her skin, the huntress curled against her lover. Breaths turned soft and steady as she slept before waking to the dead of night. The dogs protested the movements they made as Remy soundless settled against her lap and she leaned against the trunk of the tree that anchored their makeshift shelter.  The same fingers that had plaited her own hair now brushed gingerly against his forehead. She brushed his long hair back and away from his face, fingers steadily stroking from his temple to the curve of his head. She listened for the even hum of his sleep and smiled, attention turning towards any abnormal sounds in the night. Remy snored once and she stifled a laugh, missing the abnormally loud crack of a branch in the distance.  For as they settled together, a familiar foe lurked just in the tree line and was scurrying off to set his plan into motion.

Madison woke her slumbering companion at dawn with a gentle tickle of long fingernails against the scruff of his chin. He swatted at her hand and she laughed, coaxing him back to the land of the living with a few more well timed pokes here and there. A beautiful fog hung above the grass, twisting and swirling like animated, springtime spirits. The ground was wet but the sun shimmering golden rays upon the horizon before them, illuminating the broken glass of Thebes’ taller buildings. They packed in relative silence and ate some of their remaining rations and had fresh water to drink. The air was so warm she only wore two layers and her scarf, trading out her thick socks for the thinner, less worn pair.  Everything packs and ready, they made their way down the gentle slope. Bright, attentive eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of smoke or movement in hopes of avoiding any militia. It would be difficult, this close to the capital of Northam. They made sure to fashion Remy’s faux worst tattoo to pass cursory inspection and as they did, Madison couldn’t release the tension from her muscles at seeing it. It was the ugliest sight she could imagine.

It was only for show.

Damien and Magnolia bounded and playfully fought ahead of them before being scolded into better attention. They sniffed and padded a little ways in front, casting eyes back at their parents intermittently. Madison’s attention shifted to something to her right and she inspected it for a moment before deciding nothing was amiss.

“I cannot wait for a bath and a real meal.” A smirk hovered on her lips as she elbowed him gently. “No offense.” She let the joke land for a moment before continuing. “And perhaps some less-“ a yelp cut through the air and severed her word mid-syllable. Madison’s stomach dropped and clenched. She immediately ran towards the dogs’ cries and silently prayed that there were no traps set out. If one of the dogs had stepped into a hunter’s trap it could be disastrous. Mind raced through a series of scenarios when she saw fur come into view. Magnolia ran towards her, sniffing and whining and circling back around. Damien was not with her.

As swiftly as she ran, she came to an abrupt halt. Magnolia growled, baring her teeth with hair standing up from the base of her skull to mid spine. A well built man obstructed her view of the city. He was slightly overweight, thick fingers wrapped around the skin of Damien’s neck and the other hand wielding a long hunters knife. The uniform of the Commander’s militia clothed him, but haphazardly so about his waist - as if he had been in the midst of something when he was surprised by their four-legged companions.  The hand not holding Damien’s scruff was trickling a thin, slow trail of blood from obvious teeth marks between the tendons of the middle and pointer finger.

Madison’s approach had not been discrete and she stood, stiffly, face to face with a lone soldier. Fingers twitched to grab a blade, anything to defend herself with - but the man had her dog. “That’s my dog.” The words fell dumbly from her mouth. Of all the situations she expected to find herself in today, this was not one she had entertained.

“Yer mutt, huh? Mongrel bit me he did.” The accent she couldn’t place and didn’t care too. Nervous blue eyes flicked from him to Damien and back again. She held her left hand out slightly and low, signaling to the hound to stay, it would be all right.

“He didn’t mean it. If you just release him to me, I’ll compensate you for your trouble.”

“Compensate, huh?” He looked her over and she understood the form of payment he desired from her. Madison heard Remy come to a stop a few feet behind her. “We might be able to figur sometin, huh?”

“I have coin and pelts and meat.” The words were clipped and simple but not unkind. It wouldn’t do to provoke him - not yet.

“Huh,” he looked her over, “some quality time with tha missus.”

“I don’t think I offered that.” The huntress replied, unshouldering her pack slowly and setting it beside her. Fluidly, she kept her right arm behind her back as she took a few steps forward.

“Ah comeon, huh? Won’t take long.” He jerked Damien and a yell escaped , causing her heart to skip a beat. Heat flared to life inside Madison - a boiling molten lava threatening to break through the thin shell of control she had.

“Not that. Anything else. I have a lot of money. Please.” She responded as she was only an arm and half’s length from the militiaman now. Blue gaze darted about the clearing, searching for anyone in his regiment but finding no obvious signs. The rogue appeared (in a terrible attempt at acting) to consider her proposal.

“Then a pelt it is.” Madison’s muscles relaxed visibly and she moved to call Damien to her. “This pelt.” He jerked the dog upward and his dagger moved towards the soft skin under Damien’s chin.

Looking back, Madison would not be able to recall the movements she made and how she managed them. A blink of a eye and she was standing with her body pressed to his and her knife jutting from his throat. Surprise flashed in his eyes as she jerked the blade back with all her strength and blood began spitting hot and angry from his neck. Damien was released as the soldier’s grip slackened and he fled over to his sister. Pain whispered its way up her body, trying to speak through the din of rage pounding in her ears. Blood covered the right side of her face as she jerked her blade out and watched him crumple, sputtering to the ground with feeble attempts to staunch the flow. His own blade had weakly drawn across her left side and crimson blossomed beneath her sweaters. She turned, half shocked, to her companion and opened her mouth to speak when she heard the worst possible noise.

Footsteps. An entire squadron of steps. Then an alarm raised.

“There they are! As I told you they’d be! They attacked Dennis unprovoked! I saw it before I ran to find you.” Madison didn’t recognize the voice but the moment she laid her eyes on the source she swallowed a snarl.

The twin. The Donaldson twin. And with him a high ranking officer and his squad - all dressed in their militia blues.

And then there she was, holding a knife dripping with fresh blood and a spattering of it drying on her skin.  Three men moved towards her faster than she had anticipated. Whether it was the shock or the fear, Madison was unable to say. Rough, calloused hands grabbed her hair at the base of her neck. Fighting against the grip, small clumps were pulled and pain flared along her spine. Someone gripped her wrist and applied pressure so that her finger splayed and the knife released. She lashed out as they bound her hands behind her back with coarse ropes. Someone punched her in her side and spots appeared in her vision.

Panic pressed itself against her chest and despite everything she felt the well of tears brim her lower eyelids. Never this. She had never thought it would come to this. The knowledge of it happening was abundant, yet it would never happen to her - she had always told herself that. Fearful gaze sought out her lover and saw that Damien snarled at his side, paws pressed firmly into the damp ground.  She met Remy’s storm eyes and when she did she mouthed an apology just as a hand collided with her cheekbone. Neck snapped to the side and a coppery tang burst across her tongue. Spitting, the ground was now speckled with her blood. She kicked out again, only to find a boot ram into the back of her leg and forcing her downward. Falling to her knees, the damp earth soaked through her pants and her head lolled forward momentarily. Everything ceased for a glorious moment of silence before two fingers grasped her chin and lifted it upward in a harsh manner. Madison tried not the wince - and failed.

“Well gents. We’ve caught ourself a pretty filly.” His free hand stroked her hair and she jerked back, ramming her bound hands into a captor’s knee. A robust laugh filled the space between them. “And you all know what we have to do with a filly, lads.” A chorus of laughter and cheers rang out and the Donaldson twin smiled with all his rotten teeth visible. The commander of the militia squadron rang his hand along her face and brought his mouth close to hers. “Break her.”

“Fuck you.” Madison hissed, the words slurred as she had bitten her tongue when punched.

“Oh, you will.” He retorted, smiling as he straightened. Turning on his well polished boot heel, brown eyes found Remy with the frantic hounds.

“I assume this lass is yours but she has committed high crimes against the High Commander of Northam on his private hunting grounds. We are taking her into custody and I’m afraid that the evidence against her is overwhelming. She will be hung or shot,” his slender fingers waved dismissively in the air, “within the week.”

In the otherwise peaceful woods, the sharp yelp of a canine resounded like a gunshot.

Remy halted in his tracks and reached for Madison’s arm, but she was too fast—his palm met empty air, and she dashed toward the sound of the whimpers as swiftly and soundlessly as a shadow. He drew a knife from his pocket and rushed after her, his mind whirling with what they might encounter behind the berm. A trap this close to the city wouldn’t be out of the question; that was certainly more likely than a large predator, given the time of day and the proximity to the capital. Besides, the dogs were nearly full-grown, and strong and lean from their nomadic lives. Like their humans, the canine pair could hold their own—and had done so before—against other creatures that prowled the forest.

Magnolia wove her way through a dense patch of underbrush, the long fur on her neck standing on end. She reared up at Remy, urging him to come faster, her soft, desperate whines taking the place of the suddenly absent birdsong. He gripped his knife tighter and followed the streak of brown fur until she halted on the crest of a small hill.

He saw the man’s uniform first—mussed and muddy, but undeniably militia.

He saw Damien, wide-eyed and trembling at the mercy of the soldier’s knife.

And he saw Madison, battling her huntress’ instinct to attack, exercising a restraint born of fierce desperation.

“Madison,” Remy murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear as he slowly approached from behind. He did not relinquish his grasp on his hunting knife, but he held up his opposite hand in a gesture of tentative peace, meeting the soldier’s gaze over the huntress’ shoulder. “Let’s keep this civil, yeah?” Remy said, a note of warning in his tone. He stepped closer to Madison, one tentative stride at a time. Magnolia trailed behind slowly, hackles raised.

And in an instant, before Remy could register what was happening, the moment detonated. Madison lunged forward in a graceful, terrifying blur, burying her blade in the rogue’s neck before the fiend could blink. The shock of the gesture froze on the man’s face as he dropped slowly to the leaflitter, fingers grappling futilely at the hilt protruding from his jugular. In mere moments that felt like hours, the horrible gurgling ceased, and once again quiet settled over the forest.

Too quiet. Madison had taught him that.

The scene was bizarrely familiar—she had killed the Donaldson man in a similar fashion just weeks prior, a chilling tableau that had made an encore appearance in Remy’s nightmares the very next night. He reached for her arm again, and this time he caught it with an urgent squeeze. He tugged her toward him protectively, concern contorting his features. “Fuck,” he breathed, reaching up with his sleeve to wipe a trail of blood that had splattered like paint across her cheek. Despite himself, his fingertips trembled. “Are you okay? We need to get out of here. Before the rest of his—”

The quick snap of a twig. The swish of boots on damp fallen leaves.

“There they are! As I told you they’d be! They attacked Dennis unprovoked! I saw it before I ran to find you.”

The doctor and the huntress sprang apart and whirled to face the voices.

The sight that greeted them was worse than any nightmare—a squadron of soldiers in militia blue, their faces already contorting into ugly sneers as they closed in. Remy’s heart leapt into his throat, slamming a pulse so heavy it was a miracle it didn’t burst from his flesh. No. No, no, no.

Farther from the capital, where the recruitment population was limited and any bully with a pulse could call himself a leader, it was easy to forget that the militia was a skilled, trained force—a collective machine tweaked and oiled to precision grade. But now, as the squadron filed in to surround them faster than they ever could have escaped, Remy knew he had been a fool. They had been trailed from the moment their boots crossed the tailor’s threshold all those weeks ago…and neither of them had realized it, neither of them had thought it possible. It seemed Mrs. Grafton and Ursulah had been right about the Donaldsons—and despite the brothers’ reputation as bumbling small-town tormentors, their military connections ran far higher than any mountain-town regiment.

A group of soldiers approached Madison at the same time that another handful approached Remy, forcing the pair physically apart while they bound the huntress’ bloody hands and encircled the doctor.

“Leave her alone,” he warned, but his words fell on deaf ears. As soon as the huntress’ wrists were secured, their knuckles found her jaw and their boots found her ribs…over and over again, a cacophony of flesh striking flesh. Remy lunged forward toward her, but two burly men threw themselves in his path and shoved him backward. The dogs yipped and growled frantically at his side, but were hesitant in their fear—they, like Remy, did not know how to navigate this predicament. They were outmanned and surrounded, and weapons weren’t the only things to dread.

“Madison!” he cried. “Stop! Stop this!”

“I give the orders,” one man drawled. He drew himself up to his full height from his stooped inspection of the bloodied huntress, then swiveled slowly to address Remy. He would have known this man as the squadron commander even if he hadn’t seen the three horizontal red stripes embroidered on the uniform cuffs. Nevertheless, the soldier made a point of adjusting his coat sleeves to highlight the bright scarlet marks. As if that meant anything to Remy. “I assume this lass is yours,” the leader went on, as nonchalantly as if reporting the weather, “but she has committed high crimes against the High Commander of Northam on his private hunting grounds. We are taking her into custody, and I’m afraid that the evidence against her is overwhelming. She will be hanged.” A pause, as though contemplating what to eat for luncheon. “Or shot.”

“No!” Remy declared, icy fear joining the searing hot anger pumping through his veins.

The squadron commander raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you don’t have a say,” he said, almost pitying. “At any rate, wild fillies like these need breaking. You’re welcome to stick around. Or join, if you like.” The other soldiers laughed lecherously.

Without warning, Remy lurched forward—his limbs seeming to move on their own accord—and a sound tore from his throat that was something between a word and a snarl. But his hunting knife made it only far enough to graze the commander’s uniform, scuffing the navy wool at the shoulder. The squadron commander spun lightning-quick, knocking the weapon away and bringing his knee up to strike Remy’s abdomen mid-lunge.

The doctor doubled over with a gasp. Two pairs of hands gripped him on either side and pinned his arms behind his back. He opened his eyes just long enough to see two retreating brown tails disappearing into the trees, but his relief was short-lived; a fist collided with his lip, filling his mouth with the tang of blood.

Desperation seized him then with as much ferocious strength as his uniformed captors. Like an animal snared, his instinct was to fight—but the hands clutching his arms and the fist tangled in his loose hair held him still. Nevertheless, he could not simply resign himself to this fate, and any moment they spent on him, they were not spending on Madison.

“Let her go!” Remy bellowed through the men’s lewd taunts, jerking futilely against the iron grasps of the two burly soldiers who held his arms. Searing panic clawed its way from his chest to his throat, and he fought harder against his captors. “Take me and let her go!”

The squad commander bared his teeth in a gesture that was too animalistic to be a smile, yet the rest of his company followed suit in a haughty chorus of chuckles. “And just who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked mockingly, his voice sharp and unnatural in the stillness of the wood. It wasn’t often one came across dissenters who were so brazenly defiant. Most deferred immediately in terror of the uniform alone, if not the weapons they carried. “Are you an imbecile? Didn’t I just say that I give the orders here?” he continued. “And I might just have you shot for associating with the murdering bitch. And assaulting a commanding officer. Perhaps trespassing as well. And…oh yes, shouldn’t you be with your own regiment?” The leader stepped closer, studying Remy with all the interest of a cat appraising a mouse in his claws. It was more fun when they put up a fight.

“What say ya, Commander Briggs?” quipped one of the men gripping Remy’s arm.

“A traitor and a deserter. I wonder why he thinks he’s so special.” The commander made a motion with his hand, and Remy’s captors forced him forward and to his knees. Briggs bent down condescendingly to look the doctor in the face, but Remy refused to lift his gaze from the ground. “Well?” Briggs prompted, cheeks reddening slightly with impatience. His hand shot out viper-quick and grabbed a fistful of Remy’s hair, yanking fiercely upward. The doctor looked up with a hiss through gritted teeth, and one of his captors twisted his arm so sharply behind his back that he heard himself cry out.

“Let her go.” This time, Remy’s voice came in a low, even growl, even as his chest heaved against the pain in his arm.

“And just who do you think you are?” Briggs’ face was just inches away—close enough for Remy to see the chips in his yellow teeth, the jagged scar that cut through his left eyebrow. But what stood out most was the terrifying gleam in the soldier’s brown eyes…nearly the same bloodthirsty look he’d seen his father wear a thousand times. Only this man lacked any pretense of propriety—and any of the calculated, sadistic charm.

“Tell us now, or else…” he drawled lazily again, straightening back up to his full height. “Or else I’ll let you slowly bleed to death right now, and your last sight on this godforsaken earth will be of your little whore forgetting all about you while my men show her the real meaning of pleasure. What do you think, boys?”

He read the fear in Remy’s expression like a headline and delighted in it. The sneer of a smile Briggs wore was worse than predatory, it was rabid. Remy fought back fury and nausea in equal waves, struggling against the hands that kept his arms pinned painfully behind his back.

“So I’ll ask you one last time.” Whatever amusement he’d garnered from the traitor’s defiance quickly dissipated. He drew a blade from his belt, pretending to examine it before lowering it slowly to Remy’s throat. The razor-sharp edge pricked his skin easily, and Remy felt hot blood trickle down his neck. “Tell us, just who do you think you are?”

Tell. Tell. Tell.

Tell her.

It’s the only way.

Remy and Madison had faced bandits, kidnappers, Mother Nature’s fury, hypothermia, and murderous Watchmen—but it looked like this, at long last, was the obstacle they could not overcome.

Was this truly the only option? Had all their struggles, all their hardships, come to this? He strained to look to Madison, but he could not turn toward her with the men holding him still. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die. But he was no good to Madison dead; if she survived what they would do to her here in the forest, it would only be a matter of days before she would be executed before a jeering Thebesian crowd. There was no way out. There was no way to win.

Just one way.

Time ground to a halt as Remy drew breath. When he spoke, his voice was not his own; the words soared unbidden from his throat in a silvery cloud, clear but quaking in the brisk afternoon air. “My name is Gregoray Remington Walther II, first son of High Commander General Gregoray Walther,” he declared, throwing his shoulders back in semblance of an authority that he certainly did not feel, “and I order you to release her.”

This time, Briggs did not laugh. “If you think you are the first worthless bastard to claim to be the High Commander’s dead son, rest his soul…”

“His wrist ain’t even marked!” one of the lackeys bellowed.

“Check my left shoulder,” Remy retorted, once again struggling against his captors, who held fast.

Briggs glared at Remy, who stared back at him with a confidence that belied the churning of his stomach and the terrified pulse thundering in his ears. After a beat long enough to make the doctor’s panic rise like bile in his throat, Briggs nodded once, curtly, to the men. The soldier to his left relinquished his grip and drew a knife, bringing the blade dangerously close to Remy’s throat before slicing directly through his sweater and undershirt. Meanwhile, the squad commander’s gaze did not once stray from the doctor’s, and Remy refused to look away this time, his blue eyes dark with the desperate storm raging within.

Remy heard the lackey’s stifled gasp in his left ear. And though everything inside him fell in silent defeat, he dared not let that show. Instead, he straightened his posture.

The squadron commander looked startled, then furious. He leapt to Remy’s back and reached out to the severed fabric, ripping the seam with his bare fists until the daylight fully illuminated the mark he had kept hidden for more than a decade—definitive proof of the blood that ran in his veins, permanently painted across the lean muscle of his shoulder. The Walther family coat of arms in dense navy ink shimmered undeniably blue beneath a sheen of cold sweat, its presence erasing any shadow of doubt to the truth of his claim.

And with his back to the captive huntress, Madison was in full view of the physician’s fateful mark.

It was, of course, illegal for an unrelated citizen to bear any semblance of the elaborate symbol, punishable by death to the wearer as well as to any tattooist who recreated the mark without written permission from the Commander himself. It didn’t stop imitations from cropping up from time to time, but never was it placed correctly over the scapula, and never was it the deep, particular midnight hue his family had claimed as their own. Being this close to Thebes, Briggs would recognize its authenticity instantly.

“I…it can’t be. Sir,” the commander stammered suddenly, his cheeks draining of color. “Release him, you morons,” he hissed to the lackeys. “Now!”

Remy yanked himself free and spun, startling the surrounding soldiers, who sprang back as though slapped. He barely noticed them—how they all wore the same shocked expression, how they froze before him in a combination of confusion and fear. “Release her!” he ordered, pointing authoritatively to the huntress. He frantically searched for her eyes. “She is not to be touched. She is not to be pursued. Do you understand?” 

His eyes flashed with anguish as their gazes fleetingly met. I love you. At dawn. At noon. At midnight. You are my everything. I couldn’t tell you, Madison, I couldn’t. Please believe me. This isn’t me. I am not my blood. I am not my father. Forgive me. Please forgive me. It was the only way. I love you.

His head spun as he watched the soldiers slice through the ropes, watched as she disappeared like a phantom into the forest. His eyes locked on the tree line as though she might reappear, as though she might swoop in to rescue him from this unspeakable fate as she had rescued him so many times before. But the huntress was gone, swallowed by the wilds.

And there could be no rescue from this.

Her companion’s shouts echoed across the hill and then it was quieter, something between the leader and the doctor that Madison could not make out over the roaring of her boxed ears.  All she wanted to do was just rest her eyes for a while, to hide away from all the pain she had and would endure at their hands in the days to come. The commotion grew and she tilted her head up to see what was happening to him, feeling her heart break at the prospect of his death due to her rash actions. I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you. I love you. I love you. I will until the day the hang me. 

They had read many books together and he had crafted little snippets of tales to tell her at night - ones he had retained from his childhood. Many spoke of how time comes to a stop, abruptly and jarringly. The words were utterly inadequate in their meager description of the way everything around Madison jerked to a halt. Bright blue eyes blinked, rimmed in her own blood from the beating the militiamen had just given her. Upon opening one of the men moved aside and she could see clearly what had been hidden from her for so long. 

Snakes twined upward around a long blade of midnight blue. Wings expanded out from their serpentine bodies. Letters without meaning were inscribed on the adjacent flesh and the only words read invictus maneo. The sound of them reverberated in her mind. Even though they were unknown, their meaning was quite clear. Remy was the Walther heir - the son of the man she sought to kill. The High Commander’s blood ran through his veins. Everything hovered in place, frozen as she stared dumbstruck at the obvious scapular tattoo. 

As quickly as it stopped, time resumed with all the intensity of a tornado. Emotions slammed into her like a boot straight to the gut. Madison’s head tilted forward and she wretched on the ground before her. Vaguely, she heard his familiar voice shout in an authoritative tone as the world spun. Blood pounded in her ears and she raised her head again, just in time to see Remy standing there with his eyes on hers. The sight of him made her stomach roil. She had given him everything. He knew every single part of her, every secret, every curve of her body, every desire. 

And all this time...she had not known him at all. 

Anger swelled over the hurt, over the urge to cry. Anger fueled her need to survive, to get away from the rapists and murderers and condoned thieves that comprised the squadron. To get away from the lying son of the Commander before her. The sudden freedom of her wrists tore her attention from the physician and that faux mask of pain he displayed on his features. She flexed her hands and stood shakily, cradling an arm against what were undoubtedly broken ribs. A man road up on a horse at the edge of the squadron with two other non-uniformed men. She grabbed her pack with her free hand and stumbled, tripping and falling and running again to get away. Madison scrambled to avoid be away from them and made it to the tree line. She hovered there on the edge of the hunting grounds, wanting to turn around. The compulsion to see him was ingrained now, but she resisted. They were supposed to have been together always, always, forever. He had promised her. 

He had lied. 

You don't, you don't care like you used to. You don't want me there like you used to.
I keep wasting every night waiting for you to say goodbye.
But if you won't, you won't, I'll make the first move.

The aura of despair that exuded off of her was comprised of thick, nearly tangible waves. The smooth, wooden bar beneath her elbows had consoled many lost souls over the years, yet with all of its age and experience, it had never seen anguish as all-encompassing at Madison Gallow’s.  The bartender of the tavern watched her carefully out of one brown eye in between serving more initially generous patrons. Damien shifted uncomfortably at her feet and Magnolia let out a low whine. “Don’t you dare miss him.” Madison glowered, unsure if she was telling Magnolia or herself as she inhaled slowly between clenched teeth at the pain along her sides.

The huntress had cleaned her wounds in a stream, put herself together as best as she was able with bandages around her bruised and broken ribs. It hurt to cough and it would hurt to laugh. Though, she knew she would not be making that melodious sound for many months to come. Fury coalesced with sadness into a thick knot that threatened to spill out of her. Teeth gritted together so forcefully that her jaw popped in irritation. “Whatever is strongest. I want the whole bottle.” Slender fingers slammed down two dull brass pieces onto the worn counter.

Flickering firelight from the stone hearth illuminated her swollen eyes and disheveled appearance from across the room, enhanced by the candles placed about the tavern. The bartender scooped up her coin swiftly and tucked it into his apron pocket. He set a bottle of clear liquid on the counter with a glass. Lost in her infinite despair, Madison failed to notice the same slender, devilishly attractive man sitting in a solitary booth. His bright emerald eyes watched her carefully, taking note of the way she ignored the glass on the counter and brought the bottle straight to her cherry lips. It was an expensive vintage, but she drastically overpaid. He could remedy that naivety.

If she had been in the appreciating mood, Madison might have taken note of the slight woody aroma of the tequila as she took a large sip. The tertiary tequila was expensive and brought in from the most southern reaches of Northam.  Instead, it burned the entire way down, distracting her temporarily from the ache in her heart. A spurting cough left her but did not deter her from another sip. Warmth slid through her and the more she drank, the more she felt. It had the opposite effect of everything she had ever heard. It did not dull her pain, but enhanced her feeling of abandonment. As she sat there, brooding with the dogs shifting uncomfortably beneath her, all she could think about was Remy. But that wasn’t his name. He had never been Remy Sterling. He was Gregoray Remington Walther, the second of his name and heir to the Central Commander General of Northam. The sight of his inky black tattoo on his left shoulder had stunned her into place. It was in the design of the militia but the highest rank she had ever seen. All the nights…all the nights she had touched him and been touched by him, that loathsome insignia had been hidden from her.

And he had hidden it. Memories flooded her. The first night in the cabin, that first reading lessons, he had lowered the light when she removed his shirt. Madison had thought it was for her benefit, but it had been to protect himself and maintain the ruse. Again, the second time, he had positioned himself to keep it hidden from her eyes. Every single memory that had once brought her such pleasure were now tainted by her enemy, by the Commander. The look on his face before he unveiled himself to the surviving guards played in her mind’s eyes.  She had learned everything about him and never had she seen that emotion play across his face, but rage clouded her memory and she slammed down the bottle.  It shattered across the counter, causing a glare from the bartender and other patrons to turn towards her.

The male shadow that Madison had acquired raised his eyebrows and shifted towards the end of his bench. Another man approached the distraught woman who was readily growing more intoxicated. He took a seat at her side and Magnolia uttered a low growl as she smelled the offensive man.

“Had a nice bottle there. Got quite a temper lil’ lady.”

“What is it with everyone calling me little? I’m just as tall as you are.” She slurred back, looking him over from his balding head to his boots. Madison recognized that his clothes were nicer than some of other patrons but failed to notice how close her was to her.

“No offense. No offense. Perhaps you and me could go somewhere quieter.” He reached out to grab her wrist and Madison just watched his fingers wrap around her skin. “I don’t think that is wise.” She mumbled back, tugging at her arm. Damien started with a low growl in the depth of his throat.
”Now now, we could have quite the good time.”

“I don’t think you’d agree.”

“And why is that?” He belittled her, keeping a firm grip on her right arm and did not notice her left that moved her small, still bloodied blade to his crotch.

“Because I’ve already killed one man tonight and I believe I have the taste for more.”

Immediately the man jerked back when he felt the sharp tip of the blade against his paints, releasing her arm as though scalded. A mutter left his lips, sounding an awful lot like ‘crazy bitch.’ The green-eyed watcher smiled, deciding then that this is exactly the type of woman that he needed to acquaint himself with. 

“Excuse me,” He began, taking up residence on her other side and slipped the dogs a little jerky- which they eagerly gobbled up. “Might I suggest a cheaper vintage if you plan on being so destructive?”

Angry eyes flickered to her new company and narrowed discerningly, but obviously slightly unfocused. “What’s it to you?” She snapped back before he  made a dismissive gesture in reply.

“Merely a friendly bit of advice.”

“I don’t have any friends.” Madison replied, looking the man over a bit more carefully. His clothing was impeccable, even if he intended them to blend in more with a lesser class. The fine stitching of them reminded her distinctly of the trousers Remy had fashion by the tailors in the... no.

“Fair enough. Would you like some?” His words were not sexual and held no expectation behind them.

“People only let you down.”

“I have found that is often the case as well, but perhaps you have been associating with the wrong individuals.” The words hit Madison like a ton and she snapped her gaze to his eyes. He raised one sculpted eyebrow at her, smiling lightly. 

“What would you know about my acquaintances?” The tequila swirled inside of her, blurring the edges of her vision and she struggled to keep from slurring, to stay sharp.

“One of them had quite the tattoo.” The man responded, turning away to sip the fizzy beverage the bartender laid before him. Anxiety pulled through the grief-stricken woman in strong pulses, heating the back of her neck.  She hadn’t heard correctly. Grip tightened on her blade as her fingers began to go numb.

“What did you say?”

“Your friend with that tattoo today. Didn’t seem like the right company to keep but I will say you seem just as surprised by it as I was.” His voice was silken and soft. Madison tensed as the room began to spin. 

“You don’t know that you’re talking about.” Madison made to stand up and Damien, licking around his mouth, presses his weight against her side and she totters.

“The Commander’s son...powerful friend.” He remarked, finishing his drink and holding out a arm in the space around her, as if to catch her should she start to fall.

“He is not my friend.” The words flew out of her mouth like venom. “He is ...” She hesitated. Lover. Companion. Soulmate. Traitor. “He is a liar.”

“Sounds like you’re not the biggest supporter of our beloved leader and his kin.”

“I’d kill them both if I could.” Alcohol loosened her lips around the words, even if they were not entirely true in the depths of her soul. Everything came from the well of pain filling inside of her. The declaration startled the man and he cast a quick glance around, clearly relieved no one was around.

“Then perhaps we could be friends. My name is Lawrence Terril and you are...” He gestured with a few fingers at her, anticipation hanging in the air between them.  The woman chewed the inside of her lip.

“Madison Gallow.”

“Madison. Beautiful name. Strong.” He commented, almost offhandedly. Lawrence straightened and looked her over. She was disheveled and in need of a bath. “I think we can be friends. Are you in need of a place to stay?” Madison stepped back (stumbled) and the well-dressed spy held up his hands. “You’re not exactly my type in that regard, Miss Gallow, but I understand your reservations. I live with my sister, if that is of comfort for you. ” The sound of her name made her think of Mrs. Sterling, of pretending to be Remy’s wife, and she felt her stomach constrict. “I think you would...prove beneficial to my little friend group.”

“And what group is that?” What was his name again? Everything started to grow fuzzy and she needed to lie down. Shaking her head she moved to leave and stumbled. Lawrence’s waiting arm caught her.

“A group best not discussed here. And you need rest it seems.” The man’s voice lowered to just above a whisper.

“Do not tell me what I need.” Madison bit back, rebellious and drunk. “And how do I know you’re not in his pocket. In Remy’s little lying pocket.” Paranoia seeped into her. If he could hide something so meaningful from her...if he could be the one person she trusted more than anyone else....

The tequila twisted in her stomach and she turned her head to the bar and promptly vomited. The bartender began to shout and everything felt suddenly more than she could handle.  Damien whined and Magnolia tucked her tail between her legs. Faintly, she was aware of Lawrence tossing money onto the (not vomit- covered portion) of the bar and guiding her out before she could be arrested – or worse.  The subsequent minutes...hours...blurred as she slurred and walked and then rode? The only thing she was certain of was her pack and the dogs. Damien kept his head pressed against her thigh.

I choose crying over you. I choose silence over being lied to.
I choose drinkin' alone, drownin' in my tears in my bedroom.
'Cause it'll make me happier than you do. I choose crying over you.

A pillow found its place beneath her head, plush and soft, as the room spun and spun and spun. Vaguely, the huntress was aware of the dogs and hands tucking her into the plush sheets. Sheets like the inn. Sheets that had covered her as she had explored the scars and contours of Dr. Sterling’s body. The sensation overwhelmed her and she whimpered. All Madison wanted to do was cry, but even intoxicated and more alone that she he had ever been, she would not allow it.

The room was dark when she awoke and she immediately wished she hadn’t. It would have been better if death had claimed her. Blood pounded in her ears and her head was preparing to split directly in two. Stomach roiled and she turned over in the bed to vomit into a bin strategically placed beside the bed. The large mattress shifted as weight was applied and she peeked through a partially closed eye to see Damien’s tail wagging eagerly from where he had jumped up on the bed beside her. He sniffed towards her mouth and she pushed him away. Magnolia? Madison pushed up slightly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She attempted to whistle and quickly decided that was not the best course of action. Pushing herself up further, she spied the pitiful girl lying before a large dresser a few feet away in front of Madison’s pack. Sitting up was also a terrible mistake. Everything was a mistake, she realized as unwelcome comprehension swept over her. Remy.

Gregoray Remington Walther.

Madison turned and wretched again, the heaving unproductive and painful. Groaning, she heard a click, the large door across the warm and opulent room opening a fraction. The Commander. She was at the commander’s estate. She had been taken. Fear crept into her, unleashing a torrent of adrenaline. Azure eyes darted around for something, anything, to protect herself from whoever was preparing to enter this chamber. Looking down at herself, she was clad in only her camisole and undergarments. All of her clothes rested on a chair across the room. Her clothes and her knives. Bounding across the bed she drew the small knife she kept in her boot from its spot on the floor. She held it out before her in time to see an amused, (vaguely familiar) blonde man leaning against the dressing and handing pieces of bread to both traitorous dogs. Their tails wagged and Madison scowled.

“Good to see you survived your alcoholic adventure.” The sound of his voice was smooth, alluring. It would set anyone else at ease, but Madison did not like people – especially ones holding women in a very expensive room. She said nothing and he brought his pale green eyes to hers. Without looking, he gave Damien a scratch behind the ears. “Though, I am afraid the rest of us might not survive the smell.” He ran his eyes over her lithe frame and immediately heat rushed up Madison’s neck. Lawrence’s gaze held no trace of lust but merely traversed her in an appraising way.

“Who are you?”

“It seems your memory did not fair well against the tequila.” With an extravagant gesture, he motioned to his impeccably dressed form.  “I am Lawrence Terril.” Madison’s blank, unwavering expression resulted in a sigh from the new arrival. “You may call me Lawrence. Normally there would be an extensive screening process but I am confident in my assessment of you after yesterday’s activities. I am a high-ranking member of the Resistance, the force for good against the evils of the Commander.” Well he certainly held a flair for the dramatic and while Madison was no city girl, she was not foolish.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be coy, Madison.” He noticed the way she tensed at her name and he stepped back. “You told me your name last night.”

Madison felt every muscle in her body constrict, watching him with wary eyes. This was all an elaborate trap fabricate by the Commander and his heir. The word lit every nerve ending in her body, burning as it coursed through her with the weight of its reality. Nausea rolled in her stomach again, throat tightening against the impending regurgitation, and she faltered. Lawrence moved like a panther, swift and strong, holding out the waste basket she had used before. She made it two steps before vomiting again, a thin acidic bile expelling itself. She wiped her knife-wielding hand against her mouth.

“Delightful.” Lawrence drawled, quirking the corner of his mouth up despite the onslaught of unpleasant smells wafting around them. “Look, I can see that you are…reluctant about this whole affair. Perhaps after a proper shower, we can sit down in a more civilized fashion for an adult discussion.” Warily, Madison lowered her blade but did not relinquish it. “Come, I will show you to the bathing room.” Holding up both hands in a submissive stance (comically though, as he towered nearly half a foot above her), he opened the door on the opposite side of the room.

The huntress had been amazed by the excess of the Grafton’s inn but now she was dumbfounded at how this made it look like an outhouse. Marble covered everything and the faucets were bright brass, shimmering golden as he flicked a switch on the side of the wall. Light illuminated the space from bulbs on the ceiling. Electricity. Marveling, Madison set the knife on the glimmering counter. Towels hung from the wall – more towels than a single person would ever utilize. A shower resided in the corner with spouts extending from the ceiling and the sides. A toilet was beside it and at the far end was a sparsely arranged closet. Lawrence took in her surprised gaze, clearly amused by her awe. He proceeded to demonstrate the appropriate way to utilized the shower and the hot water the gushed from the nozzle scalded her fingers. Hot water. Immediately. Her wonder was quickly dampened by the encroaching idea that Remy had grown up like this. He had grown up with luxuries, with wealth, and he had hidden it from her. It was why he could read. It was why he was so eloquent. It was why….

“Bathe. Clothes that should fit are in the back,” he motioned to the closet, “and then descend the stairs at the end of the hall, we’ll talk. And if it is permitted, I will take the dogs out. Though the female has been particularly depressed since her arrival.” All Madison could do was nod. The dogs trusted him enough to take food from him, which meant some part of his façade was true.  The Resistance operative strolled back into the bedroom, coaxing Magnolia and tempting Damien out the door. It clicked shut behind him.

Mechanically, Madison undressed and discarded the black camisole and underwear. She started the shower, steam soon rising from the droplets and clouding the glass. Smelling each soap and shampoo as she let the steam mist over her body. The final one released hints of cedarwood and mint. Memory flooded her. A ghost of a finger ran between her breasts and the feel on her lips of a long, leisurely kiss. She could hear the irritated groan as though his mouth was inches from her ears. Remy. Remy. Anger flared and she threw the bottle against the glass. It bounced off, spewing the luminous pale yellow shampoo everywhere. The smell permeated the room now and she sank to her knees in the water, letting it wash over her. Brown brows knotted together and she lightly beat her fist against her chest. Still she refused to cry. Minutes passed before she forced herself upwards and finished bathing, certain to utilize the citrus-scented wash and shampoo in a futile attempt to erase his scent from her.

The clothes in the closet were fine – no, not fine. They were beyond extravagant. They ranged from dainty and delicate to sturdy, quality leathers in a variety of colors. There was a slip of a dress, deep crimson and soft. Absently, she reached out to it – more with a memory than any actual intention. Fingers jerked back as though stung the moment she made contact with it and she hurriedly selected a soft cotton top of pale blue and a stretchy pair of jeans that hugged her slight frame. Before departing the room, she checked her pack carefully – making certain that everything was still in the appropriate place. Tucking a thinly sheathed blade at the back of her pants, she took a shaky breath and headed down the stairs.  

The hallway was long and wide with a plush rug covering the highly polished wooden floors. The stairs wound in a semi-circle downward with polished walnut banisters. A servant dressed in all black dipped his head to Madison as they passed on the stairs. Bright blue eyes followed him up as he turned the opposite corner at the landing and headed down another hallway. This house had to be the largest in history. She had counted seven doors between hers and the stairs and there was still another wing of the house in the opposite direction. She wandered forward towards a ridiculously large entrance door once she reached the landing.

“Ah Madison, we are in here, darling.” A familiar voice beckoned her into a brightly lit sitting room. Lawrence lounged in the corner of a couch (one of many) but it was the second individual in the room that caused the huntress to tense – realizing she was outnumbered. “Do not fret. This is my sister, Elora.” Cautious gaze took in, then, the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes upon. Lawrence was striking, a beautiful carved piece of marble which made his sister the finest portrait ever painted. Thick, voluminous black curls fell in perfect waves along her shoulders. Her skin was a deep brown, rich and glowing, the same complexion as her sibling. Their eyes were the same, emeralds set against bright white – startlingly inquisitive. The sight of such a creature stole Madison’s breath. “She does have that affect,” Lawrence grinned, tapping his fingers upon his knee. It drew her attention. “Please sit.” He gestured to an open chair with its back to the door. The huntress shook her head, instead stalking to one across the room, back nearly against the wall.

“She cleans up nicely, Lawrence. And she is quite beautiful on her own. I can see how she managed to catch the son’s attention. Fascinating.” The sister spoke and her melodious voice was more silken, more lovely than Madison could imagine.

The son. Remy. NO. Gregoray Remington Walther II.

Rage bubbled inside her and Lawrence, ever astute, shook a dismissive hand in Madison’s direction. The chair was plush beneath her but she sat as though on needles.

“Forgive Elora, she…lacks tact at times.” The master of the house said, ignoring his sister’s tinkling laugh. “Now, you must be hungry.” Mid-syllable someone appeared with a tray of food, meats and cheeses and breads laid on a tray. The maid set in on the small coffee table between the trio, trying to sneak a peek at the new arrival but scurrying away. With a soft cough from Elora, the maid pulled the doors shut behind her moments after the dogs rushed in, wrapping and winding around Madison’s feet.

“It seems money cannot supply everything.” Madison responded, commenting directly on Elora’s gauche comments as though she was not in the room. The dogs continued to move excitedly. She settled them with a quick snap of her fingers. Elora straightened in her seat and Madison could appreciate then what the enigmatic woman was wearing. Tight-fitting black pants and a flowing white top. The woman laughed, delightedly setting down her glass.

“Impressive.” The word was a caress between them, drawing Madison’s attention from the food to the siren on the opposing couch. “You grow more interesting as the moments pass, little sprite.” Emerald gaze bore into crystalline blue ones that narrowed at the new pet name. Madison felt them pierce into her soul and she held the breath in her chest, almost afraid to breathe. A lioness staring down a panther. There was something in Elora’s eyes that felt familiar, drawing her in as though she was tied by a string.

“As delightful as this in,” the man interjected and Madison was the first to look away, “we have business to discuss.”

“Business?”

“Yes, my sister and I have a…proposition for you.”

“Proposition?” Madison felt like a parrot but was utterly at a loss for why she was here. The food’s aroma wafted towards her and she wanted to reach out and take it. Her dignity would not permit it.

“Indeed.” Lawrence reclined again, but Elora remained watching Madison intently. “You are in the unique position to help our organization.”

“Which is?”

“The Resistance will be very interested in the return of the heir.” The words hit her like a weight, slamming her down and drawing her across burning coals. The heir. “And even more interested in his traveling companion that seemingly did not know with whom she traveled.”

“How do you know that?” Every muscle stiffened and the dogs’ ears perked at the change in their owner’s demeanor.

“I saw you both during the incident with the Commander’s men. He permits me to hunt on his lands and it was quite fortunate I saw a bit of what transpired.” The words sent Madison soaring backward into the terrible moment of truth. Images of Remy’s mouth speaking to her, the feel of Damien’s fur in her fingers…the crushing sadness. Madison did not respond and so the man continued. “So you see, I am quite well informed. The extent of your relationship…”

“Is obvious.” His sister cut in, eyes still intent on the doctor’s ex-lover. Cutting her gaze, Madison swallowed her snarl. “You exude it through your pores, little sprite.”

“The intimacy of your relationship, “Lawrence continued, “will aid us. Perhaps permit us to get closer to the Commander than before.”

“I want nothing to do with them.” It was a lie that felt false to even her ears, but she didn’t want to ever see Remy again, unless her knife was sticking out of his chest. Gray-blue eyes flashed before her and she forced it down, tucking the memories away.

“I doubt that very much.” The silken female voice purred. The sound grated on Madison’s nerves and she itched to bring her knife into her hand.

“I don’t care what you doubt. I want to be done with this. I want nothing to do with Remy. He is dead to me.” She wanted to go back to the cabin. Forcing the unbidden thoughts aside, Madison felt heat against her neck, flushing across her chest. Elora smiled at the name she used for the Commander’s son, clearly storing that information away for further use.

“We need him to not be dead to you. We need you.” Lawrence said, leaning forward now. “Prove yourself loyal to the resistance and we can give you what you want.”

“I don’t want anything but to leave. Now.” Silence enveloped them before Elora spoke, voice a promise.

“Not even the Commander’s death?” Elora inquired, as if she already knew the answer. Madison immediately narrowed her eyes. These people might live in an extravagant home, full of luxuries beyond her comprehension, but they were predators all the same. She was their prey and they were toying with her, dangling what she wanted most just in front of her.

“And if I do. When?”

“So impatient.” Elora’s soft pink lips curled into a smile, showing brilliantly white teeth. “After a time. We have just met after all, and we have to formulate a plan befitting our current intelligence and your…potential. But there is time enough for that. Eat, unless your activities last night have unsettled your stomach.” She rose from the couch and Madison was powerless to resist examining her form. It was lean and muscular, soft curves barely evident from good food, but where it was – it was all in the right places. Watching her departure, Madison knew that Lawrence’s sister remained the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on.

Lawrence gave her a very informative tour of their home, showing her the entrances and exits and informing her repeatedly that she was no prisoner in their home. The house was exquisite, with more rooms that she had thought were possible in a single home. Madison spotted servants sporadically cleaning and setting about their daily tasks. They greeted the master of the house politely and he to them. Finally, the ended their tour in a large room with three walls made entirely of glass. Tall trees surrounded the back yard, hiding the sunroom form prying eyes. The floor was covered in a mat of some sort, covered in leather. She tested it with her foot and found it firm but supportive.

“This is our training room.”

“Training?”

“Physical training.” He indicated a number of foreign objects and explained them in detail for how to keep the body physically fit.

“This is how you stay healthy.” Laughter slipped out of her lips, but did not meet her eyes.

“And how you will from now on.”

“What?” Startled eyes whipped towards him and she saw the merriment that resided there. He cleared delighted in surprising her.

“Tomorrow and every day after. We will train until we turn the skin and bones into strong muscle. You have clearly never eaten well enough to support yourself. We can change that easily.” He made a small turn around the mat, examining the bright light of spring outside the windows. “It is going to be…extensive, but my sister speaks truthfully, for all of her…provoking.” He smiled fondly. “We’ll deliver you the Commander, for whatever reason you desire his death, once you help us overthrow the current Northam regime. A fair exchange.”

Emotions swirled inside of her. The Commander’s death had been her endgame for years, coming close to a decade. The idea of turning away from her mission made her stomach roil but so too did the idea of standing before Remy again. The very thought of seeing his face and knowing him for who he really was, seeing him as Gregoray Remington Walther II…

You know, you know just how to get me. How to take my love and use it against me.
I keep wastin' all my time tryin' to make the wrong things right.
I hope you like your bed when it's empty.

The days followed as Lawrence promised. He woke her early (if the tossing and turning was to be considered sleep) and trained her. They covered hand-to-hand combat, something called muay thai, and yoga. More days than not she found a new bruise against her waist or along her thigh. Afterwards she showered, bathing with perfumed soaps and then lathering her dry skin with lotions of cocoa butter and lavender. There were a number of ornate handled brushed and combs in the bathing suite connected to her room. Madison utilized those, unable to touch the one that Remy had used to detangle her locks after all their travels. After, they would stuff her with vegetables and meat and endless glasses of fresh water. An old man with thick spectacles then began to teach her all sorts of nonsense activities – calligraphy, etiquette, sewing, knitting, arithmetic and history dating back further than she could imagine. Her attention waned in these hours but she devoted herself to them completely, if only in an attempt to not permit the memories of Remy to permeate her mind.

Four months passed and the days remained the same, though they switched her training to knives and guns. Madison’s body filled out, lean muscles thickening beneath supple skin. A curve rounded her hips from a toned stomach. Her mind also filled with knowledge, absorbing the books in their library like water into a sponge.  She had consumed nearly a quarter of their reading material after her lessons ended each day. At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom. Emotions fought a ceaseless battle inside of her, but still she did not cry. She would not shed a tear for him.  She dreamt of the doctor every night – sometimes memories replaying in perfect recollection and others nightmares of the emotionally torturous variety.  Lawrence sought out her company but was frequently called away on business. Elora did not poke or prod at her, only speaking to her in passing. For that, the huntress was thankful.

Until one morning the woman strode into her room without so much as a single knock on the door. Madison lifted herself, bleary-eyed yet wary.  A halo of long brunette hair hovered around her shoulders and she felt terribly inadequate as she sat in her bedsheets before the walking goddess. Elora was clothed in tight fitting leggings of deep teal, coming up above her navel and a loose-fitting shirt that was cut just above the top of her pants. The huntress felt woefully insignificant as she propped herself up before her hostess.

“It seems my brother permits you to lounge about in bed all day.” Elora spoke as she examined the books that Madison had brought up to her room to read during the night. “Fortunately for you, he is away on business and asked that I maintain your schedule.”

“I can run lessons on my own.” The huntress replied in an irritated tone, pushing herself full upward and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She had taken to sleeping in a loose shirt and underpants – as anything else made her sweat during the night due to the thickness of the blankets and heated nature of the home.

“I am confident that you can, but Lawrence said you had quite mastered combat with him. So now you move to the next level, so to speak.” Brilliant eyes caught hers and she smiled. “Me.” And Elora proceeded to handily beat Madison down, day after day after day. The heiress woke her earlier and earlier every morning, putting her through torturous defeats and leaving her with more bruises than she had imagined her body could make overnight. But she strengthened and grew and found a companionable friendship with her tormenter.

Soon, after two months of beatings, she blocked a heavy-handed blow directed from Elora’s left forearm. They sparred, sweating running down their chests and from their brows. Madison wrapped her fingers around Elora’s wrist and twisted, spinning. Bringing up her knee, she connected it with the other woman’s back and sent her reeling towards the ground. Wrist was released and the huntress pinned down her prey.

“Yield.” Elora said, panting, but with a smile.

Madison withdrew, brushing back sweaty strands of brown hair from her brow.  “Finally.” She said, laughing as she never thought she would have a few months ago. She helped her partner up and they moved over to the glasses of water on the small table in the training room.

“It didn’t take you long. Lawrence still has yet to best me and we’ve trained together for…our entire lives.”

“I had never fought like this…before here. It is different.” Madison stretched, drawing her arms above her head and winced as she brought her fingers back down to brush a sore spot at her hipbone where Elora’s elbow had collided. “But it is my favorite part of the day. Much more than dancing lessons or mathematics. Impractical really.” This drew a smile from Elora. They parted and bathed and as the huntress stepped, naked from her shower, she was startled by the arrival of her companion.

“You’ve filled out nicely since you first arrived.” She commented, casually, as she leaned in the doorway of the washroom. Startled, Madison itched to immediately grab her towel and cover herself. But the lioness did not yield to the panther. Instead, she languidly reached out and began to dry her skin and hair.

“I had the sense you were attempting to fatten me up over the past weeks to slow me down so you might best me again.” Madison retorted, dressing herself. She continued to dry the strands of her hair with new sections of the plush towel.

“Mmm, caught on to my plan.” Elora drawled, examining her painted nails. “My brother is returning tonight and has invited some guests to dinner. It will be a…gentle introduction for you into society. He will parade you as his mistress.” She noticed Madison stiffen. “It is the easiest way to explain your presence in our household and grant you access to our circles. You’re pretty enough to have caught his eye – if his eyes truly strayed that way but one must keep up appearances.” Elora shrugged as she entered the room further and began to brush Madison’s hair for her.  “So anyway. I bought you a dress for this evening and I’m certain I got your measurements correct. I think it will bring out your eyes. We’ll introduce you and try to maintain some…simplicity. You’re a whore, after all, not a Resistance fighter.”

“I’ll attempt to mimic you then.” Madison responded, teasing and Elora tugged her hair in response. “Ow.” She swatted her companion and they set about preparing for the evening. Elora left her after using a hot iron to curly her hair into soft waves that cascaded down her back. She secured one side back with a silver, floral hairpin. The heiress has used a dark pencil to line the upper lid of her eye and extended the tail outward, lengthening the shape of her eyes. The foxlike appearance was further accentuated by mascara for her lashes and a rose cream across her cheeks.  The dress hung in her closet that was now filled with clothes that belonged to her. She withdrew it and uttered an expletive as she held it aloft before her from its hanger.

It was made of silk and thinner than anything she had ever owned…except for the camisole that Remy had selected for her. Sadness washed over her suddenly, resulting in a sharp inhale through parted lips. He had selected it for her at the small Grafton Tavern. He had written now with soft, teasing fingertips along her spine. He had whispered into her ear of how much he loved her.  The swell of that affection settled in her chest, of how loved she had felt each time they made love. The sound of her name from his lips, husky and warm and full of desire. Heat flared across her abdomen and she set her free hand against the bedpost to steady herself. “Why can’t I fucking quit you? After all this fucking time.” She hissed into the silence, into the memories.  Closing her eyes against it, Madison tamped down the recollections, the desire, the hurt and allowed anger to take its place.

Dressed in what could be compared to gossamer, Madison descended the stairs to see Lawrence standing near the doorway in quiet conversation with his sister. A suit fashioned of evergreens at dusk clothed him contrasting with a shirt of pale blue. If he was a vision, then his sibling was masterpiece. Her dress was thick velvet but minimal amounts of it. A large slit rose up to nearly her hip and the straps hung loosely around her biceps.

“And I thought my sister was beautifully clothed tonight.” Lawrence smiled at her as she reached the foot of the stairs. “Your debut into our little social circle will not be forgotten in a dress like that.”

“Thank Elora. I had nothing to do with it.” Madison responded, smiling at her friend. She made to speak further but a servant rushed to Lawrence and murmured in his ear. The Terril’s eyes widened and he spoke hurriedly with his sister. “What? What is it?”

“We have an uninvited guest that we cannot refuse.” Lawrence straightened his already impeccable jacket as Elora slipped away to handle some quick affairs. “And that you cannot kill…yet.” Before Madison could respond, the butler opened the door and permitted a four men entry. The first to arrive was a tall man with dirty blonde hair carefully coiffed back and winkles around the corners of his eyes. He was dressed in militia blues, the deep navy of the Commander’s army. There was a familiarity about his face that Madison, from her position a few feet behind Lawrence, could not place.

“High Commander.” Lawrence said, placing his fist across his heart and bowing slightly. High Commander. High Commander. High Commander. Madison’s heart began to pound and she felt the center of her palms begin to sweat. The man responsible for the death of her parents. Her endgame was directly in front of her, wearing a charismatic yet menacing smile. Beneath the dress was nothing but her skin and she itched for the feel of a blade in her hand. Every muscle was utilized in an attempt to not snarl at the sight of him. The unexpected, sudden arrival of her enemy set her mind racing, frenzied as Lawrence said something she did not quite hear.

“It seems I might have competition for my woman’s affections.” Lawrence said, grabbing Madison’s hand and bringing it to his warm lips. “She is starstruck, though rightfully so.” Jarring her from hatred-fueled stare, the huntress gave the Terril a dazzling smile, utilizing all the skills that she had been schooled in over the previous months. She strengthened her resolve. There was a time for his death. There was a time for his end. That time was not yet now.

“I have that effect. She is delightful to look upon, if a bit simple.” The Commander’s voice was softer than she had ever imagined. “Magistrate Niles mentioned your gathering and I have business with him so I thought it prudent to visit with you all this evening.”

“You honor us.” Lawrence said silkily.

“And it was time to introduce you to someone, as well.” The High Commander of Northam stepped aside. Madison allowed her crystalline gaze to fall on the three men behind him. They all wore varying shades of the Commander’s navy. She examined them from the waist up, scanning over their accolades and pins and stripes. When her gaze settled on one man’s face, darkness flickered at the corners of her vision. Never before had she come so close to fainting. Heat flared across her cheeks and down her neck. Rage swelled as she met stormy gray eyes.

Remy.

It was ironic that with his confession he was suddenly the second most powerful man in Northam—yet he was powerless to break free from the tide pulling him into the very life he’d fled, powerless to bring Madison back, powerless to return to the way life was only a single sunrise ago. And his last glimpse of his beloved would be seared into his memory forever—the heart-wrenching look of pure betrayal etched on her bruised but beautiful features, the shadow of hurt and anger and something else unreadable in her ocean-blue eyes.

Squadron leader Briggs tentatively cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said. “You understand that we must escort you to Thebes right away.”

Remy reached up with his newly-freed hand, pointedly wiping away the rivulet of red at his throat from the soldier’s blade, then dabbed at the blood from his cut lip. “Of course,” he said hoarsely, making a point to study the scarlet on his fingers. Briggs’ eyes widened with the realization that he had maimed the Commander’s only son and heir, and Remy hated the fact that he played on that fear. But this was for survival—not his, but Madison’s. Her safety, at least until she could get far enough away, depended on following through with his act. “Thebes is where I was headed before I was…interrupted,” he finished, hinting at annoyance.

The squadron leader’s complexion blanched.

“I would appreciate it if your men kept their hands to themselves,” Remy continued, running his stained fingers through his mussed hair with a flash of crimson. He balled his trembling fists at his side, nails biting into his palms.

“Of course.”

“Commander Briggs, sir…” another member of the squadron called. Remy looked over, noticing for the first time the two men in plain civilian clothes and a third well-dressed blond man on horseback. Briggs shot the Walther heir an indecipherable look before striding leisurely over to their guests, tucking his previously perturbed expression behind a mask of disinterest. They exchanged hushed words that Remy couldn’t make out over the percussion of his heartbeat in his ears, but apparently the blond—clearly a man of status—was satisfied, because they slipped back into the shadowy woods with no sense of alarm.

“Right, then, sir. Men,” Briggs announced. “Fall in.”

As they began to march, breaking from the forest onto a gravel road, Remy peered over his shoulder and into the thicket…hoping for one more sight of the huntress before Thebes swallowed him whole, forever.

He knew she would not be there, but it didn’t matter.

He would always look back.

————

Sprawled along a fractured shoreline, Northam’s capital city was a study in juxtaposition. Old and new buildings jutted side-by-side from tall curbs; paved avenues led to cobbled roads led to dirt paths and gravel alleys. Ancient trees were blanketed in young spring moss, colorless gnarled boughs draped in emerald. Even the land and the water were at odds, with rivers and tributaries feeding into the sea like venules and veins—freshwater and saline—further dividing the metropolis into segments with clearly defined geographic borders.

The presence of the militia permeated every borough, from the grunge of a common tavern near the boundary walls to the immaculate gardens surrounding the homes of the elite. Despite their ubiquitous presence, however, the contrast between soldier and civilian was stark. Thebes was no harmonious stronghold of defenders and believers; there was no mistaking the fact that those in power ruled with fear. Remy could practically taste it in the air, as plain as the salt on the coastal breeze.

The atmosphere in the streets was somber. He recognized the roadway they traversed as one of the main arteries of the city, a broad thoroughfare dubbed Victory Road that began at the main gates and terminated at the harbor. Briggs’ squadron marched in swift formation down the cracked pavement, but no one paid the group any more heed than was necessary to yield to their passage. Military units of varying sizes traveled up and down its length at all hours of the day and night, a near-constant flow of troops whose movements also functioned as a highly visible display of might. From buttoned-up pairs of infantrymen to entire legions wearily disembarking from battleships, the only difference between Briggs’ men and any other blue-clad band was the presence of the plainclothes doctor…and no one was foolish enough to bat an eye.

Bile burned in the back of Remy’s throat. The deeper into the city they trekked, the more difficult it was to maintain his composure. It took every ounce of willpower to battle the panic threatening to claw its way from his chest, to keep his shoulders back and his eyes forward, when every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn and run…even if it meant a bullet in his back.

But they wouldn’t kill him. And where that realization might once have provided reassurance, now it filled him with despair.

The main military compound was an annexed district of the city bordered on three sides by the wide, winding Savanne River. To call the Savanne a moat was a woeful and dangerous understatement, but it certainly functioned like one, snaking around the castle-like stone walls with very little dry ground between. Remy could remember the map of Thebes that hung like a tapestry on the walls of his father’s study. He used to trace the wavy blue lines of the city’s waterways as far as his child’s fingertips could reach, outlining the edges of the stronghold as though he might be able to feel that imposing gray stone through the paper. Now, as the fortification came into view and towered above them, Remy could have reached out and touched the rough granite in person. Instead, he tightened his fists and thought of the river, whose gentle rushing whisper he could hear even over the din of the metropolis.

The Walther heir held his breath as they passed through the preliminary gates and approached the secondary checkpoint. Briggs cast one suspicious glance to Remy and stepped forward to address the guards. What began as a hushed conversation grew steadily more heated, and soon Briggs was yelling, his fury palpable even at a distance. “Summon the High Commander immediately,” he bellowed in the guard’s face, who threw up his hands in defeat. Another soldier, hardly older than a boy and drowning in ill-fitting military blues, suddenly scrambled past the gates and into the compound. After what felt like an eternity, the boy returned and whispered breathlessly to the large guard.

“All right. It’s your fuckin’ head, Briggs,” the guard warned, opening the gate.

“It always fucking is,” Briggs muttered under his breath. He turned, red-faced but uncertain, to Remy. “We have been granted an audience at Headquarters…”

Remy waited for the squadron leader to finish his statement, but the man remained silent, his gaze boring into the doctor’s as if in challenge. The other soldiers in the squadron shifted uncomfortably until at last they were instructed to move, and together they trudged—each step more reluctant than the next—to the large central building at the heart of the compound.

————

In a large, cavernous meeting chamber, Remy stood alone.

Tall churchlike windows lined the side walls of the narrow room, which might have been an academic library in a previous era. Despite the filtered light that spilled through the ancient warped panes, the space was dim and cold with the approach of night. Remy folded his arms across his chest and stepped closer to the fireplace. A comically small fire had clearly been kindled in a hurry, its modest flames dwarfed by an ostentatious marble hearth. He stared into the flames and tried to ignore his pounding heart.

Remy didn’t know how long he waited before the soft click of an opening door sliced through his tempestuous thoughts. He didn’t move until the steady footfalls ceased, and the trim uniformed silhouette stepped into the golden light of the fire.

Remy drew himself to his full height…and looked up.

The High Commander of Northam stood before him, hands clasped behind his back. And as their eyes locked for the first time in seventeen years, Remy heard his father’s breath hitch in recognition.

“So it’s true.”

A shiver sprinted down Remy’s spine at the sound of that soft baritone—a voice that had not changed in nearly two decades.

The commander took a calculated step forward. The bastard was close enough to touch now—close enough to kill—but Remy was frozen in place, cold sweat beading on his brow.

Narrowing his hazel eyes, the commander studied his son in the flickering light as the rest of the room grew progressively darker. Seeing the two men together, even in the fading evening glow, there could be no doubt as to the younger’s lineage. Branded shoulder or no, the son had the same cutting jaw as the father, the same slender nose; they shared a sharpness about their features that the commander wore with severity and the physician wore with determination. Remy might have been grown now, but that only made their resemblance more pronounced.

He watched him, gaze stormy with ire. The years had done little to diminish the commander’s striking austerity. Even in the inconsistent light, he could see the silver streaking from his temples, the lines that had etched themselves at the corners of his eyes and between his brows. He wore his age as something to be leveraged, fully aware that it loaned him an air of experience and authority. Restrained as ever, guarded and wise, his face was an arresting portrait that he wore like a mask…donning and doffing personas as they suited him. Not one hair deviated without it being intentional. Polished, precise. Curated. Designed.

By comparison, Remy looked like a brigand—skinny, exhausted, and far worse for wear. His honey-brown hair fell in tangled waves around his face, long enough to brush his collar bones. His auburn beard was short but unkempt, stained with dried blood from his split, swollen lip. To top things off, a deep purple bruise blossomed beneath his left eye, and a fresh trickle of blood seeped from the nick in the Adam’s apple of his neck.

“What’s happened to you?” the commander asked quietly, his tone unreadable.

Remy had grown taller than his father, but still the commander seemed to tower above him. It was not clear whether the man was referring to his son’s obvious injuries, inquiring after the seventeen-year absence, or questioning his life choices in general—but whatever the allusion, it was a safe bet to assume it was accompanied by disappointment. Remy glowered through his lashes and said nothing, fearing his voice might quake with fear—or say something he’d regret.

The commander drew a sharp breath. “I do not appreciate surprises, Gregoray,” the man continued silkily. He brought a hand from behind his back and slowly brought it to Remy’s upper arm.

The doctor tensed, not quite a flinch, at the surprisingly gentle feel of the man’s grip through his ragged sweater. As if on cue—or, more likely, on a schedule—the electric lights in the room blazed to life, filling in the shadows with an artificial brightness on a scale Remy hadn’t seen since he’d left Thebes as a boy. The commander paused, noting the briefest flicker of surprise on his son’s face, then measuredly tightened his grasp and turned Remy until his back faced him.

Remy’s intuition screamed at him to run or to fight. To have the commander, a predator by every definition, at his back went against every animal instinct biology had hard-wired into him. And it wasn’t the first time he had stood with his back to his father—this time, at least, the man did not have a lash-whip in hand—but the memories and the terror came flooding back nevertheless, even after all this time.

His father peeled back Remy’s torn sweater to reveal the tattooed family crest. Lean muscles shuddered beneath the ink. “Ah, yes,” the commander drawled, although he hadn’t needed to see the mark to know that the bedraggled but undeniably familiar man before him was his own blood. “Briggs mentioned something about…an inconsistency.” In the electric light, the scarring was obvious—a diagonal swath of mottled pink near the bottom of the mark, obscuring the dip of the unfurling banner and blurring the base of the letters. “He called into question its authenticity. As if there could be a doubt.”

Remy exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Loathing who he was and knowing its discovery could lead to his capture and return, he had once attempted to burn away the flesh until the tattoo was no longer recognizable. He couldn’t have asked for help without revealing his secret, so he had gone it alone—and ultimately failed, both unable to gauge its exact position on his back, and unable to withstand the excruciating pain. Your thirteen-year-old son would rather press a red-hot iron to his own flesh than carry a reminder of you, he thought darkly, pulse thundering in his ears. The prospect of coming back here was always worse than death.

“Your own handiwork, I presume?” continued the commander, looking up to meet Remy’s gaze.

“Fuck you,” Remy growled.

For a moment, time slowed. Remy felt his blood turn to petrified ice in his veins, struck with a potent fear he hadn’t felt since his father forced him to look upon his mother’s mutilated corpse. But then the commander’s lips upturned into a crooked smile, and he strode leisurely toward the door. He hovered in the threshold, fingers draped over the brass handle. When he spoke, he did not turn around…but Remy could hear the smile in his voice.

“Welcome home, Gregoray.”

————

Rain pummeled the roof of the motorcar as it sped along the bumpy highway, pounding a rhythm punctuated only by the mechanical thump of the wipers on the windshield. Remy parted the black curtains that lined the windows and peered into an inky blackness, his own reflection staring back at him in the glass. He clenched his jaw and closed the fabric, gnawing at the inside of his lip until the fresh scab there began to bleed again.

Alone in the back seat, he could only just make out the silhouettes of the armed driver and bodyguard in the front through a barrier of heavily tinted plexiglas. Remy fought the urge to vomit as the car swayed. His exhaustion was catching up to him as the effects of his adrenaline waned, but he had no idea what awaited him yet this night. Judging by how swiftly he’d been ushered out of Headquarters, and how his singular motorcar sped off without fanfare, the commander had not yet released news of the prodigal heir’s return. Remy didn’t want to imagine how the story would be spun. He would find out soon enough.

He leaned his pounding head against the window and closed his eyes. But the face that haunted him behind his eyelids was not his father’s…it was Madison’s, broken and bleeding, but wounded far deeper than the cuts to her flesh. And the piercing blue eyes he’d planned to gaze into for the rest of his life stared back at him with unbridled hatred.

It was a hatred he had sown with his own two hands, a hatred he couldn’t deny he deserved. But he couldn’t help longing for her, wishing she would nestle against his side, cradle his hand in hers, and rest her head on his shoulder. Her presence would be enough to reassure him that everything would be all right—or at least that they would survive it together, as they had so many times before. But the huntress was gone. He fought back a wave of grief that twisted his stomach with such intensity that his body convulsed in a dry heave that went blessedly unnoticed by his chaperones in the front.

The car slowed to an uneven creep. With the rain quieter on the roof, the grumble of wet gravel beneath the tires indicated that they neared their destination. The doctor recognized the sound and knew immediately where they were—and that at the end of a long rocky driveway, flanked by two rows of age-old knotted oaks, was the commander’s residence. Remy’s childhood home.

The cadence of the rain halted abruptly as they pulled beneath the roomy porte-cochère. Remy was ushered inside and shown to the guest quarters, trailed by the bodyguard from the motorcar and two stony-faced male members of the house staff.

His pack that Briggs had confiscated was waiting for him when he stepped into the lavish room. Its appearance against the backdrop of the exquisite suite, ragged and stained and damp, was such a startling sight that he burst into laughter—or some semblance of it, a hollow, feral bark that sent the staff backing hurriedly toward the door. If they addressed him before they left, he didn’t hear it; he sunk onto the edge of the bed and stared at his pack, wiping at tears of amusement that soon felt more like regular ones.

In a daze, he unbuckled the flaps. Its contents had clearly been searched, but nothing seemed to be missing—not even the two knives he’d kept zipped on the inside, or the stethoscope he always made sure was easy to access in the front. He withdrew the battered medical instrument with a lump in his throat and flexed the malleable tubing around his palm. He would forever remember the expression Madison wore when he’d pulled it out to examine those corpses outside of Atlanta, when they’d first met—a look caught between bewilderment and anger, the deadly point of her arrow trained on his throat as he’d listened for heartbeats he’d known he wouldn’t find.

Perhaps a part of him had already fallen in love with her that day.

The doctor ran his fingertips mournfully along the cool steel of the chestpiece before tucking it back away, beneath the clothes he didn’t bother to unpack. As he withdrew his hand, his thumb snagged on a looped piece of twine. His heart skipped a beat when he realized what it led to—a carefully-wrapped package of lavender soap, the one with which he’d intended to surprise Madison before the incident with Wallace Grafton. In the aftermath of his grave injury, and the subsequent days of healing and bliss, he had forgotten about it completely. He drew it out, and with it came a faint wafting aroma of lavender and mint.

Madison. The heavenly smell of her freshly-washed hair, the perfume of her bare silken skin between crisp sheets…the onslaught of memory overwhelmed him. Remy held his breath and tucked the package away, fastening the canvas flap securely closed. Madison is gone, he thought. He even said it out loud as he tucked the pack into the closet and out of sight.

The glimmer of a crystal decanter caught his eye on the sideboard as he turned back toward the bed. It was filled with amber liquid and accompanied by two matching glasses. He sidled over and poured himself a generous serving, which he downed all at once. It was a very fine whiskey, perhaps the finest he had ever tasted, but he was more interested in the fiery burn as it slid down his throat. It settled in his empty belly like a heavy fire. He gritted his teeth and filled the glass again. And again.

It was the only way, he thought sluggishly as the alcohol quickly saturated his bloodstream. You promised her you’d protect her. There was nothing else you could do. Another swallow. It burned less now, which only made him crave more, chasing the ache. And the more he drank, the deeper he spiraled.

You’re a fucking idiot, he chastised himself, gripping the edge of the mattress with his free hand. You should have told her. You should have confessed the night she told you about her mission. You weren’t protecting her then, you were just a fucking liar.

Another swallow. But she might have left me.

He miserably downed the remainder. Yeah, well, she’s left you now.

The words reverberated in his head like a dagger through his inebriated fog. He hurtled the glass into the wall, and slowly the room swam around him until it faded to black.

————

Remy awoke to pain.

Earth-shattering headache aside, his bruised eye had swollen considerably while he slept, and he could feel every stinging pulse in his split lip. He had managed to crawl beneath the comforter some time during the night, and the weight of it on his body now felt impossible to surmount.

It was not much later than sunrise. The gentle, peachy light of dawn filtered through sheer white curtains and caught the shards of shattered crystal strewn about the floor, projecting a smattering of prisms about the room. Remy stared at them through one half-lidded eye and wondered whether he could get away with bleeding out before anyone discovered him.

He heaved himself out of bed, discovering that he had managed to remove his pants but not his socks before passing out. Standing and maintaining his balance took too much concentration, but he made it to the bathroom, where all the necessary supplies had been laid out for him the previous night. Fresh towels scented with sage, a basket of fine soaps, and shaving supplies fit for a king—Fit for an heir, he thought bitterly, avoiding his reflection in the broad mirror.

He had lived more of his life without the luxuries of wealth than he had with them at this point, but the motions returned to him as if he’d never been away. He switched on the shower and stepped beneath the scalding stream, his skin stinging with the heat. After scrubbing himself raw, he wiped away the fog on the mirror and reluctantly faced himself in the glass. “Fuck,” he muttered, reaching up to touch his painful black eye. He winced, feeling along the socket and the bridge of his nose for any irregularities. Satisfied that there were none, he proceeded to address his unruly beard.

The sun was hardly fully risen when he emerged from the bathroom, clean-shaven, a towel wrapped around his waist, his long wet hair slicked back into a bun at the nape of his neck.

His father was waiting for him in the doorway.

Remy’s heart leapt into his throat. “Get out,” he demanded immediately, fury knitting his brows.

The commander laughed, brushing invisible dust from the front of his gray jacket. “I will remind you that you are the second most powerful man in Northam,” he said, “and I am the only person in this land who is not obligated to follow your commands.”

Bile burned the back of Remy’s throat. “What do you want?”

“I came to wake you myself, but I see you are an early riser.” He quirked a careful brow as his gaze pointedly swept the floor, lingering over the shards of broken glass. “You are expected for breakfast in the dining room. I want to introduce you to the house staff, who have been busily preparing your quarters.” He paused, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was appraising his son’s physique. “We will need to get you into a training routine as soon as possible,” he remarked, gaze lingering over the various scars on his torso before meeting Remy’s stormy glare. “But first…breakfast. You’ll find the closet full of suitable attire for now, until we can outfit you properly. I will see you in the dining room in twenty minutes. I trust you remember where it is.”

As soon as the commander left, Remy had to steady himself on the bedpost. His chest heaving, his warm skin now coated in a cold sweat, it was all he could do to hold on to the contents of his empty stomach.

When the nausea passed, he returned to the closet. He selected a pair of sleek black trousers, slightly too big on his slender hips, and a starched white button-down that he topped with a charcoal gray sport coat. The outfit was stiff and uncomfortable, and when he looked at himself in the closet’s full-length mirror, he muttered a curse. If it weren’t for the bruised eye and cut lip, he might not have believed it was his own reflection that stared back at him. Even with clothes that only sort of fit, without his facial hair, he was the spitting image of his young father. Too thin, of course, and with kinder eyes, but his father nevertheless.

I am not my blood. I am not my father.

No one with sight could question his claim.

————

Breakfast passed mostly without incident. He ate what his stomach allowed, which wasn’t much despite the elaborate spread presented on the long wooden table. The house staff presented themselves in shifts, from the groundskeepers to the kitchen boys. A few of the younger crew looked excited to be introduced, if a bit nervous; the rest of them looked either frightened or angry. Remy could not blame them. Another master of the house was another opportunity for cruelty. He sipped at his peppermint tea and tried not to react, feeling the High Commander’s eyes on him with each new group ushered inside.

He excused himself as soon as he could. Despite its size, the dining room had become stifling. With his head pounding in his temples, and the sconces in the corridor blazing entirely too bright, he trudged back to his room. No one stopped him, and his father’s words from earlier that morning echoed fresh in his mind. I am the only person in this land who is not obligated to follow your commands.

Only his father held the authority to control him…and yet Remy couldn’t have felt more like a prisoner.

His room had been cleaned during the short time he was away. The sheets and duvet had been completely replaced. A new glass sat next to a refilled decanter on the sideboard; not a sparkle of broken crystal remained on the floor. Nervous suddenly for the only possessions that really felt like his own, he checked inside the closet for his pack. Gone.

“It has been brought to your quarters,” said the commander’s voice from behind.

This time, Remy did not flinch. “These quarters will do.” He turned to face the man.

“The guest chambers?” His father arched a brow disapprovingly. “The High Commander’s son is no guest. I think you will find your wing to be adequate.”

“Adequate.” Remy’s laugh was bitter. His wing. Not just a bedroom and a bathroom, which felt extravagant enough, but an entire portion of the grandiose house—after living in the frigid woods, where a good tarp was considered blessed shelter, where the only running water was icy mountain streams, where fires were only built if the need for warmth outweighed the risk of being discovered. The opulence of it all would have been nauseating, if he didn’t already feel like he’d been run down by a train.

The commander sensed Remy’s bafflement. “You’ve been in the wilderness for far too long, judging by your half-starved state and the contents of your little satchel.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him that his father had gone through his things, but nevertheless knowing it had been the commander to inspect his belongings made him feel even more violated. Remy bristled.

“I took the initiative of sending your hunting knife to the smith for sharpening,” the commander went on. “No doubt you’ve seen that your other blades were returned to you. As well as everything else…although I don’t imagine you’ll have a need for bartering any longer.” It almost sounded like a challenge—as if the man were fishing for Remy to comment on the presence of his weaponry. But Remy didn’t bite. If the commander, by the man’s own proclamation, was the only person with the power to restrict Remy’s possessions, then the presence of his knives made it clear he didn’t view his son as a threat.

And he was right. At least for now.

“We are not through discussing your leave of absence…” His father’s expression shifted infinitesimally—a change someone less familiar with the man might not have detected. But Remy recognized it as a tell for displeasure, and it sent a primal fear through him whose roots gripped his bones. “In a couple of days, when you’ve had a chance to settle. Over a whiskey, perhaps, since it appears you have a taste for it,” the commander continued, feigning his casual interest when in reality he longed for an interrogation. “General Belvedere is expecting you in the Beloit at high noon tomorrow. I suggest you relocate to your chambers to”—he waved a hand with predatory grace before his own face, indicating his son’s bruised visage—“…convalesce, prior.”

————

The Beloit Gymnasium, named after the fallen leader of the preceding regime, was the High Commander’s personal training facility. What had once been a sizable standalone structure was now an annex so well-incorporated with the rest of the Walther residence that the only indication it had ever been detached was a slight shift in the tint of the interior wainscotting.

The multi-story structure bore no resemblance to its former life as a carriage house. The basement level became a vast sunken training floor, completely open to observation from both a mezzanine deck and a second-floor concourse. Remy used to sneak onto the highest platform and peer down through the metal rail, transfixed and fascinated by the sparring soldiers so far below. They had seemed so strong, so infallible, then. Something to aspire to, even.

Now, he stood in the center of the cushioned training floor, his back to the wall of mirrors and his eyes locked on the door. General Belvedere was meeting him, his father had said. Remy dimly remembered the Belvedere family—a small clan, certainly not the highest of Northam’s elite, but possessing status nonetheless primarily due to its generations of military prowess. The brutish general alone had led successful battalions from a young age and played a hefty role in organizing smaller rural legions in his later years…he was certainly militia through and through, and it made sense why he would be responsible for Remy’s training.

Just before the clock struck noon, the doors swung open. His father strode in alongside a man who couldn’t have been older than Remy.

“Ah, Gregoray,” his father addressed, nodding to the stranger. Remy tried not to bristle at the name. “Allow me to introduce Brigadier General Quinnley Belvedere, my Chief Overseer of Training. General Belvedere, this is my son.”

The man met his eyes, stony-faced, and saluted with a fist over his heart. The old general’s son, no doubt. “An honor, Commander.”

Remy stiffened immediately at the title.

If his father noticed the reaction—it was more than likely that he had—he did not show it, and continued with nonchalance. “General Belvedere will be overseeing your training regimen, which is to begin immediately. Belvedere has proven himself more than competent, and I have every confidence that you will progress quickly. I’ll leave you to begin.”

“Thank you, High Commander.” With the leader gone, General Belvedere turned to face Remy with the full force of his attention. “Commander—” he began.

Remy held up a hand. “Please, call me Re—” The name died on his tongue, and he cleared his throat. “You know what? No. Anything but commander.”

“As you wish,” the young general said. “I am under orders by the High Commander to train you, which will be rigorous and demanding. As you can imagine, I’m sure, training of this caliber is very…hands-on. I will not slacken my standards in respect of your title. Do you understand?” Stern amber-brown eyes met Remy’s blue.

“I understand. You’re not going to go easy on me. Which means I’m probably in for a beating. Am I close?”

At that, the general cracked a small smile. “We are on the same page. Now…”

Mid-sentence, Belvedere swung his fist toward Remy’s jaw. Remy sprang back and swore, dodging the man’s fist by inches. But in doing so, he failed to anticipate a simultaneous kick to the knee, which sent him crashing to the floor on his back.

Belvedere stood above him, looking almost bored, then extended a hand. Remy grasped it and pulled, throwing the general unexpectedly off-balance while at the same time using the leverage to jump to his feet—or rather, that’s what he had intended to do, if the man had not expertly anticipated exactly that. Instead of resisting Remy’s forward tug, he followed through with it, rolling a somersault and leaping back to his feet before the doctor even scrambled to his knees.

“Back from the dead with your instincts all intact,” Belvedere commented. “Excellent. Except we shall have to unlearn them. It will make you a better fighter.”

Remy rose slowly to his feet, this time on his own. “I want to learn,” he said at last. “Teach me everything you know.”

————

Steeling himself against whatever awaited him in his father’s study, Remy took a deep breath and entered.

He didn’t bother knocking. The carved oak door latched behind him with a sturdy click, which was more than enough announcement for the commander. The man looked up and smiled.

Smiled.

“Welcome, Gregoray.” He sat leisurely in an armchair near a roaring fire, the electric lights a soft, dimmed radiance along the mahogany bookshelves that lined the walls to the vaulted ceiling. He swirled a glass of clear liquid in a simple squared glass and gestured to the matching chair at his side.

For a long time, Remy stood so still he could have been carved from marble. But it seemed his father was quite willing to wait out his defiance no matter how long it took, so he gave in, lowering himself slowly into the cushioned seat.

“I will pour you a drink,” the commander said, reaching to the small table between them to uncork an aqua blue decanter. He poured a matching glass half-full and extended it to Remy before topping off his own serving with the same. “Reserved for special occasions, this. Some of the finest gin from the top distillery in Thebes.”

Remy stared into the glass in his hands.

The commander took a sip and went on. “This particular batch is infused with a special blend of botanicals reserved solely for the Walther house. Juniper berries, cassia bark, angelica root…I forget the others. But they are all harvested from my private hunting grounds outside the city walls.” His gaze swiveled to Remy. “I believe you might be familiar with that land.”

Remy looked up sharply, but only anger lurked in his shadowed blue eyes. The commander, by contrast, looked almost amused.

“You told Squadron Leader Briggs yesterday that you were…on your way to Thebes.”

Whether it was a statement, or a question, Remy could not determine.

“Was it true?”

Remy brought the glass to his lips, relieved to find that his hands were steady. “Yes.” He took a small drink, the piney flavor of the gin bursting over his tongue. “I was on my way to Thebes.”

The commander studied his son, uncertain whether this was truth or fiction but not particularly caring. “Briggs mentioned you were traveling with someone.”

Remy did not outwardly react, but inside, his pulse accelerated. Madison. “It’s safer to travel in pairs.”

The commander chuckled. “And she came with other benefits as well, I imagine.”

Fury flashed unbidden in the physician’s eyes.

“Were you wed?”

I promise myself to you wholly. You have me. You have my protection. You have my body. I will stay with you always. I will fight for you, always. And I will come back to you, always. My love.

“No,” Remy growled.

“Excellent. That simplifies things.” The commander swirled his drink without taking his eyes off his son. “Noble of you, I suppose, that your first act of power was to pardon the little strumpet of her crimes. Briggs did say she was pretty…before his men got ahold of her, anyway. He agreed it would have been a shame to see the hangman’s noose around a neck so lovely.” The man almost looked wistful. “At any rate, I should think her physical injuries will be a suitable reminder not to reoffend.”

Remy bristled and downed the remainder of his gin, hoping the alcohol might dull his rage.

Loaded silence settled over them, the physician stewing with unease while the commander reveled in it. As with any great predator, he could be immovably patient when required. Still, he did not have all evening to wait out his stubborn progeny…especially when he knew he would get his answers eventually either way. “Are you going to explain what happened to you?” the militiaman finally asked, his tone shifting subtly with the pointed question. “Seventeen years is a long time. Difficult to explain.”

Remy placed his empty glass on the table and lifted his gaze. “I left.”

“Ah,” his father hummed in response, nodding…although whether his lack of surprise stemmed from the answer itself, or the fact that it was effectively a non-answer, was unclear. There was that smile again—the one that reflexively sent shivers down Remy’s spine. “You can’t outrun your blood, Gregoray,” he said silkily, rising to his feet and stepping toward the door. “I certainly hope it was worth it to try.” He paused at his son’s chair, looking down at a rougher but more youthful version of his own face. “My son has come home,” he chuckled, more to himself than to Remy. “My son has come home.”

————

Every morning, Remy rose at dawn. And every morning, until the luncheon call, Remy worked.

Months slipped by. Even when General Belvedere’s presence was required at Compound or elsewhere, the doctor stuck to his rigid schedule. Busy the body, distract the mind; he found his only solace in the Beloit, where the pain and the sweat and the repetition of physical training held a monopoly on his awareness. This, he could control. This, he could drown in.

His dedication began to show, and not just in his success with a blade or a firearm or any of the number of weapons he learned to wield. The metamorphosis was jarring; the once-too-thin form his father had scorned upon arrival was unrecognizable now. Defined muscles swelled beneath the familiar constellation of scars on his skin, chiseling new shapes from the blank canvas of his body. His shoulders broadened, his arms grew bigger; even his face looked different, sharper.

Although he was introduced to a full range of styles and arms, he quickly discovered where his true talents lied—fighting close, with hand-to-hand combat, and blades—styles where he could utilize his medical knowledge for his own gain or defense. He became remarkably adept at anticipating movement…impressing even General Belvedere at times, who was always drilling unpredictability as a cornerstone of a successful warrior. The twitch of the supraspinatus at the shoulder, the engagement of the deltoid—Remy’s understanding the mechanics of the human body gave him an edge against even the most unfamiliar opponent.

Of course, no one knew his background as a physician—not even his trainer.

“Again,” Remy declared breathlessly, wiping away the sweat on his brow.

Belvedere, unfazed, folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve had enough.”

“Come on, Quinn,” the physician goaded. “What, you afraid of another upset?”

The trainer chuckled at the jibe, both men knowing full well that the Walther heir was not yet skilled enough to take on Quinn’s full effort. “There is such a thing as overdoing it, Commander,” he replied. “Save yourself for tomorrow. I’ll be bringing by a set of promising recruits. If you’re still up for it after that, then I’ll indulge you.”

Of course, Remy knew all about the potential dangers of overdoing it…but it was worth the risk of injury if it meant he could lose himself in the rush for a little while longer. He returned to his quarters and cleaned up, dreading an afternoon of sitting in on meetings…at his father’s insistence, of course, although the commander rarely attended himself.

It was part of Remy’s onboarding process, he’d explained, to get him caught up on the political and strategic goings-on of Northam and far beyond.

And detested it though he did, Remy was nothing if not a quick study. He learned the history, he learned the positions, he learned the protocols and the policies and the various states of diplomatic relations. And the more he learned of Northam, the more he learned of his father; he knew more about the High Commander now than he ever had, from the world leaders he either approved of or despised, to the minutiae of his domestic routine. How he signed execution papers with his coffee at dawn. How he trained before his evening meal on even-numbered dates, and afterwards on the odd ones. How he kept the house staff terrified at all times with velvety threats, upon which he was only too happy to follow through, no matter the hour.

Ensnared though Remy was in this life of political intrigue and military strategy, he was an impostor in their midst—not by lineage, but by principle. Remy felt like an operative without a handler, a spy without a channel, an infiltrator with a blood pass.

And the only person who had not automatically assumed his familial loyalty was the High Commander himself.

With a heavy sigh, the physician looked himself over in the full-length mirror and felt, as he always did, a deep pang of…what? Anger. Dread. Misery. His father had seen to it that he be made presentable at all times, with his honey hair neatly cut and groomed, and his wardrobe as tailored and impeccable as the leader’s own. Official business of the state required his casual military blues, which was what he sported now—a double-breasted, structured coat marked with alternating embroidered stripes of metallic gold and silver along each cuff and lapel. He had become what he had tried to run from—he had become what he loathed. And if Madison could see him now…

He clenched his jaw and turned away from the mirror. If Madison could see him now, she would kill him.

And he would let her, if only to see her one more time.

————

He ran most early afternoons, when the summer sun helped to inch the temperature high enough to exert without heavy layers. The Walther residence was situated on an acreage, surrounded on all sides by thick fortress-like walls with short sentry towers interspersed across each length. He took off through the gardens and then broke from any discernible trail to jog along the perimeter of his father’s land, weaving around wild shrubs and trees. If the guards above found it odd, they understandably kept their opinions to themselves. But by the time summer began to wind down, the heir’s afternoon runs had become expected.

One day, after a particular strategy briefing ran long, Remy skipped dinner altogether and ventured outside before the daylight faded. He cut his usual route short by half, realizing that the uneven terrain was aggravating a strain in his knee he’d nearly fully healed from and didn’t want to injure again.

It was a beautiful evening to be outdoors, and so he took his time heading back. And as they always did when he found himself alone, his thoughts strayed to Madison.

“Madison.” He whispered her name to himself like a prayer. His eyelids fluttered closed as he inhaled the scent of damp earth and pine needles that perfumed the breeze. He felt closer to her here, deep in the untamed acres…it was as though the metaphorical space between them was not so vast, as if time and space could fold over itself—like they had never stumbled upon that soldier outside of Thebes, never departed the Grafton Inn, never left their cabin in the woods.

The huntress might have been long gone, but his love for her still burned hot and smoldering in his soul.

Sadness gripped him as a serenade of late-summer cicadas droned from high in the old trees. I have loved you a long time. The exact words he’d spoken were seared into his memory, and he repeated them to himself now. I have loved you a long time, and I will love you for a lifetime more.

He missed her so intensely it manifested as a physical ache beneath his ribs. He longed to reach out and pull her in close, to lean over and press a delicate kiss atop her brunette tresses. He wanted to meet her bright azure eyes and know that she belonged to him, and he to her, and that no matter what else happened, they would fight side by side to the end.

But it was never to be. Remy had sacrificed everything to save the life of the woman he loved, yet the only way to do so had been to betray her. The image of her battered face flashed through his mind again, and the pain in his chest sunk deeper into his gut. She was better off without the danger of his company.

Remy cut back through the immaculate gardens at a walking pace as the sky began to darken. Dusk’s purple glow drenched the sculpted hedges in an alien light that loaned the scene an artificial, plasticine feel. As he wove his way soundlessly toward the door, the murmurs of two hushed voices drifted through the evening air. Remy slowed, curious, and strained to listen.

…he doesn’t…you…announcement…clover…report…bring…

Remy crept closer, trying to piece the words together.

…telling…hasn’t…it’s nothing…back to…

A tall young woman clothed in the deep green uniform of a garden attendant stood suddenly, her back to Remy. An older man with short gray hair followed suit, rising more slowly. His hands sported gardening gloves, and he wore a linen smock in the same shade stained with soil.

Remy held his breath and debated whether to dash out of sight or announce himself—by rank, he was not in the wrong, yet to be caught eavesdropping brought back the same twinge of terror he’d felt for the same crime as a child. But before he could decide what to do, the young woman turned around.

She gasped, long blonde ponytail flipping over her shoulder as she threw herself into an exaggerated bow with a fist over her chest in salute. “C-commander,” she stammered.

“I’m sorry I—hey, are you okay?” he asked, his gentle but matter-of-fact physician’s tone creeping into his voice. Her face drained of color so quickly that Remy instinctually held out a steadying hand, should she faint. She flinched away from the motion as if he’d been about to strike her.

“Commander.” The silver-haired man, who stumbled over his trowel and hedge-clippers as he spun around, offered a salute.

Remy slowly lowered his hand and smiled, hoping it appeared genuine enough to reassure them. “No, no, I should have made myself known,” he said. “I have…light feet.” You’re actually improving, Roadwalker. “Old habit,” he added, trying not to think of Madison’s lessons.

The two kept their eyes on the ground and said nothing—his father’s idea of staff etiquette, no doubt, but it filled the doctor with frustration. He could see the woman’s shoulders trembling, silhouetted against the golden light of the house far beyond. “No harm done,” he said slowly. “I apologize for startling you. Have a pleasant evening, then.”

He poured himself a whiskey as soon as he got back to his chambers, his anger taking the edge off the equally-fiery liquid. He hated how the gardener and stable girl had reacted to him, how it was simply assumed he possessed the same silken penchant for cruelty as his father. He hated it all. He hated his father. He hated that Madison wasn’t here. And he hated that there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about any of it.

————

General Belvedere pushed Remy’s training harder, and then harder still. The recruits he brought along to spar from Compound grew more and more advanced, until one day Remy showed up to the Beloit to find only Quinn waiting there, nearly a half an hour earlier than usual.

“General,” Remy addressed, suspicious.

“Commander,” Quinn returned, unmoving.

The title made Remy’s skin crawl no matter how many times he’d heard it since his arrival. But he didn’t have time to register his disgust, because Quinn struck, quick as a lightning bolt—so fast, the doctor might not have thought it possible had he not been dodging the blows himself.

He was thrown to his back on the floor, a knee to his sternum and a knife to his throat, with Quinn’s amber eyes squinting down at him. This time, instead of their usual aloof but open expression, his gaze was stony.

“Congratulations, Commander,” the officer said, pausing but not withdrawing. “Your sessions with the Chief Overseer of Training have commenced.”

In that moment, with an unwavering knife at his jaw and the pressure of a knee on his chest, Remy was sorely reminded that his trainer was a brigadier general—and more than that, the overseer of the notorious and brutal military training program known across Northam for its body count. Quinn Belvedere was a dangerous man. Friendly though they may have become, they were certainly not friends. Remy felt suddenly even more alone…which, with adrenaline racing through his system, made him abruptly furious.

His body might have been pinned, but his arms were not…and he used both at once, one to catch and squeeze Quinn’s right wrist while the other pushed up laterally against the ground. With the general forced to focus on his weapon-hand, Remy gained enough leverage to slip out from under the knee and spring away and out of reach.

Remy was fast, but Quinn was faster. For the first time since their sessions began, the doctor experienced a twinge of real fear—the general had a blade, and Remy was unarmed but for his own limbs. But the fear was familiar, like shrugging into a well-worn coat.

Quinn was relentless. The doctor was too busy defending himself even to consider offense of his own, and he was barely keeping up with that. In seconds, something connected with Remy’s nose—a palm or an elbow, he wasn’t sure—and he was on the floor, blood immediately running from his nostrils. Still the man did not stop, not even as red splattered across Remy’s white shirt. Not even as he was thrown to the ground again. But even as pain rippled through him blow after blow, this particular flavor of adrenaline was one he knew well. Clinging to desperation, his actions grew wilder, if less considered.

“Finally!” shouted Quinn between jabs, his blade flashing silver in the morning light. Remy danced away, the razor edge of it slicing through the hem of his white cotton shirt like paper.

And then, somehow, he was on his back again, the cold flat of Quinn’s blade pressing tightly to his carotid artery.

“Yield,” Remy gasped.

A slow clap echoed from above. Quinn rose to his feet, panting, and crossed an arm across his chest in salute. “High Commander,” the general called in greeting, looking up to the mezzanine.

“Excellent work,” the commander lauded. “Please carry on.”

Remy waited for his father to exit before he rose shakily to his feet. It wasn’t the first time the man had observed his training sessions unannounced, but it never failed to catch him off-guard. Chest heaving and face flushed, he tugged off his stained t-shirt and held it to his nose. Here, at least, it no longer mattered who caught a glimpse of the insignia on his back.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” Quinn pressed. “Not the nose, although I’m sure you felt that, too…” The faintest of smirks twisted the general’s features. “I mean there, at the end. Your movements changed. Your eyes changed. You weren’t sparring, you were fighting. The body can do remarkable things when it’s pushed to survive.”

Remy, of course, knew that firsthand. An echo of Madison’s voice sang through his mind unbidden: Don’t throw yourself in front of men’s sharp knives, she’d once said, in that telltale warning tone she’d used to conceal her fear. Because I love you. And I don’t want to be without you for a single second. He gritted his teeth against the memory and checked his makeshift kerchief for any more residual bleeding. Satisfied there was none, he tossed it to the floor. “Out of desperation?” he asked. “Yeah, it makes you reckless.”

“No, Commander,” Quinn corrected. “It makes you unpredictable.” He watched his trainee, hawklike eyes darting over the scars on Remy’s bare torso and glancing at the fabled navy tattoo that matched the high commander’s when he turned. “We’re going to harness that feeling. Anyone can act out of desperation. But not everyone can learn to use it, and fewer still can wield it like its own weapon.”

“And you think I’m one of those few?” Remy asked, arching a brow with skepticism.

Quinn shrugged and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Not everyone has me,” he retorted, a hint of menace in his tone. “But I imagine we’ll find out.”

————

Remy noticed a subtle change in his father’s demeanor after he had observed Remy’s first real spar with General Belvedere. It was as though he had at last proven something…whether in his father’s eyes it was devotion, or commitment, or simply a graduation from waiflike forest ruffian to a polished specimen finally worthy of the Walther name and the public’s attention, Remy couldn’t be sure.

The physician had gotten supremely adept at playing his role—so much so, in fact, that he was no longer relegated to observer in the briefings he attended, and was often earnestly asked for his opinion on matters of the state. This newfound involvement blurred the line between act and reality, which always left him nauseated. At what point did ‘participation as means for survival’ turn into just…participation?

He grappled with these questions as he lay awake each night, mind whirling to comprise a plan. He needed his inclusion—and his seemingly limitless security clearance—to mean something more. He refused to allow his “miraculous” reappearance to be another gamepiece in his father’s immense arsenal of stratagems.

But one well-meaning man, even one with a powerful title, was still just one man against a continental army. Which was why he needed to contact the Resistance now more than ever. He just needed to figure out how.

Tonight, however, was not the night for that.

The commander had officially decided it was time to begin introducing his heir to a wider network—those outside of his most trusted advisors and house staff, all of whom had been previously sworn to secrecy. Attending a series of events and small dinner parties was the perfect way to ease Remy into the social society that surrounded the political one—and to control the narrative amidst the elite circles whose opinions and fealty mattered most.

His father would have no objection to his appearance, at least; Remy certainly looked the part. He slipped into his newly-sewn full-dress uniform for the first time since it had been delivered the week prior. The craftsmanship was otherworldly; it made even the skilled Grafton tailor look like a child who couldn’t find the eye of his needle. Everything from the sleek trousers to the starched white undershirt was tailored expertly to the new shape of his body.

But the real star, to both his horror and awe, was the jacket.

It was different from the more casual blues he wore for day-to-day operations; this was unquestionably formal attire made menacing with understated elegance. The felted wool was exquisite, dyed a blue so deep it was nearly black. His cuffs were decorated with splashes of ornate silver embroidery, a twisting vinelike pattern that deviated from the stark simplicity of the usual utilitarian stripes. The same vines crept in gold along the epaulettes on his shoulders and continued quietly around the back of the high collar.

He arranged the simple aiguillettes—two braided strands, one gold and one silver, each fastened at the end with a polished gold fleur-de-lis—and attached them to the top right button. With his hair trimmed and carefully coiffed, and his facial hair a short, well-groomed scruff on his jaw, his father would have no qualms with his heir’s appearance—because, indeed, he cut as striking a figure as the commander himself.

He joined his father and two other generals—Crenshaw, who he recognized from strategy meetings, and Mandeville, who spent most of his time at Compound and with whom Remy had crossed paths only a handful of times—in the idling motorcar.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of these introductory gatherings had been prompted by some matter of business on his father’s part. The men spoke amongst themselves while Remy peered out the window. The weather had grown cold again, with a biting chill to the air that preluded another harsh winter. Even the sky looked bleak, with gathering clouds that hung low enough to mingle with the many plumes of chimney smoke that billowed in slow motion above the city.

“Niles will know more,” Crenshaw was saying, his voice gravelly and low. “It’s not the first time ‘Clover’ has come up in an interrogation, at any rate.”

Without shifting his gaze, Remy’s attention snapped back to the car.

“Indeed.” The commander’s voice was a smooth purr in comparison.

Clover. He recalled the petrified staff he’d overheard in the garden months ago after an evening run. It hadn’t seemed unusual that two gardeners would be discussing a ground-cover specimen while working amongst the plants…and yet, hearing the term coming from the mouth of a high-ranking general, he wondered if it was actually capital-C Clover…obviously something else entirely, something Remy had not yet been privy to in any debriefing.

His thoughts were interrupted by their abrupt arrival to the Terril estate. Siblings Lawrence and Elora dealt in munitions distribution, carrying on the family legacy left to them by their late parents, who had succumbed to plague. They were one of a handful of influential families who were involved with the Militia only tangentially. Remy had been briefed by his father, who had been close with the late heads of household and strived now to maintain that relationship with their grown children. Not that they had any choice.

The Terril residence was grand and brightly lit, a surprisingly cheerful beacon in the gray wintery evening. The High Commander of Northam entered first, generals close behind, with Remy trailing at a longer distance. He picked up his pace when he realized the butler was standing in the cold to keep the door open for him.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he stepped up behind his father in the enormous foyer. The commander was speaking conversationally with a tall, well-dressed man.

“And it was time to introduce you to someone as well,” he was saying, turning to Remy. “Allow me to present my son, Gregoray Walther II. Gregoray, this is Lawrence Terril.”

The commander stepped aside, wearing his most charismatic smile. Lawrence saluted with his fist across his chest and bowed. The woman next to him, however, did not move.

And neither did Remy.

He’d pictured her face a thousand times since that fateful spring day outside Thebes—prowling the shadows of the woods, escaping around the corners of gilded halls just out of reach, haunting the darkness of his dreams.

But it was no trick of his fettered memory or his lonely grief. This was Madison Gallow in the flesh, staring back at him with the same arresting cerulean eyes in which he’d lost himself countless times before.

“An honor to meet you, Mr. Terril,” he heard himself say, temporarily wrenching his gaze from the huntress to return the blond man’s salute with a small bow of his own.

He turned then to Madison.

Time ground to a halt as his racing blood roared in his ears. This was his beloved huntress like Remy had never seen her before. Her bright eyes were rimmed elegantly in kohl, her lips painted rich crimson. Even beyond the subtle dusting of rouge, the color in her cheeks was a healthy blush upon summery tan skin. And her dress…

A spark of emotion flashed in his stormy eyes—yearning, pain, relief, shock, confusion—but it was gone quick as a lightning strike, tucked carefully behind well-practiced composure. He could not become undone. Not here, not in front of his father. Not in front of the Terrils. Not in front of anyone.

He extended his hand, as etiquette dictated, and awaited her to offer her own for a kiss in respectful greeting.

“I apologize,” he began, his voice formal and steady, “but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, madam.”

Madison’s eyes locked onto the hurricane of swirling blue and gray that she had been swept up in so many times before. She began to drown in their tumultuous seas, beckoned by a siren song like a poor sailor.  The huntress had stared into them on many occasions, lost in a torrent of emotion so strong that she still could feel the ghostly touch of his fingers down the arch of her back. They had roved over her bare flesh with a hunger articulated only by his mouth moving ferociously against her own. Even now, she noticed a brief flicker of change in them before it vanished completely. Tainted memories of their mercurial nature rose unbidden. I love you, Madison. I didn’t know it could be like this. Remy’s eyes had darkened then with the weight of his need, the magnitude of his false love.

And he broke contact, just as Lawrence bowed again. He lowered down Madison’s left hand between them to hide the fact he was brutally squeezing her fingers. The Terril heir was no fool. He knew what passed between them, as fleeting as it was. Madison had divulged the barest minimum of what the Commander’s son had put her through. For all their sakes, he needed her to keep composure. In the brief second he glanced away, a mask of hardened resolve slid over the supposed harlot’s beautiful features. Drawn from every ounce of strength, crimson lips curled into a dazzling smile.

“Magnolia Sterling, Commander.” She said the title with all the deference of a truly loyal subject and her name as sharp as all the knives she longed to drive through his dishonest heart. The name fell from her lips as though she had planned it. Madison could not be her name tonight - as the physician had shouted it across the field when she had been held by the squadron soldiers. She extended her right hand into his offered one. Intelligent eyes roved over him. Remy had filled out in all the right places - broadened shoulders and muscles hidden just beneath the thick wool fabric. His jawline was sharp beneath the soft stubble she knew would tickle as it brushed against the inside of her thigh...

His familiar mouth met her hand and she inhaled inaudibly between parted red lips. It was brief, as custom dictated, but the heat of it raced up her arm and slithered down her spine. “High Commander.” She purred the title as she removed her hand from the heir and offered it to the father. They were undeniably related and it pained her to know she had fallen in love with a face so like the man’s she hated most. “Forgive my earlier irreverence. To be graced by your presence took my breath away - I had not expected someone of your station to attend my little introduction into Lawrence’s society. It is such a pleasure to have you with us this evening.”

“Something you and my son have in common then. It is also his debut back into high society after some unfortunate time away.” The most powerful man in the land drew her hand to his mouth upon which he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “The delayed pleasure is now mine.” He released her hand and pulled Lawrence away slightly. “You find the finest specimens. Perhaps she will be the one to finally bear you heirs. Her hips have the width for childbearing, a lovely curve indeed. And speaking of beautiful women, where is your sister?”

“Just waiting to make an entrance that might draw your eyes.“ Came Elora’s silken response as she entered the foyer. Swathed in black against her olive skin, the other Terril was every bit the grace that Madison longed to possess. She did not offer her hand to him, instead she sidled up before him and pressed her lips to each of his cheeks. “It has been so long since you dined with us. I wanted to make sure what you’d remember most...” nude lips curled into a seductive grin, “was me.” Her interrupting permitted Lawrence to slip his hand along Madison’s back. He tapped his fingers there distractingly before rounding the curve of her hip in an obvious display of ownership. The simple movement brought the huntress to herself and Elora beckoned the arrivals to the large living space. If she knew who the men behind the High Commander were, she did not betray it in the slightest.  “Don’t dally, Lawrence. All our guests will arrive soon.” She called behind her as she conspiratorially chatted with the High Commander of Northam. The warrior was a lamb in a lioness’ clothing and Madison longed to possess her level of control in a situation such as this.

The moment the four men were out of sigh around the corner into the expansive room, the Terril heir whirled to face his companion. His hands immediately went from charade to genuine as he gathered Madison’s face in his hands and looked directly into her eyes with his concerned emerald gaze. “Breathe.” He instructed in a gentle voice. “Slow, deep breaths.”

The huntress performed as instructed if only for the fact that she could not think of anything else to do. Blood pounded in her ears now, a deafening roar above his words that grew louder, more menacing with each shaky beat of her bruised heart. Gregoray Walther II was here. He had touched her and all the warmth from his fingers danced up her nerve endings, betraying her in the cruelest way because even now - at the furthest recesses of her mind - she ached to dissolve into that embrace.  Panic threatened to overwhelm her and then someone shook her, once but forcefully and crystalline eyes darted around.

“Can you do this?” Lawrence’s growl was low but clear. The doctor’s ex-student could put them all in danger if she did not keep her wits about her. “We can feign some illness...”

“No. “The sharpness of her tone startled even herself. “No. I can do it. I just...needed one second to gather myself. I didn’t expect...” Swallowing, the huntress straightened her back and brushed a stray curl away from her face.  “He doesn’t deserve the effect he has on me.” Lawrence gave her a nod and removed his hands from her for a moment. “I’m ready.”

“Just fawn over me like the doting mistress you are. Should be easy- I am quite lovable.” His voice was soothing and Madison nodded, suppressing her chuckle. She could do this. She would do this without so much as a hiccup in their plan. An ease had settled into her when in the company of the Terrils and it would not be so difficult to feign love with a man that only wanted to help her meet her goals. “Ah, one more thing.” Lawrence ran her thumb lightly on her lower lip - keeping her lines intact but stealing a bit of color on his skin. He ran it at the corner of his mouth, an obvious transfer between passionate lovers. How clever. Madison’s smile grew and she took his offered arm.

Entering the study, bright eyes longed to examine the doctor in his military uniform. It pained her to know her body’s immediate response to how dashing he looked. Living in the lap of luxury had done him well...but that is where he was always meant to be after all. Gregoray Remington Walther II.  Elora was regaling the High Commander with some story or another. The mistress allowed her eyes to dance over all of them in turn, careful to no longer on her ex-lover.

“There you are!” The Terril female cried, laughing and laying a delicate hand on Crenshaw’s forearm. “These poor gentlemen have had to endure my tale about my runaway horse.” She moved over to her bother and laughed. “Ah, I see our culprit.” Deliberately, she wiped the obvious crimson from her brother’s lips and Madison did not even have the feign embarrassment.

Their display was swiftly interrupted by the arrival of more wealthy guests. The huntress was flaunted here and there, niceties exchanged with other high ranking individuals of Northam. All of them commented on something about her - the blue gown, her eyes, her hair and one man made a rather lewd suggestion about her breasts.  At each opportunity, the munitions heir ran a delicate finger down her exposed arm. Power radiated from him as a man in his element and when they would briefly part, his hand brushed low across the lowest part of her back. The expansive room filled and more and more people drew her (fake) lover’s attention away. With a kiss to her forehead and a quick exchanged glance to make sure she was okay, Lawrence abandoned her at one moment to speak business. Elora was flirting and gossiping amongst the men and women of the room. That left the huntress beside the oak chessboard where Madison beat Lawrence regularly while Elora swiftly demolished Madison’s defenses.  She idly moved the queen back and force with her finger as loud voices filled the space around her. She kept herself trained on the hand-carved onyx end ivory pieces, trying not to glance around and seek the stormy eyes of the man that crushed her heart in his lying hands. Left to her thoughts in the din of the living room, sadness crept in and recollections swirled against the mental barriers she had shoddily erected. I will do everything I can to keep you safe.

Except telling me the truth. She thought brutally in reply.

Oh, Madison. You and me. I love you. Forever.

But he never really had. He had only loved himself. Himself and his secrets. She knocked down the king as one did when brought into checkmate. The smell of cedar wafted over her.  I am the luckiest man in the whole fucking world. She attempted to shove the memories down, yet still the scent lingered. Raising her eyes, finally she realized why.  Remy stood across the small chess table from her. Everything about him made her nerves tingle, electricity shooting up and down her spine. Internal vibrations of loathing began to run in synchronized waves with her desire to touch him. Rage twisted with unbidden need and she steadied herself only with a slow breath. Madison hated how her body betrayed her at the sight of him so close.  She examined him up and down with scrutinizing eyes once more and tried her best to look disinterested. No one else was close to them, so embroiled in their own schemes.

“Hello.” She whispered, filling the space between them with a heady tension.

The moment their hands brushed, it was as though the world suddenly righted itself.

After months of navigating a life that felt upside-down, wrong in every possible way, the sudden reorientation of his universe was enough to send him reeling with vertigo.

It was all he could do to keep his feet planted on the floor. But how could he not fall all over again? How could he not plunge into the depths of that ocean gaze and lose himself?

He could feel the tension in her hand, but his touch couldn’t have been gentler as he pressed his lips delicately to her skin. The embers that had never ceased smoldering for his huntress flared to life in a blaze of sparks, licking up the insides of his ribs until he feared his chest might burst from the ache of it. The world around him fell away—the marble beneath his polished boots, the piercing gaze of his charming father, even the electric lights humming above. Madison was, as she had always been, the only thing in any room she ever occupied.

But when her dazzling mouth formed the words of her name, reality crashed back around him with all the overpowering force of a rogue wave. Magnolia Sterling. And with those syllables, she made it abundantly, unbearably clear: this happenstance meeting was less a reunion than it was a confrontation.

It was the cruelest of whiplash, hearing her dulcet voice again…only for it form that name, that combination of names, of all she could have chosen.

His grasp tensed infinitesimally, but he returned her bright smile with a brilliant one of his own as he relinquished her hand. “A pleasure, I assure you, Miss Sterling,” he returned, hyperconscious—as surely she was—of the fact that this wouldn’t be the first time she had offered his adopted surname as her own. This time, however, it was preceded by Miss rather than Mrs., and the sound of it felt incorrect, like a missed note in an arpeggio. How many times had they played that particular charade? Enough that it had begun to feel like the most natural thing in the world, as though she truly had been his wife.

And oh, how he’d wanted her to be.

He turned to the chime of another woman’s voice—a Venus in black velvet, her emerald eyes sparkling with an expression Remy recognized as one of carefully-measured mirth. Elora Terril greeted the commander daringly and without hesitation, suggesting a confidence Remy found simultaneously concerning (for her safety) as well as refreshingly audacious. They exchanged introductions quickly, with the Terril woman unabashedly pressing her cheek to his in greeting as she had his father.

“An honor, Commander,” she practically purred, tossing her black curls over her bronze shoulders.

“Likewise, of course,” replied Remy, donning the same well-rehearsed, self-assured smile. His eyes locked with Elora’s, but the doctor couldn’t decipher the look he found in her arresting green stare—curiosity, perhaps, or even amusement. Regardless, he could not deny the impression of it being…predatory, somehow, even though he couldn’t say he felt threatened.

As Elora continued to speak with the commander, Remy glanced toward the huntress just in time to see Lawrence Terril press his hand possessively against the small of her back.

A memory flashed before his mind’s eye. Madison’s lips upon his, fervent and hungry. His hands tangling in her hair. I am yours and you are mine, she’d rasped in his ear, breath hot on his neck. Always. Every single part of you is mine.

He felt sick. With his heart pounding in his ears, he tore his gaze from Lawrence and Madison and allowed the social current to carry him into the parlor. He melded into a growing crowd of guests, none of whom had been expecting him—or his father, for that matter—but if any were displeased, they were plenty placated by the presence of the long-lost Walther heir. Thankfully, most who approached him at least tried to rein in their overt curiosity; the others came on strong, doing their best to leave an impression on the young man who could make or break their family legacies in the decades to come.

Politics was an excruciating game. Remy swirled a glass of strong amber liquid in his hand as a boisterous middle-aged blonde woman and her portly husband chattered, mostly to themselves, about their family’s business in crop refinery. “You know, we probably supplied the corn used in that bourbon you’re drinking,” the woman exclaimed proudly.

“No, Arlene, not from this distributor…” the man retorted, looking to Remy as if in apology for the misinformation before diving right back into the argument.

Remy raised his brows and took a large swallow. He was the perfect guest, the perfect heir; all charm and poise, with a winsome smile, faultless manners, and an ability to convincingly feign interest in myriad topics. But it didn’t matter with whom he spoke, which family fished for his approval, or which general roped him into tactical conversation…he was constantly aware of the presence of Madison Gallow.

He brought his glass to his lips and chanced a glance across the crowd. Elora’s delighted outcry drew his attention, and his eyes alighted on the intrepid huntress slinking back into the parlor with Lawrence in tow. Even from halfway across the room, Remy noticed a drawdown of crimson lipstick staining the blond man’s mouth. And if there had been any doubt about what he could plainly see, their black-haired hostess made a melodramatic move to wipe away the smear of pigment from her brother’s lip.

Remy’s stomach plummeted. He averted his eyes back to the debating couple, who had roped in someone he didn’t recognize. He downed the rest of his bourbon and caught the eye of General Mandeville, who beckoned him to their circle of military blues. Even as he did, his eyes strayed to Madison, whose back faced him now…complete with Lawrence’s arm around her waist, his fingers absently drawing patterns on the bare skin of her arm.

N…O…W…

Something akin to anger stoked the fire in Remy’s core, and it flared hotly in response. He had once traced symbols on her body. He had cradled the small of her back. He gritted his teeth before baring them again in a glossy smile as Mandeville, none the wiser, introduced the two other militiamen marked with colonels’ stripes. As the soldiers’ talk strayed to tactics, Remy’s thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the huntress. He kept an eye on her in his peripheral vision, the blue of her dress easy to trace through the crowd. And when he saw the Terril heir part from her side, his heart leapt.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he drawled, holding up his empty glass, “I’m going to see about tracking down some more of this.”

“Oh, the waitstaff should be coming by with more,” one of the men piped up, his ruddy cheeks suggesting he knew precisely how to keep his cup overflowing.

Remy smiled. “I’ll track them down.”

The novelty of the high commander’s son had worn slightly as the evening aged, and he cut through the crowd uninterrupted, his casual pace belying the tumultuous storm of nerves raging under his skin. He deposited his spent glass on an empty tray.

His feet brought him to a stop just a handful of paces from the huntress.

He hovered there, studying her, watching as her deft fingers—fingers that had once explored and claimed his body like uncharted lands, fingers that had once stitched his wounds and saved his life—absently brushed the carved game pieces on the chessboard.

Nervous heat burned beneath his ribs. Elora Terrel may have established herself as the center around which the party revolved—and rightfully so, as the wealthy hostess—but it was Madison who was the true vision. The fabric of her gown clung to her figure in rich falls of cerulean gossamer, leaving little to the imagination and revealing that the body he had once known so intimately had changed in the months they’d spent apart—the subtle swell of rounded hips, the lean muscularity in her limbs, the way she carried her shoulders. Even the way he’d seen her move throughout the evening had shifted; she walked with assurance rather than perpetual caution, with a newfound physical strength that loaned an air of power to her movements even to those who had not known her before.

Of course, that begged the question how, and why. Remy knew very well that Madison was no courtesan—which seemed to suggest her relationship with Lawrence Terril was genuine. A pang of anguish echoed through him. Why else would she be here, well-fed and obviously toned, draped in fine silk and clinging to his side?

His breath caught when she looked up. Hello, she’d whispered. Hadn’t she? Or had he imagined it, as he had imagined her voice a thousand times before?

I missed you, my love, he longed to say.

“Hello,” he murmured instead.

An electric energy buzzed in the air between them with such intensity he feared others might catch on, and he hastily surveyed the guests around him with concern. But they were occupied, buzzed on fine drink and hors d’oeuvres and powerful company. They could not have cared less about the physician and the huntress.

There were too many things he wanted, needed, to say to her—but none of them could be uttered here, and he wasn’t certain she would be willing to listen to him in the first place. Not after Magnolia Sterling. Not after her obvious straying lipstick. Not with the darkness he sensed in her gaze, even now. So he reached out slowly, almost as if to touch her hand across the checkered game board, and rested featherlight fingertips on a pawn.

“Do you play, Miss Sterling?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

His eyes did not leave hers as he moved the piece two squares forward.

“Perhaps you would humor me with a game?”

Everything about Remy in military blues should have made her skin crawl, but it had quite the opposite effect on her. Half his face was illuminated by the lamplight and the rest was cast in slight shadow, giving him an allure she struggled to ignore. With his hair pulled back and the barest hint of stubble along his chin, Madison felt her knees go metaphorically weak. How could one man have such a profound effect on her. All she longed for was to rid herself of the lingering love she harbored for him. After all the lies, all the time he spent concealing who he was - even now she longed to touch and be touched by him.

And he picked up right where their introduction left off, as though they were mere acquaintances. Unwilling to back down, Madison held his haunting gaze.  She felt the pull of his current and she longed to slip into the warm depths of those forbidden memories.  “I’m familiar with the game.” She responded, voice as sweet as southern tea. Blue eyes belied the tone and the storm in them swirled with barely concealed rage. It was the same level of rage she had felt for the Donaldson twin that had met her blade through his chin. She straightened the knight that she had knocked over with two slender fingers.

How drastically it had all changed.

“It would be my pleasure, Commander.”The title rolled effortlessly off her tongue but a bite lingered behind the word. “Though someone of my station is far beneath you so it may not be worth your time.” The strength of her gaze did not falter as she knew from her periphery where he had placed his pawn. She responded in kind. The pair of lovers exchanged a few brief starting moves before the Terril mistress lowered herself into the chair she had been standing beside and broke their stare. She examined the board and if they had been back in their cabin the capturing of pawns might turn into the removal of clothing, seductive glances and bursts of laughter. Now it was a battle of wills and none in Northam were more stubborn than Madison Gallow and Gregoray Walther II.

“The return of the long lost Walther heir.” Madison kept her voice a whisper between the two of them. She reclined back in the chair and crossed one long leg over the other. Placing her elbow on the corner of her chair’s arm, she played with a loose curl brushing against the delicate curve of her neck. The same portion of her body that Remy had buried his face in and murmured her name. She lowered her gaze to the board and pondered before sliding her queen along the colored squares.

Your touch is…maddening, I hope you know.

“After all this time.” Silky was her tone. “Must be quite the story about where you were all these years.” She didn’t look at him again, but instead turned her head to the crowd of people. She caught Elora’s eyes. The panther narrowed her Lisa almost imperceptibly at the huntress but made no move to interrupt their game or conversation. “Daring deeds. Cold nights. Duping the common folk about who you were...” she trailed off, reaching out to capture his bishop. It landed beside his captured pawns with a soft thunk. “But you’re the Northam heir, after all, so you can do with common folk as you please without any concern for them, I suppose.” Another move but she sensed the tension she was purposefully creating. Good. He deserved it all.

“That seems to be what most of the high ranking families do here in Thebes.” A gentle burst of silence for the briefest moment while the huntress pondered the board with a bored expression on her face. “They are self-serving, manipulative, deceitful.” She punctuated each word carefully before tormented cerulean eyes met his equally stormy ones. “Must be why you fit in so seamlessly with them.”

It wasn’t long ago that the silent stretches between speech had brimmed with the comfort of one another’s company. It had been so easy to exist together like that, each soaking up the other’s presence in absence of conversation, sated and content in the quietude. They had frequently traveled from sunrise to sundown without saying much of anything, and never once had their placid companionship felt anything but the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, the silence he’d kept regarding the blood in his veins was another matter entirely. Remy had lived for seventeen years trying to outrun that life, to keep the past where it belonged: solidly behind him. He was, and remained, a Sterling in the purest definition—having devoted his life to healing others, carrying on Dr. Edgar Sterling’s legacy like the son the kindhearted physician had never had. And the only reason, literally the only reason, Remy had returned to his life as the Walther heir was in exchange for the huntress’ life.

But he knew he could not make her understand, and certainly not here, when one misplaced word could be enough to summon an executioner. Even whispering as they were, it was dangerous to breathe anything of their shared past, with so many high-ranking militiamen—the High Commander included—all within the same four walls of the study. Yet he had lived the past months believing he would never see Madison again, and he knew he could not squander what might be his only chance to speak with the sole woman in the world for whom he would sacrifice so much.

While Remy had grown somewhat accustomed to hearing the title Commander from his father’s men, the repulsive designation coming from Madison’s crimson lips was as good as a dagger through his chest. He looked up sharply as he lowered himself slowly into the seat opposite the huntress, the briefest flicker of pain cracking like a bolt of lightning through the storm of his gaze.

He said nothing at first, searching her face across the table as she contemplated the movement of her pieces. The mask she wore was far more complex than a simple application of kohl and rouge; he knew her well enough to recognize that her expression was not her own, but a crafted veil…just like the one he wore, and most everyone in current attendance. Navigating the gamut of high Thebesian society required a constant vigilance not unlike surviving in the wilderness. Only these predators were a different sort, and lurked in plain sight rather than the underbrush.

Nevertheless, the subtle fury in her bright blue eyes rivaled the anger that simmered low in her voice.

“Quite the story of my return indeed,” the reluctant heir returned, backing off his bishop two squares. “Miraculous I was able to escape that stronghold of rebels holding me captive in the outlands. Isn’t that how it goes?” He looked up in time to see her brush a curl of brunette hair from her bare shoulder, her skin glowing in the low lamplight. A lump wedged itself in his throat. You’re everything, Remy, and I can’t imagine the rest of my life without you, the memory of her voice whispered in his mind. I can’t fathom spending any day without seeing you, without telling you I love you, without touching you.

They exchanged moves again. Madison stole his bishop; Remy took her knight.

“Ah, yes. Deceitful and manipulative,” he agreed softly, nodding along to her assessment of Thebesian high families. “Fascinating criticism from ‘Magnolia Sterling.’ ” He slid his rook back and out of range, pausing a moment before lifting his touch from the castle’s ridges. He looked up to meet her gaze. “I would be especially wary of those who use their privilege to save the person they love.”

The tension building between them pulled tighter still with his words, and Remy could feel it in every one of his taut muscles.

“If you’re genuinely convinced that I belong among the snakes,” the doctor drawled, “then you should perhaps avoid saying things that will earn you a traitor’s noose…again.” He rested his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned in closer still, his fingers knitting together beneath his chin as he pretended to ponder the grid of the chessboard. “I saved you from that fate once,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his tone. “I’m not sure my father would be so forgiving.”

He completed his turn but did not lean away as she made her move.

“Do you really think that of me?” he asked, shaking his head slightly. The smallest flash of hurt reflected in his eyes, gone in an instant. “Do you really believe all those things? After everything?”

The lightning flashing in his eyes brought her immense satisfaction. Good. She thought as he registered the title. The barb had found its mark, wounding him with its honed point. It shouldn’t though. It had always been who he really was. He was nothing more than a liar. No matter his reasons for keeping such secrets, he had deceived her for months and months on end. He had done it for his own gain.

She would never be able to forgive him. Not ever.

People that loved one another didn’t hide such crucial details unless the motivation was entirely selfish. He could claim it was to save her - the logical part of her mind knew that he had freed her with his declaration - but it didn’t ease any of the ache. Pain twisted itself around her heart, wrapping so tightly that there was no room for anything but her anger.  He would receive no comfort from her, no kind words. He had done this to himself and he would suffer all of the consequences.

“Oh you saved me?” Ice laced her tone as she examined his recent move. “Well my fucking hero.” Mockery filled the space between them at her barely a whisper words and she turned her frigid eyes on him, bearing into them directly. There were still people chatting as dinner crept nearer.   And then he asked it, honestly and softly. The sight of his mask slipping for merely a moment cracked something inside of her but she quickly let it slide away.

Rage began to build back inside of her again as she tamped down the memories of the affection that they shared for over a year together. He was an addiction that she would just have to overcome and she was not going to relapse now. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? After all this time, I’ve finally been show the truth.” Cerulean eyes flickered over the small crowd and hovered over the High Commander’s back briefly before returning to the man’s son. Delicate fingers moved her knight. “Check.” She enunciated without breaking their gaze. Leaning forward over the table. There were just a few inches apart from one another.

Remy moved to protect his king and Madison responded in kind, planning to check him again in a move or two. “You couldn’t tell me who you were? After all that passed between us?” After the cabin. After the Donaldson murder. After the nights discovering themselves and each other. He had willfully misled her. He had hidden his bare back from her at every turn. Madison had been so glamoured by him that the astute huntress had not noticed his minor manipulations.  “After everything?” Throwing his words back in his face, sent a thrill through her. She wanted him to suffer as she had.

But Remy could never contemplate, never fathom the depth of betrayal that she felt.

They exchanged moves again. “Check.” The huntress breathed, running the back of her fingers against the underside of her chin. She moved them back and forth before her pointer finger ran over her chin and beneath her lip in contemplation. Elora’s beautiful laughter flitted through the air.  Madison’s attention on the doctor faltered and she looked away, noticing the butler softly conversing with Lawrence. Dinner was imminent and their time alone was coming to an end.

Madison’s steadfast company had once been his antidote to life’s hardships. Now, seated across from him and coiled as she was like the snakes of his tattoo, her presence ran the course of his veins like lethal venom. Yet even if it had been possible to extricate her from his memory, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Their shared pasts were too tightly entwined, two threads knitted together as one. And even if his mind could forget, his body certainly couldn’t.

Where time might have dampened their attraction, absence had only heightened it. He was hopelessly drawn to her, caught in a magnetic pull he was powerless to combat even with the looming existence of her new high-ranking beau. His hands remembered the smooth warmth of her skin; his mouth recalled the taste of her lips. His eyes knew what it was like to exchange private wanton glances across a crowded room; his heart could easily repeat the desirous cadence of anticipatory excitement when their hands brushed. Even with the hatred burning behind the azure of her intelligent eyes, he couldn’t help but cling to hope that the vows they had exchanged in the winter night had not been empty promises.

Yet as quickly as the thought occurred, the huntress dashed his hopes—and they shattered like shards of bone on jagged rocks.

He didn’t need her to thank him. That wasn’t his intention. What he wanted was for her to realize that the endangerment of her life was the only threat dire enough to draw the confession from his lips. He wanted her to know that he didn’t want any of this, that he would have given anything to be back in the frigid forest with her and their pups huddled around a fire.

“The truth about my family, maybe.” His words were curt, his expression once again guarded. “Are you honestly saying you wouldn’t have left me on the spot, had I told you?” He deftly maneuvered his king out of danger, using her focus on the attack to build the groundwork for his own counterstrike. It was almost poetic, how their game reflected their personalities—Madison on the offense, springing immediately into sharp, decisive action; and Remy, holding back in a judicious, almost cautious, strategy of patience. His gaze flickered upward to hers, storm greeting ocean.

“Madison…” The word was a breath, so soft he couldn’t even be sure he’d said it at all. But hovering over the board, they were so near one another…close enough that he could smell the perfume in her hair, see the delicate constellation of freckles across her cheeks. Close enough to kiss. “Check”—his eyes lingered on her scarlet lips as he cast his stare back to the board, where he lifted his fingers from the pointed crown of his queen—“mate.”

As if on cue, the melodic peal of a bell cut through the din of guests’ conversations.

“My friends,” Elora’s mellifluous voice practically sang in the resulting lull, “dinner is served, if you will join us in the banquet hall.” She gestured to the double French doors, which had been propped open to allow the stream of guests to pass through and into the long corridor unimpeded.

The sufficiently-appetized partygoers began to drift out of the parlor, and Remy looked up just in time to see Lawrence scanning the room and the crowd in turn. The blond man’s expression, as ever, was wholly measured and neutral…yet an altogether different look—but one similarly unidentifiable—flashed on his face for the briefest of moments when his eyes caught sight of Madison with the commander’s son. He strode to her side from behind, draping a hand easily over her bare shoulder.

Donning a dazzling smile of his own, Remy looked up at the handsome Terril man. “Your beautiful belle nearly had me beat,” he drawled, gesturing to the board as he rose to his feet.

“She certainly sweeps the floor with me, Commander,” Lawrence replied with a smile, taking Madison’s hand as she joined them on her feet. “Only my dear sister remains unvanquished, I’m afraid.”

The man’s choice of words was surely unintentional, but Remy inwardly bristled as he spoke them. I remain unvanquished. Invictus maneo. The Walther family motto—the words branded on his back. The physician did not miss a beat, however, and chuckled appropriately.

“Elora will surely lock us out if we keep her waiting much longer,” Lawrence continued, snaking his arm around Madison’s waist and pulling her gently into his side. “Shall we show our distinguished guest the way?”

The couple walked in tandem down the corridor, Madison’s dress flowing like water in her wake. Remy watched the hem flutter and gritted his teeth a few paces behind. They followed the savory aroma of dinner until they entered the exquisite hall, where most of the guests were already seated behind ornately handwritten place cards. The table was draped in woven ivory cloth and decorated with winter greenery that wound around tall white tapers. The tiny flames shimmered in the immaculate crystal goblets at each seat, which were stationed quite near one another to accommodate the many bodies.

Elora beckoned them to the head of the table, where she was already entertaining the High Commander. Unsurprisingly, Remy was to be seated to his father’s right; Elora, with one elegant hand draped daringly on the commander’s forearm, took the space to his left. Next to her, Generals Crenshaw and Mandeville had already taken their places, which could only mean…

“Miss Sterling,” the commander greeted warmly. “Lawrence. How wonderful.”

Remy tensed as Madison slid onto the chair at his right, the whisper of her dress brushing against the leg of his uniform.

“You’ll forgive the tight squeeze,” Elora was saying, verdant eyes sparkling. “We’re always thrilled to fit as many of our friends around our table as possible.”

“Indeed,” agreed Lawrence.

Remy smiled and took a sip of iced water from the short glass that had been filled before they arrived.

The Commander continued conversation as the servants began to file in with their first course. “Lawrence,” he crooned, arresting hazel eyes landing on Madison, “wherever did you happen upon this lovely creature?” His expression was warm and convincing, especially in the golden light of the dining room. “You know, since Gregoray’s return I’ve been considering his own marital prospects,” he went on. “When you all were still children, your parents and I were intending Gregoray and Elora to wed.”

Madison had played the precise scenario he posed in her mind many times. What would she have done if he had told her who he was? Sometimes she killed him (and woke up nauseated) and sometimes she raged against him, forgiving him, moving past it. It depended on when, it depended on how. If it had been in the cabin, at the Graftons, as he brushed her hair...she would have stayed. The anger that swelled inside of her would have been fierce to behold during that revelation. Yet, it all meant that Remy would have chosen to tell her. The doctor would have trusted her implicitly, wholly, forever. It would not have been in front of some guards after they had beat her. Not some squadron leader outside Thebes. Not with her body bloody and her face bruising. Not while she watched them cut his shirt open. Not while her heart broke, unable to touch him.

He would have told her.

That’s what made all the difference.

The rage at the question continued to bubble, hot and molten. The emotion reduced all but a speck of logic to ash. The huntress bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding in unbridled anger, to keep from She focused so hard on not speaking that the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth. Swallowing, she realized she had been moving mechanically, not focused on the game but lost deep in the emotional recesses of her own mind. The caress of her name drew her back and every muscle in her body stiffened.

Madison. Madison. Madison. 

How it thrilled her very core to hear her name from his lips. All the raw hunger that wrapped each syllable. The need that consumed each letter to form something that innately called to her when she heard it. Again, a sailor lost to a siren song. Hovering in that heady moment, her eyes flickered down to his lips, framed by a perfectly sculpted short beard. She could lean forward and kiss them, just brush them, just once more. Just once.

Checkmate.

Startled eyes flickered down to his queen and she knew, without examining the board, that she had lost. Lost to him again, as she had been since the cabin, since their makeshift tent in the rain, since the moment she had threatened his life. Ever so gently, a single index finger lowered her king down to his side. Defeated. Elora’s magnetic pull drew her gaze and she shifted uncomfortably. So much time had passed as they had played. Had anyone noticed how captivated they were with each other? Had she put the Terril’s at risk? Swallowing, she settled her mask firmly into place and stood when Lawrence offered his hand. It was so warm compared to the icy waves that crashed over her. Large fingers squeezed hers and she returned the gesture. They slid together like magnets, her body against his without the innate pull she felt towards Gregoray Remington Walther II. All for the show. Madison cast a loving upward glance at Lawrence, fueled by the deep, throbbing ache inside of her chest.

Everything passed in a blur as they entered the dining hall with its long, immaculately curated table. Crystalline blue eyes flickered over the guests who watched the trip like hawks. Spine straightened minutely at the prospect of sitting beside Remy, so close to the High Commander.  Madison occupied her designated chair with practiced grace. Brilliantly blue fabric brushed his navy uniform and she swallowed, purposely looking down to hide the motion. At this proximity, his familiar heat washed over her in gentle, beckoning waves.

Thankfully, Lawrence lowered himself beside her and placed a comforting hand on her thigh. She could feel the pulsing heat of his fingers as a welcomed distraction, knowing that nothing lay beyond it but friendship and compassion. Madison felt the High Commander’s eyes on her as a servant placed a warm bowl of pumpkin soup before it. It was garnished with an elegant swirled of cream and spicy pepitas. Cerulean eyes raised to meet the powerful man’s gaze and she smiled. I’ll kill you one day.

Lawrence laughed heartily and took a sip of the white wine poured into the stemmed glass. “Now that is quite a tale, High Commander. This minx was hiding in a bar on the northern side of town.” It had been the western but the details were true enough. Madison’s head turned to her supposed lover with all the admiration she had once shown Remy. “Quite the diamond in the rough when we first collided with each other.” Jade eyes shirted to hers and glittered seductively.

“Lawrence is quite adept at seeing what lies beneath the surface.” Madison murmured, purposely keeping her voice low and a blush danced beneath her freckles. Fortunately, she was facing away from the ruler of Northam at the mention of Remy’s nuptials. Elora and Remy. The idea made her bristle, jealous coursing through her like lightning. How could she compete with the amazon in all her finery, skill and beauty? Elora laid a delicate hand on the High Commander’s arm briefly as her melodious laughter danced around their end of the table.

“What an honor that would have been bestowed upon me, my lord. Unfortunate that the Commander was kept hidden away by rebels for so long. A union between our houses would have been magnificent but you know my tastes lie elsewhere.” Her voice rose and fell in all the right places to entice anyone that listened. Madison would have married her for all the charm she possessed. Emerald eyes flickered to the High Commander at her last word and linger just alluringly long enough.

“It has been quite a long time since we indulged in an extravagant wedding.” Lawrence mused, turning to his soup once the head of the table had deigned to eat. “Perhaps one looms closer on the horizon than we think.” Mouth tilted upwards in a smirk as he glanced over at a genuinely surprised Madison. She flushed and brushed back a strand of hair from her face. 

“You would marry outside your class for Magnolia?” The High Commander questioned, there was no edge to his voice as it hung in the air. Madison stiffened at the sound of her assumed name.

“Would you not for such a delight?” Lawrence responded with a deep, rumbling laugh. Madison focused on finishing half of her soup before indicated she had finished with the appropriate placement of her soup spoon. “She has been with us but a very short time and already she has bewitched me. If I was a superstitious man I might suspect she had cast a literal spell upon me.” Lawrence also motioned for more wine to be distributed and finished his pumpkin soup. Leaning back, he placed his hand back on her leg, higher now as he noticed that Remy’s gaze flickered over to her.  “You did say that she did hold promise for childbearing, after all. And I hold your opinion in high esteem. If we are able to gift Northam with an heir half as promising as your son, then I will consider our union a resounding success.” Everything he said startled Madison but not enough to let her mask slip from her face. Lawrence tilted his glass towards Remy before taking a small sip. The High Commander chuckled and the conversation tilted to munitions as the salad course was served. Madison reached for the lemon dressing without looking properly and her fingers met flesh. Surprised, she started to form an apology before realizing whose fingers they were. Electricity raced up her arm, sparking between their fingertips. A blush rose fast and furious along the bridge of her nose. “Apologies, Commander. Please.” Madison withdrew her hand and waited for him to finish. Lawrence was swifter though and gingerly poured some into her plate.

“Here, my love.” He crooned and she smiled at him like a girl with her first crush amongst high society lads. Inside, Madison was reeling.  Lawrence suspected many things had transpired between the doctor and huntress. The Terril heir’s desire to protect her and shame the man that hurt her was comforting, if not a tad alarming. Vibrations of emotion danced through her and she shifted, just slightly, but it was enough for her shoulder to brush Remy’s. The contact jarred her and she tried to right herself before the touch deepened. Small hand reached out to stop herself and it landed not on her chair but on his leg. She felt the strong muscle tense beneath her light grip. As if scalded she jerked back. There was no hiding the contact from everyone at the table and she flushed, genuinely. Magnolia Sterling was a commoner among kings and she had just gripped the upper thigh of the second most powerful man at the table. “I am so sorry. Please, forgive me, Commander.” Blue eyes met blue, storm and ocean, longing and despair.

Remy leaned forward and met Lawrence’s eyes over the rim of the man’s crystal glass, which was tilted toward him in respectful acknowledgement. Again, the doctor could read nothing in the man’s emerald gaze beyond exactly what Lawrence wanted to be seen—warmth, in this case, with a hint of deference appropriate for addressing a Walther. Nevertheless, Remy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I should look forward to attending such a wedding,” Remy replied in kind, lifting his own glass in the Terril man’s direction. His gaze flicked to Madison, whose own eyes were cast down to her soup. “A union of true love over an arranged convenience is a rare treasure indeed.” He took a sip of wine, which burst sickly sweet over his tongue. “It should certainly be celebrated.”

“Hear, hear,” responded Lawrence, who reached up to run a hooked finger tenderly down Madison’s cheek.

Remy had never possessed a soul that favored violence, but in that moment, he struggled to suppress the urge to swing his fist directly into the blond man’s jaw.

As if adding insult on top of injury, Lawrence draped his hand over Madison’s upper thigh—not possessively, but rather with familiar affection, as easily as Remy might have done if circumstances had been different. The physician forced himself to take a spoonful of his soup, one measured swallow after another, despite the fact that his stomach roiled. If nothing else, he tried to take comfort in the fact that the Terril brother seemed to be treating her well, which was a claim so many others could not make. But even the thought of that sent his heart racing in thunderous protest and offered no solace at all, not when every cell in Remy’s body strained toward her impossible magnetic pull.

It should have been Remy. It was always meant to be Remy.

Anger simmered beneath his mask of indifference with such searing intensity that he feared it might melt the glue that held it tenuously in place. Rage and regret were hardly strange bedfellows, but feeling both at once left him pitching helplessly on a surging sea of emotion—and his hands were chained while the boat slowly took on water. He wanted to vomit. The prospect of those perfectly formed lips devouring Lawrence’s mouth, with Lawrence’s hands exploring the curves and angles of her body, her husky voice moaning Lawrence’s name…her belly swelling with Terril heirs…

But his thoughts could not stray far enough to avoid those imaginings, because the warmth radiating from the huntress’ presence at his side drew him back to the present like a relentless tide. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to that current. But knowing he could not—and never could—he could hardly bear their proximity. And though his relaxed expression belied the turmoil within, the physician was tightly coiled.

One course at a time, he told himself, even as he continued to be hyperconscious of Madison’s movements at his side—the way she tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear; the graceful way she dabbed her lips with a napkin, lipstick leaving the faintest of blushes on the white cloth. Yet maddeningly aware though he was of her mannerisms, he had not anticipated her reach for the salad dressing at the precise moment his own hand ventured for the same—and their fingers brushed.

Featherlight though the touch was, the shockwave that ricocheted up his arm and into his ribs seemed to shift the entirety of the room.

I want you always, Remy. Always. 

He pulled back in surprise and turned to face her, the echo of her physical touch tingling on the back of his hand—the ghost of a lightning strike, electric and powerful.

But mostly now.

“No apology necessary,” he managed to say after clearing his throat, noting the blush that bloomed across her nose.

Lawrence reached over from her left side with another one of his dazzling smiles. “Here, my love,” he said to her, leaning to pour from a different vessel. “No harm done.”

My love.

Remy’s blood turned to ice in his veins, but his expression was warm as summer sunshine. My love. The two words echoed through his mind like a delayed blast of thunder in the wake of their electric touch. How flat and off-key and wrong they felt, even in Lawrence’s smooth voice. But the lovestruck smile Madison wore as she gazed back at her new beau was a knife through Remy’s ribs, straight into his beating heart.

He cleared his throat once more and picked at the remainder of his salad. The Terrils had clearly gone to great expense to prepare this meal, yet Remy tasted none of it, the flavors rendered to ash on his tongue. He took another drink of wine, wishing it were something stronger.

He wasn’t prepared for Madison’s shoulder to collide with his, nearly knocking the chalice from his fingers. The burgundy liquid sloshed dangerously in the glass, which Remy placed deftly on the table before it could spill and mar the fine ivory tablecloth. But then suddenly her hand squeezed his thigh—across the long-healed pink scar she had sutured up herself, no less—and he gasped with surprise before he could stop the sound from leaving his throat.

It was enough of a commotion that the guests on their end of the table paused their conversations and looked over to them curiously. Madison’s face was perhaps the reddest he had ever seen it, and Remy felt his own cheeks redden beneath his well-groomed facial hair. The commander’s gaze swiveled to his son, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes as he then focused his attention on the offending young woman.

“You’ll forgive her, Commander,” Lawrence said quickly. For the first time that evening, Remy caught a glimpse of genuine feeling from the Terril man—horror, in this case, and concern. It occurred to the doctor that while Madison knew (at least deep down) that Remy was not so unforgiving as his father, Lawrence would have no idea. “Miss Sterling has come a long way, but, ah, clearly there is room for improvement.”

Before Remy could respond, the commander laughed. “It certainly seems my son has attracted Miss Sterling’s attention,” he drawled. “Lawrence, my good sir, you may have some competition for Magnolia’s affections after tonight.”

That was enough to draw a collective chortle from the other nearby guests, who returned to their conversations in hushed tones…but glanced in their direction periodically, some more covertly than others.

Reeling from the shock of the intimate touch, accidental though it had been, Remy forced a smile—but this one did not quite reach his eyes. “Lawrence,” he addressed, “might I have a private word with Miss Sterling?”

The high commander looked up suddenly with predatory interest, and the Terril brother placed a steadying hand on Madison’s shoulder. “Of course, Commander,” said Lawrence carefully. He knew he could not refuse the Walther heir’s request, just as he couldn’t have refused their presence at the dinner.

Elora, brows arched high with something between curiosity and alarm, weighed in with an airy laugh that did its best to melt the tension. “As long as you’re back before the main course,” she insisted melodically, as though nothing were amiss. “Will the corridor suffice, Commander, or…?”

“The corridor will suffice,” Remy agreed. He felt the eyes of the other guests upon him as he rose to his feet, maneuvering around the densely-packed chairs and offering a polite hand to the huntress. “I won’t keep you long, Miss Sterling.”

Lawrence shot his sister a quick look before donning his perfectly rehearsed smile, and he nodded to Madison as if giving permission. “I’ll be waiting,” he promised—both in reassurance to Madison and in subtle warning to Remy.

The corridor was blessedly empty when they pushed through the doors. The few electric sconces that remained illuminated had been lowered to a dim glow, and it took a moment for Remy’s eyes to adjust to the relative darkness after the warm light of the dining room.

He rounded on Madison as soon as they slipped around the corner, at last allowing the storm that brewed inside to darken his eyes and crease his brow. “What are you doing?” he demanded in a coarse whisper, his heartbeat accelerating. With the Terrils? With Lawrence? He kept those thoughts unspoken in fear he might come undone. Instead, he drew a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “What I mean is…what are you doing here?”

A startled noise left Remy’s perfect (lying) mouth and fearful blue eyes locked into his face. The soft wool of his military pants was thick, but not thick enough to hide the raised scar from her knowing fingers. That is what shocked her the most when her hand made contact, trying to right herself from leaning into him. Madison knew the precise number of stitches it took to secure the sutures in place. She recalled the faint tremble of her fingers as she drew the flesh together over the mushroom poultice. In the accidental touch, she was instantly thrown back to a forbidden space inside herself. She remembered his labored breaths. The strangled sound of his curses as she was nearly done, on the verge of fainting. The recollection of the next morning, his words of appreciation and dedication.

So I will protect you until my last breath, Madison Gallow, not because you need it, but because I need you. I love you.

The weight of the High Commander’s words crashed on her and she inhaled sharply, feeling trapped by the truth. Had he noticed their pull towards one another? Had he caught her glances at the heir, the appraising state at his physique, and the scruff along his jaw? Heat raced up her back and fanned out across her chest. Madison felt as though all her skin was aflame and everyone at the table was watching her burn.  A magnificent star roaring hotter and brighter as it threatened to implode, twisting into a dark hole to suck in everything around it.

Madison.

The smile Remy gave was the kind reserved for the militia they ran in to, posing as a married couple. The brooding dark politeness that was not internalized. The command in form of a question startled her and Madison did not have to feign alarm at his request. What she did have to do was hide the rage at his presumptuous nature. How dare he flaunt his station. How dare he demand time alone with her. How dare he.

I can’t get close enough to you, Madison.

The comforting hand of Lawrence Terril rested on her shoulder, the weight of it reminding her to keep her rage in check. Whatever happened, she had to be mindful not to give them away. The doctor and huntress may have history, but he was ultimately a Walther and Walthers notoriously hung their dissenters for treason. A small part of the blue-clad woman longed for the Terrils to decline the demand. She couldn’t be alone with him. She couldn’t maintain her composure alone.

He would undo her.

Yet, Remy offered her his hand. Skeptical gaze examined his outstretched, calloused palm, before noticing the scabs across tight knuckles brought about from sparring. She remembered those hands against her biceps, pushing down the plush robe she wore. They were rougher and bruised in comparison to the slender physician’s fingers that created pulses of liquid pleasure in the large bed at the inn. The flames burned hotter, higher. White hot emotion coursed through her. Madison grew certain that the surrounding guests could feel the heat radiating off the pair. Before she permitted herself to be pulled from the chair, dark head turned and pressed a fleeting kiss to Lawrence’s cheek.

I’d rather rot in the fucking ground than let this wasted society tell me how to live.

How those words he had spoken meant nothing now. Gregoray Remington Walther II was completely full of shit. With each step they took, Madison following him with a gentle swish of silk fabric, anger roiling inside of her. She examined his back in the perfectly tailored suit and just when they exited to the empty corridor, the fury bubbled over. The sharp whispered question made her bristle and she jerked back as though he had hit her. What was she doing? What was she doing?! The clarification a few seconds later did nothing to quell the disquiet.

“You have the fucking audacity to ask me what I am doing?” She snapped at him, mindful to keep her voice low despite her brimming anger.  While his eyes unleashed the dark hurricane churning in his tormented soul, Madison barely reigned in the blazing fire inside her own. “I am surviving, Commander.” Red lips spit the word at him and her fists balled tight to keep from striking him. Madison’s tendency towards violence was strong but hitting him now...it would not solve anything. It would not make her feel better. What would feel best would be the tight circle of his arms around her - the easy comfort of his mouth against her hair and his low vibrating hum against the crook of her neck. “I was betrayed by the only person, the one man that-“ the berating voice cracked and she didn’t realize she was struggling against a forming sob.

Immediately, the huntress turned her back on him and focused on the small statue of the Greek god Apollo that took up residence on one of the many tables lining the long hallway. The ache of his treachery pounded in her chest, threatening to break her ribs. The slow cadence of her forced breaths steadied her before she faced him once again. The sadness in her eyes was gone. She had not cried for him. She would not start now, with his stormy eyes on her.  “You don’t get to question me. You don’t get to be a part of my life anymore. Not after everything that you did. Not after everything that you hid from me. I don’t know what delusion you live in, Gregoray, but you’re not my partner anymore.” Each sentence was punctuated by a firm step forward, staring up just slightly into his eyes. Usually she hovered a few inches below his towering height, but with the added inches from the heels, she could glare at him more effectively. Their faces were hardly separated. She could smell the cedar cologne, see the little white scar on his neck. His face was the same as the one she had lovingly stated into a thousand times. It held the same eyes that glimmered with concern when she had nearly died of hypothermia.

“What are you doing here? Playing the part of the ever dutiful son? Is he grooming you to take over? Trying to find you a suitable wife to bear Walther heirs and continue the line of abuse and deceit?”

Even in her rage, a thread of golden jealousy wove through the tapestry of her words. The realization slammed into her so forcefully that she wavered in place. Madison still loved him. After everything he had done, every lie, every careful turn away from her to shield his tattoo, she still ached for him. She still wanted him. She wanted him to tell her how wrong he was. She wanted him to kiss her and never stop. She wanted him to tell her he loved her into her hair, her neck, between her breasts. She wanted to marry him and only him. She wanted all those things.

I love you. In the dark, in the light. At dawn. At high noon. At midnight. Always. And when you can’t find the words…I’ll fill in the blanks.

And she wanted to never see him again because the hurt, the pain, it was too much. How could he love her as she had loved him and keep that secret from her? How could he have done that? How?

“Why? Why did you do this to me?” She took a shaking step back, her entire body trembling.

As the soft echo of his voice faded in the dark corridor, the poignance of their isolation filled the cool air as palpably and mournfully as the mist they’d once traveled through in the mountains.

It was the first time since the incident in the woods that Remy and Madison had been alone together, truly alone.

His blood rushed deafeningly in his ears with the realization. For a moment—a singular moment, quick as the space between the rapid pulses of his heart—everything felt right again. It was as if they weren’t standing beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Terril estate, with checkered marble tile beneath their feet and a dining room full of guests stealing glances at the door to see when they would return to their chairs; it was as if Remy’s uniform were his tattered old coat, and Madison was draped in bear fur rather than cerulean silk.

Nevertheless, if they had learned anything in the recent agonizing stretch of months, it was that history had a cruel way of playing tricks on the present. Just as the ghost of his bloodline had returned to pull him back to a life he’d tried to escape, so too had Remy and Madison’s shared past come back to torment them now. Dangling before them was the memory of what once was, and what could never be again, tempting the former lovers with an embrace of warm familiarity that ultimately would only scald them.

But Remy was nothing if not used to the heat…and acclimated to the ache of its burn.

The fire he kept kindled for Madison had never once diminished. It was a perpetual smolder that had flared to life the moment she’d decided to spare him an arrow through his neck in the outskirts of Atlanta, and it burned as fervently now as it had since their lips first furiously united in the mountain cabin. But passion of such intensity wore many different faces, and the one scowling through the flames as Madison spoke took the form of anger.

Their lightning strike had ignited a wildfire.

“What am I doing? I’m trying to help you!” he hissed through gritted teeth, glancing around to ensure they were still alone in the corridor. In the thick of the argument, his voice lost all forced propriety. “You think I believe for one second that you’re shacking up with Lawrence Terril and calling it a fucking day?” His voice quavered with frustration. “I know your endgame, after all.” He held up his hands. “But don’t worry. You won’t see me sounding any alarms. Or maybe it just never occurred to you why I stayed a fugitive all this time.”

The physician’s gaze outlined the huntress’ svelte silhouette when she turned her back, and he tightened his fists until his nails cut half-moons into the palms of his hands. Do I not mean more than some nobody!? she’d once shouted at him, as wintry winds howled a wicked chorus outside their cabin. He tensed his jaw against the memory. You mean everything and you always have, he wanted to tell her now. He imagined sliding his arms around her slender waist, pulling her tight against him, and murmuring the words with his lips pressed to her ear. How can you not see it, my love? How can I make you understand that it was all for you, always?

When she turned around to face him once more, the ire in her gaze cut deep.

“Do you honestly believe…” Remy’s blue eyes flashed in the darkness, and he clenched his jaw, interrupting himself to force his voice lower. He drew out the pause, and when he continued, his tone was dark. “You think I wanted this? Any of this?” Thrusting out an arm, the physician gestured to the extravagant hallway and then to his uniform in one fluid movement. “I wanted you, Madison Gallow,” he whispered vehemently, his expression a hurricane.

Their faces were just inches apart, their gazes nearly level thanks to the huntress’ elevated heels. Her intoxicating perfume scented each inhale. “I wanted to tell you. I almost did, so many times…” Remy hated that his voice sounded like a plea through his fury. But wasn’t that what it was? “I was too afraid of losing you.”

Despite himself, his eyes flicked down to her lips, and he leaned forward infinitesimally.

But then he stepped back, fighting to tuck the storm of emotion neatly behind his rehearsed mask again. “But it seems I lost you anyway,” he said, bitter regret creeping into his tone.

Remy’s tone belied his words. He may not want to believe she had found a new lover, but part of him actually entertained the possibility. She sensed the jealous in the tight flicker of his jaw. Madison felt the irritation in pulses every time Lawrence touched her. It would be a lie to say that the idea didn’t thrill her. The guilty pleasure she was taking from his pain. Good. She wanted him to feel an ounce of the torment inflicted on her by his secrets.

“Not enough.” The whisper filled the space between them, their hot breath mingling in the minute space. “You didn’t want me enough to trust me. You didn’t want me enough to be honest with me.” Madison snarled the words back, low like the lioness she was.

The Northam heir withdrew from their close proximity and the cold air against her face was startling. The angry flames lapped against her heart, trying to stoke itself higher once again. But she had not failed to notice his stormy gaze on her lips. Madison felt surrounded by the comforting aroma of cedar. Thrown back into the sea of memories, of every time he kissed her, of every anatomy lesson, of every time he confessed his love for her.  The heat between them consumed the furious fire inside of her, turning into white hot need. The huntress’ gaze turned lascivious without purposeful intention as she looked him over. Everything about his stance, his tone, the hard set of his jaw resonated with her recollection of the cabin.

“Fuck you, Remy.” Madison exhaled, failing to have the forethought to call him Commander or Gregoray or another insult sure to burn him. Instead, she closed the small space between them, not even checking to see if anyone had entered the hall without their initial notice. Crimson lips caught his in a bruising kiss, where her hands quickly tangled him his perfectly coiffed hair. Lithe frame pressed against his body, as if she could get close enough to recapture some of their relationship that had been lost amongst the revelation on that hilltop.

And fuck, he tasted the same. Beneath the wine and lemon dressing, he tasted like home.

I hardly heard what you said because I was too busy thinking about how much better this would taste from your lips. 

Madison deepened the kiss, parting her lips for him. The ache began to throb in her chest, that love she had attempted to suppress for the past months. Desire flared like a beacon, drawing him in. They turned and her back pressed against the table. She needed to be closer. She needed more. Hoisting herself up with one hand and the other wrapping tightly in his jacket to keep them close. Slender legs wrapped around his waist, dress hoisted high on her thighs.  It lasted longer than it should have but the familiarity of it, the need of it, she couldn’t stop herself.

Until she could. Until the flicker of logic crept in and reminded her that he was Gregoray Remington Walther II. And this couldn’t happen. As quickly as she started, Madison pushed him away. Lowering herself back to the ground, she stared at him. Labored chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. “Tell them I retired for the evening.” Her tone was matter of fact and she took a few retreating steps towards the stairs to her room.

“You did lose me, Commander.” Bright blue eyes flickered with so much pain. “And you have no one to blame but yourself.”

And then she was gone, ascending the stairs and disappearing from sight, where she leaned against the door of her room and cried.

His name. She’d said his name.

Remy.

Not the venomous Commander, or the wounding Gregoray—the two she’d already hurled at him like insults, like daggers.

Remy.

Fuck you, Remy.

He watched her ocean gaze darken, noticed her attention stray to his lips and back again. And in a blur of blue silk and milky skin, she was upon him, touching him, devouring him.

Nothing was as it should have been, but neither had anything felt so earth-movingly correct in the seven months they’d been separated.

Remy Sterling melted into her like wax against her searing flame. He wrapped his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her close, her newly toned and strengthened abdominal muscles flexing beneath his touch. Where his tailored uniform was a rigid woolen barrier that he longed to rip from his torso, Madison’s dress was hardly a whisper of fabric. His fingers roamed her sculpted figure hungrily, desperately, the silk over her skin as smooth and supple as water. Her body had changed with proper nutrition and training, but still it was the same huntress he had always adored and desired—the way her chest heaved, the way her lips tasted, even the heated scent of her skin was all Madison Gallow. And she was as intoxicating now as she had always been.

Leave it to a doctor to explain the anatomy of the heart before giving it away.

The physician pressed her roughly against the corridor table and hoisted her upward, his breath hitching as she wrapped her legs around his waist and brought their bodies even closer together. His palm traced daringly up her thigh while his other hand cradled her neck, and he pulled their parted lips together as ravenous heat roared like wildfire outward from his core. He felt her back arch against his chest, and he almost breathed her name…

But then she was pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart as well as their bodies, and he sprang back as if slapped, his own chest heaving as she spoke. The slight rasp in her voice sparked that familiar desire all over again, and he swallowed it back. “I…I’ll tell them,” he murmured breathlessly, watching as she retreated down the hall and into the darkness.

But not even the dim light of the corridor could disguise the expression in her eyes when she turned back at the doorway. An ocean of misery, of betrayal, of soul-consuming pain.

She was right. There was no one to blame but himself.

A sigh hissed through pursed lips swollen from clandestine kisses. In Madison’s wake, a shock of icy despair replaced the fire that had blazed in his chest only moments ago. He tamped it down as best he could, which was impossible considering he could still taste her on his lips… He glanced to the large gilded mirror that hung on the opposite wall and ran his hands through his thoroughly mussed hair, then wiped away the faint remnants of crimson lipstick at the corners of his mouth. He rethreaded the gold aiguillettes of his uniform and straightened his high collar. As though nothing happened.

But, of course, everything had happened.

Steeling himself against what awaited him in the banquet hall, he slipped quietly inside just as the main course arrived.

“Welcome back, Gregoray,” the commander drawled, his hazel eyes shining with a look Remy did not care to identify as they searched his son’s face. “And just in time. Elora was fretting about having to delay the main course.”

Remy slid into his seat with a smile as convincing as his father’s—a fact he would have been sickened to know. He could feel Lawrence’s eyes on him to his right. “Miss Sterling sends her regards and apologies, but she has retired for the evening,” he announced, grateful that his hands had ceased quivering as he reached for his own drink.

The commander’s brows arched high onto his forehead, and he concealed a grin behind his wine glass as he took a drink. “A pity,” he said after a swallow. “She was certainly pleasing to the eyes.”

Remy turned to the Terril brother. “Surely nothing to worry about,” he said with nonchalance.

“Surely,” Lawrence returned. Subtle cracks in his unreadable mask betrayed a measure of discomfort, but he voiced no complaints. Elora, as ever, continued on as though there had been no change in attendance at all.

The servants quickly, and without ceremony, cleared away Madison’s chair and place setting. The air felt cold in the huntress’ absence at his side, and he longed to feel her heat again, so fresh again in his memory…even the wine tasted stale in comparison to the flavor of it from her eager lips. You did lose me, Commander. He forced himself to eat a respectable amount of the main course, his behavior on autopilot—smiles, nods, the occasional respectful chuckle—while his thoughts whirled out of control.

He wanted to jump out of his skin. He wanted to get out of there, to put as much distance as he could between himself and the huntress. When dessert came, he politely declined. “I have training early tomorrow morning,” he explained. “I’m afraid I’ll never get out of bed if I give into any more temptation tonight.” Truer words than they knew.

“We do have early business,” his father agreed, rising to his feet at the head of the table. The guests further away looked up in combination of surprise and alarm. The men in military blues rose to their feet out of deference, with a few other civilians following suit. The commander held up a hand and smiled, dismissing them with a casual wave as he, Remy, and the generals headed for the front door.

Elora glided alongside the commander, her arm hooked through his. Lawrence brought up the rear, instructing a young boy to inform the chauffeurs to bring around the motorcar. His tone, Remy noticed, was stern. They gathered in the front atrium, bidding their farewells to the Terrils—Elora kissed him on both cheeks; Lawrence offered a traditional salute and bow—until a bright flash in the driveway alerted them to the arrival of their ride.

A burst of frigid winter wind pushed inside as the butler opened the ornate front doors. The doctor relished the feeling of it on his face as they stepped outside. His father led the way down the long stone staircase, flanked by Mandeville and Crenshaw, with Remy trailing farther behind.

He saw the flakes in the golden glow of the motorcar’s headlights first, catching the light like heavy fireflies as they fluttered to the cobblestones. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the sky had let loose a wintry deluge of snow, with flakes that clung readily to his hair and uniform. In just moments, the world was coated in a thin layer of shimmering white.

Remy slowed his pace, heart suddenly racing against his ribs. And though no piece of him expected to see her waiting there, he looked over his shoulder…searching for one last glimpse nonetheless.

Because he would always look back.

Always.

The Commander’s son returned without their ward and Lawrence gathered every ounce of his self control not to beat the man bloody. He had no interest in Madison romantically but since finding her drunken and heartbroken in the bar a protective nature had developed between them. If Gregoray had hurt her...if so much as a single hair was missing from her head...

Elora sensed her brother’s tension in the tone of his ‘surely’ and quickly set about rekindling the polite dinner conversation. Astute gaze noticed the pleasure that the commander took from the woman’s absence. If Walther Jr. was as malicious as his approving father believed then even Elora had a small trickle of fear about where Madison ended up. Yet, the woman was a savant of high society and did not let it phase her.  She bent people to her will with nothing but a flutter of dark lashes over emerald eyes. Everything resumed until the heir declined dessert. He was clearly not accustomed to the niceties. The entire meal was to be savored from the how d'oeuvres to the dessert port served at the conclusion. Despite her irritation at their early departure, there was a bit of relief stitched into her. The Terril rose with the High Commander and sauntered towards the front door. “Don’t make me wait so long for your company again, High Commander.” She kissed both his cheeks in the doorway. Snow began to fall in thick, beautiful flakes. Lawrence stood stiff, bowing appropriately and counting down the moments until he could race up the stairs to check on the Gallow girl.

Madison had not cried so hard since she found her parents on the floor of their home all those years ago. Racking sobs escaped her as her back pressed against the cool wood of her bedroom door. The thick, ugly tears coated her face as her fingertips lingered on her swollen lips. Everything trembled as she attempted to take gulps of air to calm herself. The huntress had not permitted herself to cry over him for seven months. Not one tear had been shed since her eyes fell on the unique navy of his serpentine tattoo. But now that she had held him, tasted him, heard his voice say her name...every careful barricade she had erected to protect herself crumbled to rubble around her.

Minutes passed. Hours? Madison wasn’t certain as she stripped of her blue gown and stepped into the warm waters of the shower. It rained over her as she began to scrub every inch of herself that he had touched. Her cheek, her neck, her thighs. As if that would erase the mistake that she had just made. Stepping from the expansive bathroom wrapped in the comforting cotton of her robe, she made her way like a wraith to the window.  Cerulean eyes watched the snow fall in thick flakes down to the ground below. Long damp hung cling to her neck and she began to brush it slowly as she look at the ground begin to accumulate the winter snow. Red rimmed her eyes but she no longer sobbed as she leaned in the window frame. As she stood, an elegant motorcar was pulled around, making tracks in the snow. It must not be as late as she thought with guests still departing. And then there he was, framed by car light and flakes of snow.

Madison’s breath caught in her chest and she dropped her hairbrush to the floor. She watched his broad shoulders as he moved away, recognizing his movements no matter how much muscle he gained. She begged whatever powers tied them together that he not turn around. Shaking fingers pressed against her lower lip, still feeling the delightful pressure from their tryst earlier.

And then he turned. He turned. The breath she was holding at the sight of him exhaled shakily. His eyes examined the entryway, undoubtedly staring at Elora and Lawrence.  The High Commander and two flanking generals materialized but they were as noticeable as large flakes to the huntress. Solitary focus remained on the doctor, clad in his militia blues that he had clearly straightened after their affair in the hall.  She silently prayed that he would not look upward.

Remy did and their eyes locked through the haze of swirling snowflakes. The pain in hers reflected in his even across the distance between them. Madison had never seen him so distraught, even when he was in turmoil over forgetting his faux tattoo or when she survived after falling in the river. How could he begin to feel what she felt? How could he know her anguish? The physician had broken her heart into nearly irreparable pieces and the only time she had felt whole, felt like herself, was with his hands on her. Everything was right  the second they touched, briefly over dinner, when she had rested her hand on his leg. When they kissed...

Madison didn’t realize she was crying again until firm, large hands gripped either side of her face.

“Did he hurt you? Are you alright? What did he do?” Lawrence was suddenly inspecting every part of her. He forced her sleeves upward and examined the fair skin of her arms. Brushing back the damp strands of hair, frantic hands ran over her neck and shoulders before settling on her face again. “Madison. Madison.” Elora had not joined him, instead seeing to their remaining guests. It was all too much for the poor girl and she melted into Lawrence’s arms.

“No. No.” She shook her head back and forth as her tears soaked the beautiful fabric of his custom suit. “No he just... I can’t stop...” 

Strong arms enfolded her and they sank to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The man stroked her hair over and over until it began to dry and Elora appeared in the open door. She crossed her arms across her chest as she leaned against the frame.  The Terrils exchanged glances and a silent conversation occurred between them as frantic sins turned into muffled whimpers. There had never been anyone to comfort her like this except for Remy. Remy had always been there to console her, to right her capsized ship in the storm of her emotions. But he was gone and Lawrence had stepped in the only way he could. Eventually, he scooped her up and laid her in her bed, allowing the dogs up once the servants had finished cleaning after the dinner.

“She is a disaster.” Elora said, combing through dark hair with her fingers. “Did he hurt her?”

“No. I don’t think he would.” Lawrence mused after seeing the state of the huntress. Emotion hung between the Northam heir and his ex-lover. “She is heartbroken.”

“Is there a difference?” Elora’s words drew a quick, sharp look from her brother. “What?” She added, irritated at his silent rebuff.

“We did not have any time to prepare her. At least she didn’t slit the High Commander’s throat with her steak knife. “ Elora snorted in response, rolling her eyes.

“If I can flirt shamelessly with that man then the least Madison can do is not kill him at the dinner table.” But her tone changed to allow a bit more sympathy. They hovered in the hallway outside the sleeping woman’s door. The wheels were turning, fashioning new avenues and pathways for their plans. “Now that she’s seen him...there may be some possibilities here for us.”

“Suchas?”

“He is clearly taken with her still, despite the admirable display he put on tonight. I don’t even think his father noticed. Whatever she manages to do in bed clearly put him on a leash.”

“Elora.” Lawrence growled before affectionately snorting. She smiled knowingly in response.

“She may be able to sway him. Or lure him. If necessary, eliminate the ruler and heir at once with her help. Or...” the conspiratorial tone thickened. “We could use him. Easier transition of power after the High Commander’s death.” Lawrence expression turned trouble at his sister’s words.

“We’d have to ask Clover. And we’d have to strengthen Madison’s resolve. He affects her just as much as she does him. It could backfire.”

“Leave Madison and the heir to me.” Elora smiled knowingly as she sauntered down the hall to her bedchamber.

The electric lights inside the Terril mansion glowed warm and golden in the blue-white winter night, as if beckoning those caught in the storm to the open-armed comfort of its embrace. But Remy knew better than to believe its welcoming charade. Beyond the limestone walls dwelled only unabashed ire, whose sole source of heat was not gentle flames tame on the hearth, but rather the scorched earth of Madison’s hatred unchecked.

Yet even through the fluttering curtain of snow that descended from low-slung clouds, there was no mistaking her silhouetted form in the window above. Remy halted in his tracks, the boot prints in his wake fading as the precipitation fell harder and the wind picked up its breath. Heavy, swollen snowflakes dotted the wool of his uniform and alighted on his hair, and the bitter cold air stung his cheeks, but he felt none of it—he stared up, meeting her gaze through the shining glass, and felt his tenuous grasp of composure slip away the moment he registered the anguish on her face.

You did lose me, Commander.

Through the torrent of flakes, his expression opened to reveal his own deep sorrow. And the worst of it wasn’t just that they were done, or that he would never find her in his arms again—it was that he had betrayed her. In saving her, he had also damned her, inflicting the heaviest of pain upon the woman he loved with his whole being, the brightest beacon in the darkest of worlds. The last soul who deserved such torment.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

The stolen passion in the darkened corridor had been nothing more than the heat of their former love burning out in a final clandestine crescendo—a supernova, staggering and brilliant, yet doomed from its very first flare. Madison had made it clear that there was no returning from that.

And worse…she didn’t want to. Remy tore himself away and slipped into the shelter of the motorcar.

The warmth of its interior felt too thick against his cheeks, which were tinged pink with cold beneath his well-kempt beard. As they drove slowly out of the driveway, Remy felt three pairs of eyes settle upon him. His father and the two generals stared at him with various permutations of amusement—and Remy realized with a pit in his stomach that they were still thinking about Madison’s failure to return to dinner, and all the horrifying things her absence implied.

The commander was the first to speak. “I trust the Sterling girl will recover?” he questioned, hazel eyes glittering with morbid curiosity in the dimness.

The Sterling girl. Remy hated the sound of his adoptive last name upon his father’s tongue…and hated it even more that he’d used it to refer to Madison in any capacity. “She will,” he replied, loathing the coolness of his own tone even as his blood boiled with disgust. “Lawrence Terril has nothing to worry about.”

The generals both chuckled lewdly. His father’s smirk broadened to a predatory grin. “Does he not, Gregoray?” the commander drawled. “A single word and she could be yours, you know.”

Bile burned the back of Remy’s throat. “No,” was all he said, curt and simple. Let them believe what they want.

The commander’s smile did not fade. “I suppose it’s no surprise that your tastes are far more refined.”

Remy turned to his father, whose gaze bore a look resembling pride perhaps for the first time.

“A pretty painted face and an expensive cut of silk does not a lady make,” the commander went on matter-of-factly. “As you saw plainly tonight. A wild filly might wear a bridle, and she may be an exciting ride”—the generals exchanged knowing glances—“but she will never be fit for dressage.”

“Of course not,” Remy retorted, perhaps too quickly.

But his father interpreted the edge in his voice as a sign of agreement and nodded his approval. “You may have whomever you want, of course. You’ll find Miss Sterling won’t be the first starstruck doll to fall at your feet. But I assure you there are plenty of well-bred options fit for a Walther.” He smiled again. “You are Northam’s most eligible bachelor.”

The conversation mercifully shifted back to politics, and Remy stared past his own haunted reflection in the glass to watch the snowflakes streak past the car. The journey back to the Walther residence took twice as long in the inclement weather, and Remy struggled to maintain his air of indifference as his thoughts strayed back to Madison—the heat of her body wrapped around his, the press of her ravenous lips, the fury in her eyes. He felt his own fire send up a yearning flare in response to the memory. But sadness quickly tamped it down, starving the flames to embers; they were not to be, never again.

He returned his focus to his father’s conversation in a desperate attempt to hold himself together.

“Well, Magistrate Niles was useless,” Crenshaw was saying, annoyance creeping into his voice

“Yes,” the commander agreed, absently stroking his silvery facial hair. By contrast, he sounded nonplussed. “But the man has never been one to shy away from talking about his own accomplishments. I think he simply does not have the answers.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Mandeville said, in his low, even tone. “I will speak with Niles about refining our information extraction protocols.” A euphemism, Remy knew, for interrogation—specifically, methods of torture. Beneath the wool of his uniform, gooseflesh rose on his arms. “But thoroughly as Niles typically operates, it seems more likely that these rats simply don’t have what we need.”

“I suspected as much myself.” The commander pursed his lips in thought. “Not even the best efforts can coax forth information they do not themselves possess. Which means either this ‘Clover’ fellow, if indeed it is one man, runs a slipshod operation that will burn itself out before it gains any footing…or we are not giving him enough credit for his aptitude in safeguarding his own identity.” A soft but decidedly wicked laugh shook the gold epaulettes on his shoulders. “Either way, they will be crushed to dust.”

The motorcar turned, its tires groaning beneath rapidly accumulating snow. They came to a slow halt beneath the porte-cochère and exited the vehicle. Remy dismissed himself from his father and the two generals, who proceeded to the commander’s study to wrap up their business, but he did not head to his quarters. Instead, he strode toward the back doorway that led to the gardens, hardly noticing the alarmed staff averting their gazes at the sight of him walking with determination in full formal regalia.

The snow was plush beneath his boots as he stepped through the building drifts. The gardeners had long since prepared the grounds for the harsh assault of winter, wrapping sensitive shrubs in thick burlap and layering the soil with protective mulch, and it was as good as abandoned now. Remy treaded silently despite the polished dress boots that were not made for weathering the elements, his footsteps barely a whisper in the night. Madison might have been proud…but for the uniform on his back.

The flakes grew finer as they coated his hair, clung to his beard, stuck to his shoulders. He stopped his trek at the very far edge of the garden, a good hundred yards from the house. From this distance, obscured though it was through the hedges and the mist and the shroud of night, the massive Walther residence could have been any structure. Without preamble, his thoughts wandered to the cabin in the mountains. Where they had almost remained to claim it as their own, forever. Where they had first kissed. Where Madison had nearly died. Where they had crafted poignant vows to one another on a night not unlike this one, nestled into the shelter of one another’s arms as the blizzard howled outside…

Grief pummeled him like a deluge then, and a shiver rattled his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He wanted to jump out of his skin, to leave behind his collection of scars and purge the memory of her maddening touch—to rid himself of every inch her deft hands had brushed, every shudder that had ever quaked his muscles, every wave of pleasure that had crashed upon his shores. And he wished, suddenly, heartbreakingly, that his final glimpse of her had been that day seven months ago outside the city…that he could have imagined her living on, happily, somewhere far from the perils of Thebesian life, away from the militias and bandits. As far away from the commander and his son as she could possibly get.

But even that was a falsity, a lie. Because as much as Remy wanted to imagine Madison leading an idyllic life in the countryside, free now of his baggage and the dangers of the woods, the reality was that he had worried after her every hour of every day of their separation. After all, how many times had they narrowly escaped death together in the wilds? Had she managed to fight off the brigands in the forest alone? Had she stayed warm by a fire, kept herself and the dogs fed? Healed from her wounds? Moved on?

Yet all this time, she had been but a handful of miles away. Safe. Warm. Fed.

And, it seemed, loved. By another.

He balled his fists until his arms shook from the effort, nails biting crescents into his palms. You’re not my partner anymore, she’d hissed, the words a venom. Her voice resounded through his memory as though she stood screaming in his ear, unaffected by the snow that muffled everything else. He looked up into the flakes with closed eyes, focusing on the silence of the storm. Fucking silence. These were the consequences of his silence, repercussions not just for the blood in his veins, but the secrets he had buried.

Anger—with himself, with the world, even with Madison—was doused in quick succession by an immense sadness, pain from a wound reopened that he foolishly hoped had begun to heal. But the physician, of all people, should have known that a sated ache was not always a sign of recovery; a laceration was still a laceration even if it couldn’t be felt. An analgesic was not a cure.

And Remy was a long way from healed.

————

Despite the density of its wool, his dress uniform was soaked with snowmelt when he returned to his quarters. Even his hair, dark with moisture, was lightly frozen at the very tips. Remy hung the jacket and trousers carefully in the shower to catch the drips, gritting his teeth against the thought that he might have ruined the fine garment in his emotional haze.

It was well after midnight now, but the reflection of the snow outside cast an eerie, daylike glow in his dark bedroom. Without turning on the electric lights, he padded over to the sideboard and poured himself a generous glass of whiskey.

He perched on the edge of the bed and stared through the sheer curtains to the flakes that still fell outside. With a burning swallow of alcohol, he realized his fatal mistake had been holding onto hope—and that despite everything, a part of him had never stopped clinging to the idea that he might reunite with the huntress, as though he might wake from the dream, the nightmare. But now…

He took another long drink. This was it. The first night of the rest of his life that he would be without her, truly without her. No glimmering maybes, no wishful perhapses. A definite, irrefutable severance.

As he turned to pull down the plush duvet, he noticed an envelope resting against the pillows. Gregoray Walther II, it read in slanted script on the front. The back was sealed with a familiar crest pressed into navy wax—two snakes coiled around a winged blade. He scowled and ran his fingertips over the impression before he broke it in half to read the message inside.

Gregoray,
I request your presence at HQ at Compound tomorrow afternoon at 4 o’clock for a strategy briefing.
—Father 

Remy barked a laugh and threw the parchment into the fading embers in the fireplace. It caught easily, blazing to life for only a moment before it dissolved to smoke and ash. Of course the man had the audacity to sign it Father. He swallowed the last of his drink and buried himself in bed, hoping for a few hours’ solace from his thoughts before he rose for early training.

————

Although Remy excelled at close physical combat, it did him little good to limit his skills to what he could do with only his hands and feet. General Belvedere insisted on lessons in weapons handling and marksmanship at least twice per week, especially after sensing the doctor’s general aversion to anything larger or more powerful than a dagger.

That particular morning, in what was perhaps the universe playing a callous joke, Belvedere presented Remy with an archer’s bow.

“It’s not my weapon of choice either,” the general admitted, mistaking Remy’s sullen reaction for distaste. He nocked an arrow and fired it into one of the large cork targets mounted to the south wall. The sharp tip buried itself just left of the bullseye. “But you will learn to be competent enough.”

Remy examined the bow in his hands. It was finely carved, if simplistic; the polished cherry wood glistened against his palm as he braced himself against its tension. Before the general could offer instruction, Remy found his hands moving practically on their own accord­—finding the balance, feeling the taut stretch of the wood, grasping the arrow’s shaft against the bowstring. It was as though Madison were cradled behind him as she had done in the woods during their lessons, her gloved fingers tantalizing against his own bare skin as she repositioned his hands and corrected his stance amongst the trees.

He fired. The arrows were lighter than he was accustomed to, and the tip landed just high of center…not much worse than the general’s attempt. Madison would have teased him with a scowl, then rewarded his improvement with a kiss.

Belvedere, on the other hand, clicked his tongue in a rare display of approval. “You have experience in archery,” he observed, oblivious to the heaviness of his trainee’s heart.

Remy studied the curve of the weapon in his grasp, silently comparing it to Madison’s prized bow. “I had a skilled teacher…before,” he muttered, running his thumb along a dark knot in the surface. “I’m a little out of practice now.”

“That’s why we’re here. Now, try again.”

And he did. Over and over again. Until the general dismissed himself, and Remy’s hands shook from effort. Just one more, he told himself, one time after another. Because each arrow that flew felt like a fresh breath of his huntress, whether it found its mark—straight through his heart—or simply clattered to the floor.

————

Two weeks later, Remy found himself flat on his back, blinking sweat from his eyes as he stared at the vaulted ceiling of the Beloit. The peachy light of dawn filtered in through the gym’s tall windows, casting soft shadows across the exposed rafters.

General Quinnley Belvedere rolled his shoulders back and looked down, his lips twisting into a half-smile. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you these past few weeks, sir, but I’m pleased to report that you’re improving.”

Remy tried to laugh, but it came out as a bitter gasp. He’d lost count of the number of times the general had bested him, leaving him panting and bruised on the padded gymnasium floor. “Improving—the number of times—you kick my ass—maybe,” he breathed, rising back to his feet. He pressed a hand to his side, where a deep blue blemish blossomed along his ribs.

“The High Commander’s son trains with no one but the best,” Quinn replied. He stated it as matter-of-factly as telling the time of day, but his amber-brown eyes darkened as he said it.

“Again,” Remy prompted, assuming a braced fighting stance. Sweat glistened over his bare torso, and his blue eyes contained their usual storm.

Quinn did not react. “The High Commander has requested your presence at Compound this afternoon,” he said. “It might be best if you did not show up with more bruises than you already have.”

Bristling, the doctor maintained his pose.

But the general turned away, retrieving a towel from the stack along the wall. “The training courts at Compound are my domain,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The High Commander and I believe your presence will…inspire our young recruits.”

Remy eased his stance, but the hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the way the general said inspire. He had a feeling terrify was a better descriptor.

“I certainly hope he’s right. Winter is always a difficult time, especially the lower levels.” Quinn shrugged on his shirt and jacket, then ran his fingers through his dark hair to straighten it. “I apologize for cutting our time short, but I’m expected back at Compound to prepare for your arrival.”

Remy nodded his dismissal. “Very well,” he said. “I will see you this afternoon.”

The general saluted and made his departure, leaving Remy humming with a residual ardor that working out on his own did not lessen. He cleaned up after a quick luncheon, his limbs still buzzing with an energy that now felt apprehensive more than anything.

It had been weeks since the fateful dinner at the Terril estate, and ever since, his father had begun to introduce Remy to more and more of the military’s inner workings. Where previously he had visited Compound only once or twice a fortnight for whatever meeting the commander assigned, he had now made the trek more times in the past three weeks than he had collectively in the prior months. Strategy sessions, political talks, administrative downloads…high-level, high-ranking, highly-classified briefings that indicated, much to Remy’s revulsion, that his father had begun to trust him.

But never had he been paraded, his rank and status put on display. Whatever his father and Belvedere had planned, it couldn’t be good. Even far beyond the walls of Thebes, the reputation of the militia’s training program preceded it—that a high percentage of those forced into military servitude did not survive to graduate, and those who did were left with physical and mental scars they could never erase. The outlying training posts were reputed to be harsh enough, but those were children’s playgrounds compared to the station within the capital borders.

Remy dressed in his standard military blues, a few steps down from the ornate uniform he’d worn to the Terrils’ the previous evening, but still undeniably polished and sharp. With the overnight snowfall, it was impossible for the motorcar to maneuver the drifts; instead, a carriage awaited him drawn by a team of four black horses. He climbed inside and they sped off to Compound, passing quickly through the checkpoint gates and delivering Remy directly outside the Headquarters building he had grown to know since his initial arrival.

He found his father waiting in the same drafty conference hall where they had faced one another for the first time seven months prior.

“Ah, Gregoray, excellent,” the commander greeted, rising to his feet with a perfectly convincing smile. He gestured to the door. “Belvedere will be expecting us.”

The recruits’ annex was a small fortress within the larger stronghold of the military compound. Ancient red brick walls surrounded a series of multi-story dormitories and a long stretch of old warehouses, which Remy now knew housed the training courts. They passed through well-guarded gates and entered a narrow limestone building, where General Belvedere awaited them along with three other officers Remy didn’t recognize. They saluted in unison, crossing their fists over their hearts and bowing slightly at the waist.

“Lieutenant Colonel Andersen,” the commander greeted. “Major Havtek. Major Percy. I’d like to formally introduce you to my son, Commander Gregoray Walther.”

They saluted again, which Remy returned with a stiff bow of his own.

“And, of course, you and General Belvedere are already well acquainted,” the commander went on with a smile.

Belvedere nodded to Remy. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing. He led the group to a staircase that descended to a broad tunnel, the passage brightly illuminated with the steady light of oil lanterns mounted to arched walls. “We have recently begun to implement revised training curriculum,” Belvedere explained as they walked. He glanced to Remy, who was evidently the only one of their group not already in the know. “The High Commander tasked me last winter with redesigning our standards and protocols for new recruits. Trial classes have thus far demonstrated many potential benefits of our new methodology.”

They pushed through a door at the opposite end of the tunnel, and a gust of cool air rushed against them…along with the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. Remy glanced to his father, whose eyes shone with a familiar raptorial gleam.

“The emphasis is on real-world application of skills,” the general continued, leading them up a short staircase. “It is more immersive than what we have done in the past.”

A series of faraway popping noises were followed by an equally distant and muffled scream, animalistic but still obviously human. Immediately Remy’s heart began to race. “And what does that entail, exactly?” he asked, looking to Belvedere.

His wariness must have come across as skepticism, because it was his father who answered instead. “See for yourself,” the commander crowed.

They passed through another set of locked metal doors, which led to a vast chamber divided in two by a single concrete wall that stretched nearly to the ceiling rafters. In the open air, the popping sounds were undeniably gunshots—but most deafening was the choir of whimpers.

Along the pockmarked concrete divider stood five bloodied prisoners, four men and one woman, black cloths tied over their eyes and stuffed into their mouths. They were tethered to the wall with chains, metal shackles digging into emaciated wrists and ankles. Opposite them, and nearest Remy, was a row of ten teenaged soldiers dressed in khaki, each clutching a pistol pointed down range.

If it weren’t for the outrage that rocketed through the physician in that precise moment, he might have been sick.

A lower-ranking overseer in blue saluted the group of visitors and blew a piercing whistle. The recruits placed their weapons on the shooting tables and turned to face them, saluting in unison. They remained bowed until the overseer called for ease. Remy barely looked at them; his eyes were locked down range, his fury barely concealed behind a severe knitted brow. He could feel Belvedere’s cold stare, and his father’s eager one, even as the overseer spoke his introductions. He heard none of it. When at last Remy turned back to his company, the line of youths only a handful of paces away visibly flinched.

“Who are your human targets, then?” he demanded, thrusting out a hand toward the bleeding detainees.

“Convicted prisoners, sentenced to death,” Belvedere stated silkily, a twitch of a smile pulling at his lips. “Traitors, to be specific. We found we could make them useful. Their deaths can give something back to us.”

“Valuable experience to our promising young hopefuls,” the commander agreed, beaming over at the recruits as warmly as if they were meeting for brunch, not standing on a killing field.

Remy’s mind reeled. For all he had heard about the grueling regimen for the soldiers themselves, he had not expected to be confronted with this breed of atrocity today. But what could he do? Flanked by some of the most powerful men in Northam, including the notorious Chief Overseer of Training—whose deadly prowess in combat and weaponry Remy had experienced firsthand, with varying stages of healing bruises to prove it—he was paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake. It went against everything he stood for as a physician…and a human being.

General Belvedere was nodding along. “Whatever personal qualms the recruits bring with them are quickly extinguished,” he went on. “The earlier we can acclimate them to the realities of their service, the easier time they will have, and the more quickly they adapt. We also find that throwing them in the proverbial deep end of the lake quickly reveals who will swim and who will sink.”

The commander clapped Belvedere on the shoulder. “This is precisely the forward-thinking our next generation of soldiers need,” he proclaimed, again with the charismatic smile. “General Belvedere is a mastermind. Shall we have a demonstration, then?” The commander nodded to the squirrelly overseer, who blasted his whistle twice. An unholy wail of anticipation clawed its way from the throat of one of the prisoners. The woman sunk to her knees with a clatter of chains.

The recruits each grabbed their pistols, many of them with shaking hands. “Aim!” the overseer called. “Fire.”

An explosion of shots rang out, most missing their targets completely and chipped at the concrete behind. But a few bullets found flesh—muffled screams drowned out by the barrage of fire. A shoulder. A leg. A grazed forearm.

The weapons were .22-caliber, light enough to prevent anything less than a perfect shot from becoming a killing blow…but not so light that they couldn’t inflict severe bodily damage. And in the quivering hands of inexperienced boys, it was death by a thousand cuts.

It was torture. And he had to do something.

In three long, swift strides, Remy closed the gap between himself and the nearest recruit. “Give me the gun,” Remy growled at the boy. The pale teenager froze, eyes bulging—doomed prey in the shadow of a wolf.

The other shots trailed off and ceased. “Give me the gun,” snarled Remy in the raw silence that followed.

The recruit’s trembling fingers dropped the pistol to the floor with a dramatic clatter. Remy swept it up, then rose with the weapon extended in one graceful motion. The boy leapt back and tripped over himself in terror, fully expecting the barrel to be rounded at him for his mistake. But Remy took aim down range and fired—five bullets, five marks—ending the prisoners’ suffering one at a time in quick succession.

Their bodies fell like sluggish, disconnected dominoes and slumped to the iron-stained concrete.

Remy replaced the empty pistol on the shooting table and turned slowly to face the officers. His hands shook—from anger, from fear, from adrenaline—and he clasped them firmly behind his back. Belvedere’s face was an unreadable mask, but his posture was rigid; Remy knew the man well enough from training to recognize the tension he held in his shoulders. The commander had dropped his smile, but his eyes still shone, this time with something akin to amusement…or worse, approval.

Remy whirled to face the recruits, the words he spoke bitter as bile on his tongue. “A waste of valuable resources on novice shooters,” he said, his voice tight but calm. He allowed some of his disgust to show in his face, allowing them to think his revulsion was in fact disappointment in the boys’ performances. “Ammunition and targets.”

“A fair observation,” General Belvedere replied. “And a fine demonstration of marksmanship from the High Commander’s heir. Skill you lot should take care to emulate. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Smith?”

The lower overseer straightened his posture and crossed a fist over his chest. “Absolutely, General, sir.”

“Commander Walther is right,” Belvedere went on. “I was assured your class had earned this privilege. If you will report to my office this evening, Sergeant Smith, I would like to speak with you.” His words were syrupy but dangerous, and the sergeant’s face blanched. Remy wondered suddenly if by putting the five prisoners out of their tortured misery, he had unknowingly subjected the overseer and the class of young recruits to cruel punishments themselves.

Belvedere cleared his throat and donned a smile so convincing that Remy had a hard time believing it wasn’t genuine. But it couldn’t be, considering Remy had just undermined his authority as Chief Overseer of Training in front of a group of recruits, a sergeant many levels under his command, and the High Commander. A shiver ran down his spine. Remy may have theoretically been the second most powerful man in Northam, but Brigadier General Quinnley Belvedere was not someone he wanted as his enemy.

The air thickened with the tang of fresh blood as the bodies drained from their wounds. Another wave of anger swelled in his chest, but the tour continued as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Remy saw the remainder of the warehouse courts, which were filled with more first-year recruits participating in standard-issue combat sparring, fitness drills, and even comparatively-ordinary archery practice with conventional haybale targets. But he knew better than to believe any of this was indicative of the program as a whole; it was a performance, just as the human target display had been intended to be, fit to show off to the high commander and his newly-returned heir. Inspirational, as Belvedere had called it that morning.

Fuck that.

The weight of the day crashed into him all at once the second his boots crossed the threshold to his chambers later that evening. With the door closed and securely locked behind him, he barely made it into the bathroom fast enough before his stomach violently contracted. He emptied its scant contents into the toilet until only bile remained, and even then, the heaving continued until his muscles were too exhausted to go on.

He tore off his uniform coat and leaned breathlessly against the cool tile. He fought back another wave of nausea, his whole body coated in a cold sweat, every muscle trembling. He reached his right hand across his chest and clutched his left shoulder, fingers feeling for the familiar raised ridge of skin that marred the tattoo there.

On this day you are considered a man, Gregoray. His father’s words seventeen years ago still rang with the same clarity in his ears. Remy’s thirteenth birthday. The day the family crest had been inked permanently on his skin.

And the day he had first taken a life.

Remy had known for a long time that his father was a monster. At just twelve years old, he had been powerless to fight back against the teeth and claws that lurked behind every corner of their vast mansion home. But since his mother’s death and his sister’s disappearance, the commander had stopped any pretense of hiding his true nature from his son—and indeed, freed from the tether of a protective wife and needy small child, there was no reason not to begin grooming the Walther successor as soon as possible. 

Remy suddenly found himself the subject of his father’s undivided attention whenever the man had a moment of free time. The commander knew how to hit without leaving a visible mark—sometimes physically, sometimes verbally, always cruel. The twelve-year-old hadn’t had time to grieve the murder of his mother and sister; he was whisked into a tailored training regimen, forced to attend classes in military strategy, and relentlessly quizzed by his father on crime and punishment and law and order. Thankfully, Remy had always been a quick study…and it hadn’t taken him long how to recite the type of answers his father wanted to hear.

Until he had gotten entirely too adept.

He had attended executions with his father before. The commander frequently presided over large public hangings, and no one found it unusual that his heir occasionally made an appearance. Soon enough, much to his own horror, he got used to them. Not the killing, not the death—but his resolve hardened, until the sight of blood and corpses no longer turned his stomach.

So when his father invited him—‘invitation’ being a loose term, since he could not refuse the request—to an execution on the first of the year, his thirteenth birthday, he almost felt relieved. He could survive witnessing another hanging. He had done it before. And then he could retreat back to his room and hide, under the pretense of studying…

But instead of the public gallows, the old motorcar arrived at the gates of Compound. And instead of watching in silence from a platform at a distance, the commander flashed a proud, dazzling smile and handed Remy a gun.

Remy ran his fingers through his hair and clenched his eyes closed. He could still remember the weight of the pistol in his small, trembling hand. He remembered the gooseflesh conjured by his father’s words of encouragement in his ear. He remembered what it felt like to press the barrel point-blank to the back of the bound prisoner’s skull.

Pulling the trigger had been easier than he’d ever imagined.

On this day you are considered a man, Gregoray. And not just a man. My successor. My blood. Our world is on your shoulders.

His eyes watered against the memory, but tears did not spill. Perhaps it was a poetic full-circle that he had returned to steal five more lives with the burst of a muzzle flash. But there was a certain cruelty in poetry that Remy could not deny. He had escaped that very night, the sting of the inky needle still fresh on his back—and now here he was again, returned because of the damned tattoo, having delayed but not prevented the inevitable.

That very same gun was still tucked away in his pack.

He leaned his head back against the wall, and suddenly he was struck with an overwhelming yearning for Madison. She would have taken him in her arms, pressed her lips to his temple, and whispered reassurances in his ear that would chase away the dark memories with the brightness and warmth of her flame. She was the only person who could calm his stormy seas; she knew how to slice through the tempest and shield him from its assault. But his huntress was gone too, nothing more than a memory now.

A phantom reminding him that he was navigating these rough waters alone.

And that maybe he was no better than his blood after all.

————

Remy woke well before the sun and headed to the gym, padding down the long halls before even the servants had risen to light the fires. He hadn’t slept; every time he’d closed his eyes, he saw the masked, gagged faces of the chained prisoners…and saw their bodies collapse to the ground, in agonizing slow-motion.

And he wondered, over and over, if Madison might have met such a fate…if he had not borne the tattoo on his scapula.

The thought pushed his heart rate to a blistering rhythm before he’d even begun his workout. And for a split second, he was almost grateful for the mark’s presence.

He dreaded seeing Belvedere that morning. The sun soon streaked the sky with pink, and then rose to flood the Beloit with bright light reflected from a blanket of snow…but the general still did not appear. Remy continued his routine, minus the sparring, and tried not to imagine the worst.

He was interrupted by a knock against the door frame. One of the under-butlers hovered stiffly in the doorway and bowed. “Sir, if you’ll pardon my interruption…” He paused. “The High Commander has been called abroad for an unexpected diplomatic excursion. General Belvedere sends his apologies for his absence, but he has been delayed at Compound in preparation for the departure this afternoon. I am to report that the general will see you for training promptly tomorrow morning. Sir.”

Remy thanked and dismissed the man. It wasn’t the first time his father had left abruptly on business. Depending on the anticipated length of his absence, the arrangements called for a shuffling of personnel—typically several high-ranking generals had to rearrange their duties to operate in place of the commander, should the need arise. Remy imagined it wouldn’t be long before he would be the one to stand in for his father…but apparently it would not be this day, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

When he returned to his room after luncheon, a note bearing the Walther wax seal awaited him on his nightstand.

Gregoray,
I have been called away for an extended diplomatic trip to the Carib Territories. The approximate duration of my stay is four weeks, if the weather remains cooperative. I have appointed Gnl. Q. Belvedere as my domestic stand-in, but as my Second, Gregoray, I trust you to supervise and guide as necessary. Gnl. Mandeville will be coordinating the weekly schedule and will keep you apprised, to be delivered no later than noon each Saturday I am abroad. B. and M. will be staying on-premises, as extended-stay protocol dictates. I will write with updates should the need arise.
Invictus maneo.
—Father

Remy frowned and let the paper flutter to the bed. His “second”? The tattoo on his shoulder blade itched as though in reaction to the handwritten message. He couldn’t say he was disappointed to learn that his father would be gone for a month or more, but he was uneasy with the thought of the two generals living under the same roof, even temporarily. The doctor knew now exactly what Belvedere was capable of—not to mention Remy’s display at the training courts—and Mandeville, as one of his father’s closest advisors, was no less barbarous.

The next morning, after a fitful night of nightmares in which he saw Madison poised before the juvenile firing squad over and over again, Remy strode through the early darkness to the Beloit. But instead of an empty gymnasium, he found General Belvedere there in a statue-still, outstretched pose, his outline bathed in the gentle orange glow of a small fire on the opposite wall’s modest hearth.

Remy stood in the open doorway. But before he could decide whether to approach or return to his quarters, the dangerous man spoke.

“Commander.” Belvedere held the pose for another several long moments, his eyes closed. “How exceedingly prompt of you. I was not expecting you until dawn.”

“I wondered if our sessions would continue, given my father’s absence and your assigned duties,” Remy said, trying not to let his hesitation show as he entered the room.

“Ah, we shall just have to begin earlier.” The general crouched and rolled up a padded mat, returning it to the wall of equipment beyond the mirrors. Remy couldn’t detect any contempt in his trainer’s voice, but he also knew just how good the man was at keeping up whatever appearance he desired.

After a particularly frigid night, the air was cold. The small fire did little to heat the room, but Remy removed his socks and shoes and sweater, leaving him barefoot and in a t-shirt. The subtle bite of the temperature on his soles and his arms was precisely the right kind of startling; it jump-started his senses and pushed away the exhaustion of a sleepless night. Even his dread retreated further from his consciousness as he limbered up his muscles and prepared for their session…and as the apprehension abated, his anger crept back in. Belvedere might have been expressionless now, but two days ago he had smiled in the face of his recruits, his curriculum. Rendering human lives to disposable targets, and boasting about it. Showing it off.

Something was different this time when Remy fought. Neither of them used blades, but his strikes were vicious, his reactions faster. Madison’s face in the bloody lineup flashed before his mind’s eye, and he pressed harder, swifter, more vigorously…

But something was different with Quinn Belvedere, too. Where the man was typically collected, robotic, only hinting at exertion, today his chest heaved, his brow glistened, his teeth flashed. And Remy could feel the strength behind the general’s blows in a way he hadn’t before, which suggested just how much he’d been holding back until now.

Nevertheless, Remy pushed just as hard, his outrage finding its way into his movements. Despite himself, he heard Belvedere’s trainer voice whispering in the back of his mind. Anyone can act out of desperation, he’d once said. But not everyone can learn to use it, and fewer still can wield it like its own weapon. Remy hadn’t fully grasped that concept yet, only fleetingly—after thinking about Madison, desperate to banish her from his thoughts. But now…he knew. He felt it all click into place, everything he’d practiced and drilled coming together in a furious crescendo.

The pain in Madison’s eyes as she gazed back at him through the snow. The ravenous press of lovers’ lips in secret passion, reunited yet fractured, never set to heal. The perpetual, uncaring ice in Belvedere’s tone. Dr. Edgar Sterling’s voice from years ago explaining that doctors were to help more than hurt, do more good than harm. And the unceremonious sound of the bodies falling at the range, one after the other, at the flick of his trigger finger.

And almost without realizing it, they were entangled in a far more evenly matched fight than either of them ever expected. Belvedere came at him more ferociously, and Remy matched him until they leveled out. It was a game of tug-of-war sans the rope, and the physician had since stopped detecting his opponent dialing up his strength.

Because Remy was winning. And Belvedere, while holding steady, had no more to give.

After playing on the defensive for so long, the shift to offense came with surprising ease. As easy as pulling the trigger. Remy kicked furiously through the thought, sweeping the general’s feet from under him. And all at once, they froze together—locked in a tremulous tableau, with Belvedere balanced on the floor on one knee, and Remy holding a blade to his throat that he’d drawn from the general’s own sheath at his belt.

After a beat of disbelief, as though neither man could quite believe it, the general uttered a single defeated syllable. “Yield.”

The physician, blood pounding, took a step back and offered his trainer a hand. But his palm remained empty in the cold air as their gazes met; Belvedere glared up at him, this time hot fury taking the place of his usual ice. Remy had once thought it would be more bearable had the general simply shown what he was feeling. But this open contempt was far, far worse.

Belvedere rose to his feet with a grace that belied his strength. Remy allowed his hand to fall back to his side and kept his feet planted on the mat, despite every cell wanting to retreat farther back. He twisted the borrowed knife in his fingers and clutched the flat surfaces of the blade, offering the handle to its rightful owner. The general grasped it delicately, and Remy wondered if he was preparing a surprise strike.

But that wasn’t to be. Belvedere sheathed his ire just as he sheathed the returned weapon. “Congratulations, Commander,” he drawled as the pastel light heralded dawn’s arrival. “Now you know.”

“Know what?”

“How it’s supposed to feel.” The general might have smiled, had it been two mornings ago. Now, he simply looked sour. Remy didn’t press the matter, and he soon found himself standing alone in the gym, with the dying embers of the too-small fire spitting its last sparks into the chill.

————

A week passed. Then two. His sessions with Belvedere were early and brief, until their face-to-face meetings were stalled altogether. Remy was left with instructions on what to practice while the general was occupied with tasks of the state—thorough instructions, which only made sense coming from Northam’s Chief Overseer of Training, and Remy couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate it. The requirements gave him something else to focus on before the chaotic days could begin. Drills. Routines. Marksmanship. Repeat.

From what Remy could tell, things mostly ran smoothly in his father’s absence. Neither Belvedere nor Mandeville nor any of the other high-ranking officers seemed the least bit frazzled or perturbed; they were a frightening, well-oiled machine that operated with apt military precision. Remy’s weekly schedule was mostly filled with status updates and meetings, most at Compound, a few hosted at the Walther house, and a handful off-site at various family estates around Thebes. Despite the two generals and their staff who had taken temporary residence in the guest wing, Remy barely saw them.

His next week’s schedule was delivered by a mouselike maid Remy didn’t recognize (one of Mandeville’s crew, undoubtedly) the fourth Saturday morning of the commander’s absence. He scanned the black ink, the typewriter’s letters clean on the page, and was about to place the note on his desk when his eyes snagged one particular entry.

Thursday, 12 noon. Business luncheon, Terril Estate. Lawrence Terril to attend. Briefing to follow.

Remy stared at the page for a long while, then released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. It had been two months since he’d set foot through those doors and been blindsided by the appearance of Madison Gallow—two agonizing months since they’d devoured one another for the final time in the shadowed corridor. Dread sat heavy in his gut even as his heart sped up in anticipation. Madison. His lips formed the word in a whisper to the empty room.

I will come back to you, always. My love.

————

Remy poured himself a serving of whiskey and watched as the clock above the fireplace struck midnight.

Midnight. Officially Thursday. In just twelve hours, he would be sitting down with Lawrence Terril to discuss the winter munitions import reports.

He took a sip and twisted his lips against the burn. He thought the alcohol might soothe his rapidly fraying nerves as he settled in to attempt a few hours’ sleep, but all it did was leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. With a sigh, he deposited the half-filled glass on his nightstand and turned out the electric lights.

As they always did in the chilly velvet winter night, his thoughts strayed to his huntress. No matter how he combated the memories, the feelings, she always returned to him. You’re not my partner anymore. Well, perhaps that was true. But he would always be hers, whatever might happen, however she might need him.

His eyelids grew heavy against the torrent of warm remembrance, and at last he began his descent into slumber’s embrace.

Until a soft knock at the door snapped him back to consciousness.

At first, he thought he’d dreamt it. But the sound came again, more urgently this time. This was not the courteous, rhythmic rap of a butler or a maid. Something was wrong.

Suddenly on high alert, Remy sprang out of bed, wearing only his wool pajama bottoms and white t-shirt. He practically flew through the living area, having the sense to grab a knife before unlocking and abruptly swinging open the door.

“Commander,” greeted General Belvedere. “Did I wake you?”

But this was Belvedere unlike Remy had ever seen him. He wore his uniform trousers, boots, and the standard crisp button-down that was layered under their blue jackets…but the white flannel was rapidly turning crimson with the tremendous volume of blood actively leaking from his side.

Remy pulled the general inside and locked the door behind them. Belvedere stumbled, his breaths ragged against obvious pain, and slumped against the wall.

“Bathroom. Now,” Remy ordered. He threaded his arm through the general’s elbow and half-limped, half-dragged the man into the washroom. Remy eased the injured man to the floor of the shower and threw him a towel. “Press this as hard as you can against the wound,” he instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Right. Yeah,” rasped the general.

With his pulse thundering in his ears, Remy dashed to his bedroom closet and emerged with his old pack, still securely buckled closed, still stained and comically drab compared to its lavish surroundings. When he tossed it on the ground next to Belvedere, the man gave it a skeptical look.

“What…are you…doing?” Belvedere asked through uneven breaths, struggling to hold the towel beneath his right arm.

His supplies were all there, just as he’d left them—the bottle of potent antiseptic brewed by Ursulah the apothecary, and the suture kit left over from the cabin’s first aid bundle.

“Quinn,” Remy addressed. It was almost a relief, hearing the familiar cadence of his own doctor’s tone. They were no longer Commander and General, heir and chief; they were doctor and patient. “I need to take a look. Drink this.” Remy thrust the decanter of whiskey to Belvedere’s lips.

“It’s…no use,” Belvedere replied, his amber eyes dark with fear. “I just came to tell you—”

“Drink this.” The doctor watched as the man struggled to swallow. “I can’t help you if I can’t assess the injury, Quinn.” Remy coated his knife and hands in antiseptic, the clear liquid splashing on the tile. “As your commanding superior,” he added, cracking a hesitant smile. Remy knelt at the man’s side and sliced away the linen shirt. “Move the towel.”

When he did, it was followed by a gush of red. But it was enough of a glimpse that Remy could see the wound was not to his side, but rather to the underside of his arm—and well within the territory of the brachial artery and its branches. “Down, down, down again with that arm, hard as you can,” the doctor instructed hurriedly. “Against your side.”

“Am I going to die?”

The query caught Remy off-guard. He’d been asked that question dozens of times before. But hearing it from Quinn Belvedere, his voice anguished and childlike and terrified, sent a shock through him. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” the physician replied. “Let’s get you lying down.” He tore a long strip of the general’s bloodied shirt and tied it in a tight makeshift tourniquet at the very top of the arm.

The man’s complexion improved slightly as he lay prostrate on the shower floor, but Remy was still concerned about his pallor. He’d lost too much blood already, and Remy hadn’t even attempted to repair the gash yet. Thankfully, his pack also contained the snowcap powder leftover from his own injury in the woods, when Madison had crushed up the white mushroom at the inn and sprinkled it inside the laceration in his leg. He reached for the brown paper envelope, pouring the substance into his palm.

“What…is that? What are you…doing?”

With the tourniquet staunching the worst of the blood flow, Remy was able to lift the arm and sprinkle the snowcap poultice into the open wound. Quinn stifled a scream as Remy’s fingers reached inside the laceration.

“Trust me, I know how that feels,” Remy spoke, dabbing at rivulets of blood until the worst of it slowed. The white powder had helped as a surgical lap pad might, absorbing excess liquid as an added benefit to its properties as a coagulant.

“It was a knife,” Belvedere gasped, his dark hair plastered to the sweat on his brow. “Hooked, like a hawkbill…but longer…I didn’t see…” He interrupted himself with a moan of pain, and he clamped his left hand over his mouth to stifle the cry.

“Breathe through it,” Remy advised, but he was focused on the interior of the cut. A minuscule trickle of fresh blood pulsed in regular intervals from a deep vessel. “A hooked blade explains the shape of the wound,” he said, more to himself than his patient. The laceration was shallower toward the back, and deeper as it was dragged forward and across. “A posteroanterior cut, made by pulling outward rather than stabbing inward. Unconventional.”

“Fucking hell, Commander,” Belvedere choked, his diaphragm constricting in what was supposed to be a laugh.

Remy, eyes focused on the wound, smiled despite himself. “You have a tiny nick in one of your collateral arteries. If that blade hadn’t been sharp, or if it had been a millimeter in either direction, you would have been dead before you made it here.”

He propped Belvedere’s arm slightly up and to the side and reached for the suture kit. He doused his hands in antiseptic again, then prepared to sew.

“Seriously, do you even know what you’re—”

“This is going to hurt like hell,” Remy warned, interrupting the general. “Bite down on this. It will help.” He passed him a washcloth, which the general stuffed between his teeth with his free hand. “Ready?”

But no matter the answer, Remy knew from firsthand experience that no one could be ready for that particular onslaught of pain. The needle bit deep into the muscle, over and over again, steadily knitting skin and muscle back together. Quinn writhed, moaning into the cloth. But Remy was collected, calm, hyperfocused on the pattern of stitches—his hands knew precisely what to do, and for the first time in months, he felt in control of something. He felt alive.

“It’s done,” Remy announced, pulling back.

Quinn twisted suddenly, spitting the rag from his mouth, and vomited. “Fuck,” the general whispered faintly, his bare torso flashing a rivulet of bright red against the darker dried crimson.

“You have another cut on your side,” Remy noticed, guiding him once again to his back. “Just a bandage for that one, looks like.” He made quick work of wrapping the sutured seam, then cleaning and dressing the superficial cut along the ribs.

Weakly, Belvedere sat up, resting his wrist on one bent knee as he leaned against the shower wall. He pressed his left fingers to his eyes, and Remy watched through narrowed eyes to be sure he wasn’t going to lose consciousness. He was far too pale, and the physician had no idea how much blood had been lost before he’d made it to his door.

“You’re some kind of medic?” the man said, more a statement than a question.

“Something like that.” Remy used the non-saturated end of the towel to mop of the alarming puddle of blood on the tile.

“You didn’t learn that at Compound.”

“Nope.”

“Fuck.” The general’s pallor twinged green, but he held on to the contents of his stomach. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

Remy rose to his feet. “You were bleeding out on my doorstep. Priorities, General.”

“Priorities around here are generally…the opposite.” He groaned as Remy tugged him to his feet and led him to the toilet, where he lowered himself to the seat with no small amount of effort. “Information first. And then they leave you to die.”

Remy’s brows arched. This was not the sort of candor he had expected from Quinnley Belvedere. “I spent some time away recently, as you may recall,” the physician returned tersely, piling the bloodied rags in the corner hamper. He turned on the shower, rinsing the remaining blood and vomit down the drain. “Get in. Rinse the blood off. But don’t get your bandage wet.”

Quinn stripped down and stepped into the lukewarm stream without complaint, steadying himself on the wall. When he emerged, Remy offered him a bath robe and led him to the sofa.

“And the attacker?” Remy asked at last as he arranged blankets for his unexpected guest.

The general lowered himself to the cushions with a wince. “Gone…I don’t know.”

Remy’s throat tightened. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. But if I had to guess…a shamrock.” At Remy’s bewildered stare, Belvedere explained, “A Clover operative.”

Clover. Resistance.

Remy’s eyes widened, and Quinn let out a weak laugh. “She was skilled. But a fool…” The general trailed off, sighing through a wave of ache.

“Because you are the best, as you so like to remind me?” Remy filled in.

“No.” Quinn smiled darkly through a grimace. “Because I’m one of them.”

Remy froze.

“Of course, the little shamrock would be reporting to someone much further down the chain. She wouldn’t have known.” The general reclined slowly until he was flat on his back against the cushions, his skin still ghastly pale. “Clover is the only one who knows. And now you, I suppose. Funny, isn’t it?”

Surely, the general was delirious. Blood loss and shock and pain could do strange things to the mind. Remy shook his head, studying the man’s reclined profile as though he could glean something, anything, from his sickly expression. “General Belvedere…”

“Quinn. Please.” The man turned his head slightly to meet Remy’s stormy gaze. “Report me, arrest me, kill me…one whisper of treason from the commander’s son is all it would take to ruin me, no questions asked. I think you know where I’d find myself then.” Something flashed in his amber stare. “But I don’t think you’ll do any of that.”

Remy was not accustomed to such brazen talk, particularly from Belvedere, of all people. His heart pounded against his ribs. “And what makes you think I won’t?”

Quinn didn’t break eye contact. “Clover genuinely thought the heir was dead. If the resistance had been holding you hostage all these years, she would have known about it.” His face contorted, but he kept speaking, strained. “I’ve seen your tattoo during training…the scar at the base, like you tried to erase it. And when you put those prisoners out of their misery…” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re good. I’ll give you that. But am I wrong?”

Point-blank, just like that. Remy looked down at himself as he sat, his shirt and pants dyed red with blood. A small but genuine smile—caught somewhere between relief and humor—upturned his mouth when he looked up again. “I don’t waste sutures, or good pajamas, needlessly,” he said.

Despite the shock and pain that had negated Quinn’s inhibitions and allowed him to speak with confident honesty, the relief on his face at Remy’s declaration was immense. Once again, the physician was startled by this unguarded version of the general. “Get some rest now. We have training in…” He glanced to the clock and arched a brow in jest. “Two hours.”

“I believe I left you instructions.”

Remy shook his head to himself as he turned down the electric lights, leaving the room dark and his head whirling. Belvedere is Resistance. The man was cold. Detached. Cruel. He regularly orchestrated and authorized training stunts that endangered young recruits. He arranged target practice demonstrations using live human marks. All amongst god knows how many other offenses to have achieved his rank…

But he was Resistance.

Even with his head buzzing, exhaustion caught up to him fast, and miraculously, Remy fell into a dreamless slumber until the hazy sunrise drew him back to consciousness a few hours later. He rose quietly to find Quinn buried beneath thick blankets on the sofa, his breathing even and deep. It was easy to relate to that type of sleep—when the body was exhausted and healing, with the added benefit of being distanced from the pain. After his incident in the woods with Madison, he’d slept for a night and nearly a full waking day…

As his father’s stand-in, Quinn didn’t have the luxury of time. But the excuse of training with Remy would buy him a few additional hours without arousing suspicion, so he let him rest while he readied himself for the day. He rekindled the living room fire and tossed the now-dry bloody rags into the flames, then showered and dressed.

Belvedere.

The Terrils.

Madison…

This day was already proving to be a challenge, and the sun had barely risen.

He buttoned up a rich cobalt blue shirt and layered it beneath a wool jacket in charcoal gray, the striped gold and silver cuffs the only visual hint at his rank or status. His hair had grown slightly longer, and he wore it purposely mussed, hoping to distance himself from the formality of his previous visit…if not for Madison, who he might or might not see, then for Lawrence Terril, whose opinion of Remy had likely not improved in the two months since their meeting.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Quinn was standing, his left hand gripping the back of an armchair. “Commander,” he said, without turning around.

“I think you should call me ‘Remy’ now,” the physician replied.

Quinn swiveled to face him, quirking a brow. “Remy?”

“My middle name is Remington,” came the explanation. He cleared his throat. “If you think your reputation can handle a dent, I’d tell anyone who asks after your shoulder that you pulled a muscle in training. Bandages are easily hidden beneath your coat. If you take it easy, no one should be the wiser.”

Nodding, Quinn took a few experimental steps forward. His color had improved somewhat, and Remy no longer feared the man would topple to the ground.

“Take whatever you need from my closet, unless you’d prefer the robe,” Remy continued. “My schedule calls, as does yours, no doubt. But I’d like to change that dressing tonight, if you can manage to get here.” He turned to the door.

“Remy?”

The physician paused at the sound of his name, that name. A soft thrill that felt more like relief washed over him at the novelty of it. For a fleeting moment, he could pretend he was not the Walther heir.

“Thank you,” the general murmured, sincerity in his gaze. “I am in your debt.”

Remy nodded once and departed.

————

The mansion loomed above him as he stepped down from the carriage, his boots crunching against snow that had been coated in a thin layer of ice overnight.

The Terril estate was not someplace he’d ever wanted to find himself again. But as much as the thought of Lawrence Terril made his blood boil—his dazzling smile framed by lips that kissed her, his green eyes that gazed into hers, his deft hands that had touched her—the real reason for his nerves was the prospect of seeing Madison Gallow herself.

Remy was greeted at the door by the same butler that had ushered them inside on the night of the dinner. “Commander Walther,” the tall man addressed, bowing slightly at the waist, “I’m afraid Master Terril has been delayed getting in due to the ice early this morning. He is on his way. In the meantime, he invites you to wait in the study.”

“Very well,” Remy said with a polite smile. He rid his boots of snow and ice on the bristled mat in the entrance hall, then shrugged off his black pea coat and placed it awkwardly to the man’s outstretched hand. “Just through here, yes?” He pointed to the right, the same route they’d taken upon his first visit.

“That’s right, sir. Very good, sir.”

He thanked the butler again and glanced nervously toward the grandiose staircase, where he had first seen Madison that night two months prior. But the large house was quiet, as though vacant. Remy didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

In the light of day, the study was just as enchanting as it had been the evening of the party. Marble floors reflected light from pointed leaded windows, and packed bookshelves stretched high enough up the walls to necessitate a rolling wooden ladder. He took a seat in one of the armchairs nearest the fireplace, listening to the resolute silence of the house through the irregular crackles of the fire on the hearth. Minutes passed. Then a quarter hour. Just when his anxious restlessness was becoming unbearable, he heard a sound—a door opening, or perhaps closing—in the room beyond.

He rose to his feet and strode quietly across the checkered floor of the parlor, following the source.

And then he saw her.

His racing heart leapt for her as though from a cliffside, longing to land in the ocean of her gaze. With his feet rooted in place, it was as if time came to an abrupt stop—everything frozen but for her, her lithe body moving with a grace he would have recognized anywhere.

He bit against his lip hard enough that he tasted blood. It was a training room a third of the size of the Beloit, but far brighter, far warmer, and comprised almost entirely of glass. Stately evergreen trees, their boughs drenched in glittering white snow, concealed the space from outside prying eyes…but did little for those watching inside, as Remy gazed, transfixed, at the huntress in the solarium just beyond.

Madison remained hidden beneath the covers, alternating between restless sleep and soft, hiccupping sobs. The darkness maintained by thick curtains and closed bedroom door, blocking out the early afternoon light, was to the only comfort in the relentlessly cruel world she subjected herself to. The moment she awoke, each painful time, her thoughts found some memory of him to torture herself with. The clandestine kiss, full of rage and lust and sadness. The rough texture of his long fingers against the exposed flesh of her thigh. The ache in his voice that she longed to forget. Grief would twist into anger for how she knew he was hurting, how her words had cut him down, letting the fury turn to guilt. Of all things, she felt guilty for each verbal assault she had thrown at him over the carved pieces of the chess set and among the seclusion of the hallway. Every wound she inflicted had been intentional, landing precisely where she aimed as if he had been on the receiving end of one of her arrows in the forest. After each successful blow, Madison saw the ache in his eyes manifest and the anguish she caused swirled tumultuously in the storm of his blue eyes. If he was his father’s son, would he had felt that as deeply as he seemed to? Or was he just that adept at lying to her? The cycle continued. Guilt yielded to wrath and wrath to sadness once more. Fully prepared to spend the entirety of the day, the remainder of the week, in the warm embrace of her sheets, the huntress rolled over and tucked her brunette head beneath the weight of two pillows - just in time to shield her eyes from the onslaught of bright, wintery light that burst in along with Elora’s entrance.

“Rise and shine, little sprite.” The melodious tune of her voice filling the room that had previously been so blissfully silent. Madison grunted in response, further muffled by the fabric around her mouth. “None of that. You’ve missed morning training and I dismissed Mister Betron since it was apparent that you would not rise in time for classes.” The curtains opened with a shrill shriek of metallic protest, echoing Madison’s own sentiments, resulting in slender arms securing the pillows around her head with an accompanying groan. “Now,” the bed sunk slightly beneath Elora’s weight when she lowered herself to the bed. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Came the stunted response through two layers of pillows.

“Sadly, we cannot always get what we want.” Elora retorted, examining imaginary lint on the stretchy fabric of her training attire. When Madison failed to respond, the Terril heiress slipped her hand beneath the covers and merely found the other woman’s skin. The huntress yelped at the cold touch and jerked her knees upward, throwing off the pillows to glare at her unwanted companion. The light shone directly in her eyes, reflecting off the inches of snow laying the ground. Tears stung her eyes, accentuating the red rings around her crystalline gaze. “Siblings.” She said by way of explanation, “I know how to get someone out of bed.” Undeterred by the weight of the glare, Elora stood. “Now that I have your attention, you can tell me what occurred with the heir in the hall.”

Madison pushed herself up and leaned against the headboard, giving her eyes time to adjust but also remaining defiantly silent for tense moments. The dark-haired goddess lowered herself into a chair, pulling it closer to the grief-stricken woman. She offered no comfort, no solace, but merely an attentive gaze that spoke to an understanding. The look concerned her. How many times had Elora been in such a situation? How many Northam men thought to discipline her? How many soldiers thought they could take liberties? How often had she been subjected to unwanted contact, lewd suggestions? Swallowing, the huntress released some of the tension inside of her and gave voice to snippets of the memory.

“He asked why I was here. Why I was with Lawrence.” Madison laughed bitterly at that, recalling the edges of jealousy in Remy’s tone. The familiar sting of irritation pricked the back of her neck but she forced it down, burying it deep. “And that he had wanted to tell me, before,” she waved a hand back behind her indicating their time together, “but he couldn’t.” The steady cadence of her voice shook then and she looked away from Elora, towards the crumbled silk dress on the floor by the bathroom entrance. “I don’t…I don’t know if I believe him but I don’t know how I can’t either. He...we were together for a year. So much happened during that time and I know him. I know him.” She said the words like a mantra, to convince herself as well. He couldn’t have betrayed her so utterly, not everything.

Oh, Madison. I have loved you for a long time. And I will love you for a lifetime more.

The ghost of his finger against her cheek accompanied the memory and absently, her own fingers raised to brush the spot.  He had loved her, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have faked that, could he? He seemed so upset, so genuine in the hallway. He had caved to her touch as he had a hundred times before. They were two flickering flames meeting in a bright, burning flash, flaring to an inferno upon contact. No fuel was needed except their words, their lips, their fingers to keep the fire stoked. Even miles apart, worlds apart, separated by pain and loss and heartache, Madison’s need for him remained. Remy Sterling – Gregoray Remington Walther II – had entrenched himself so deeply inside of her soul that she felt incomplete, a shadow of herself, when he was not with her. An individual from the start, Madison never expected to want someone, need them, so completely that now that she had lost him, she realized how much of herself was missing.

“Can he be turned?” Elora’s words were soft but sliced through her reverie like a blade through butter.
“What?”
“Can he be turned? Could you bring him to our side?” The question hung in the air, without the normal annoyance Elora usually projected at having to repeat herself.
“I…what?”

The flare of irritation sparked in her startling green eyes that Madison often fell into. If she wasn’t so entranced, the huntress would be irritated at how frequently the other woman’s beauty left her speechless. Briefly, whether due to her tumult of emotions and the memory of Remy’s kiss, Madison wondered what it would feel like to kiss Elora, just briefly, just to know. The Terril didn’t bother to repeat herself, merely raised her black brows higher on her forehead and waited.

“Uh, I…to the Resistance?” Madison shifted, running her hand through her tangle of brown hair that Remy had twined his fingers into less than a day prior. Mind raced trying to determine if that would even be possible. Would he? Could she bring him to it? Did she want to? Could she forgive him enough to ask? This kind of second-guessing could get you killed in the wilds and so she took a slow, steadying breath through her nostrils and closed her eyes. Quickly, decisively, she opened them again. Bright gaze met the inquisitive jade stare of her companion.

“Yes. I think I could, if…if it wasn’t all a lie.”
“It wasn’t.” The finality, the force of Elora’s words startled her and she threw back the covers to give herself something to do.
“How would you know? You just met him last night.”
“I saw how he looked at you when you weren’t looking, and when you were. Practically electric.” She shrugged her shoulders, sliding back into the comfort of the high-backed chair. “Or a puppy separated from its master. Either one.”
“That’s not…” The protest fell shot when she saw Elora’s smirk. Rolling her eyes, a pillow served as the only appropriate projectile that she could hurtle across the space that separated them. The heiress dodged it with ease but smiled.

“Well, now that is settled. Your lessons will…shift, slightly. We’ll have to work in more interactions with the heir in the future, assess his stance on the current regime. He has been back for months now and could have fallen prey to his father’s sway. We’ll discuss tactics with Lawrence over dinner. He was…beside himself last night. Thought the boy had hurt you.” The way she said boy was as though Remy was far beneath her, someone to be easily manipulated. It fascinated Madison that Elora could twist people like string around her fingers and puppet them to her will.

“I’m sure it looked that way. But I…I couldn’t have sat next to him again.” That brought Elora to sit stiffly in her chair, examining the huntress before her intently. Elora took in her swollen eyes, puffy from hours of intermittent crying. The halo of hair around her head was mussed and tousled but in the winter glow threads of gold wove through brown strands. The wild girl had filled out with proper nutrition and she had a sharp angle to her jaw but plumper, rosy cheeks. The angle of her neck was less sharp but still delicately arched down into her clavicle. Even with the evidence of her nighttime terrors etched on her features, the heiress noted how stunningly flawless Madison was.

“Even after all this time, you care for him.” The words left soft lips, the bright light behind her making it hard for the doctor’s lover to keep her gaze directly on her. There was a touch of incredulity to the statement. Bashful, the Terril guest fought the urge to look away. Instead, their gazes locked – panther and lioness in a standoff. Elora’s long, beautiful fingers reached out and traced the same path Remy’s had many months ago, as if she could see it highlighted on Madison’s skin. The breath in Madison’s throat caught and she began to feel her pulse pound. Heat flared across her cheeks and down her spine, wrapping across her abdomen. Bewilderment followed, only leading to the uneasy sensation.

“Yes.” The word filled the space between them like an erupting volcano, despite how quietly it was uttered. Fear mingled with something new, something foreign and exciting.

“Pity.” The heiress said, breaking their contact swiftly and standing in the doorway before Madison could even blink. “Dinner is at six. Do not be late. Tomorrow we resume as normal.” There was a change in her tone, a swift switch from the single word of regret to a neutral command. And then she was alone again in the silence, but this time it was so oppressive, so deafening. Delicate fingers brushed across her cheek where Elora’s hand had briefly traveled.

“What the fuck?” She whispered to herself, examining the room as if to make sure she was fully awake. Raking her hands through her hair, the huntress fought all the range of emotions that flooded her, until she couldn’t take it anymore. Seeking solace in the shower, she stood beneath the ror of the water and the heat of the steam as if it could cleanse her of her pain, her confusion, her memories of Remy and the odd sensation that the Terril woman sought to produce.

---

That evening, she descending the familiar stairs to the small dining area that was reserved for the residents, no need for extravagance when high-ranking guests were not in attendance. Elora and Lawrence were already seated before their plates, one waiting for Madison between the siblings. The electric lights hummed above, dimmed to a more pleasant brightness, illuminating the soft gray of the old wallpaper. Family photographs adorned the walls – some in black and white and some in faded color. The examination of them had occurred during her first few weeks living in the Terril residence and she had spied the pair as children between two striking adults. Their parents had died during a plague and it had not been quick or pretty, leaving them orphaned and in charge of the expansive estate.

At her entrance, Lawrence rose. Worry was etched at the corner of his emerald eyes, blonde hair a bit disheveled. She gave him a gentle smile and waved at him to sit, just as she lowered herself down into the simple wooden chair beside him.

“Elora said you were doing fine.” His tenor was cautious, inquisitive but gentle.
“I am. She mentioned you both had discussed his…future in the Resistance.” Madison probing at a brussels sprout with her fork. They were one of her favorite new foods, mostly because the chef roasted them with bits of leftover bacon. Elora watched them both as she ate, remaining silent. Lawrence whipped his eyes to his sister, clearly alarmed that she had already broached a subject they had discussed fleetingly the night before.
“We have mentioned it.” He tested the waters of her reaction, dipping a metaphorical toe in.
“And I have considered it.” This piqued the sister’s interest and she finished chewing to lean forward towards Madison, resting her rounded chin on the palm of her hand.
“Do tell.” The jade-eyed woman’s voice was sultry, alluring and soft. It set the huntress on edge and caused a crease between Lawrence’s thick brows. Heat flared along the back of Madison’s neck and she took a sip of water to steady herself.

“I think he can be swayed. He...is not a bad man.” The words ground out of her like spices between a mortar and pestle, gritty and sharp.

They were true, though.

The physician’s lover had contemplated everything in the long shower, mulling it all over in her mind. While she could not forgive him, while she would never overcome the betrayal of it all, the Walther heir was not an malicious man. He cared (often, too much in Madison’s opinion) for everyone, regardless of their station, monetary worth or if he could gain something from them. The idea that he was inherently evil because of the blood in his veins…she was not so illogical as all that. The doctor had irreparably broken her heart, but he was pure, he was good…to other people.

“He revealed himself to save my life, regardless of having hidden it from me for so long.” Keeping his back turned, keeping it hidden, positioning the serpentine mark out of her line of sight. The attention to detail that must have taken to so purposefully deceive her…Madison shook the thoughts from her mind. That was personal. This was business. “He was trained as a physician and takes the ‘do no harm’ extremely seriously.” Elora absorbed her words like a sponge, eyes raptly following each word formed by the huntress’ lips. “I don’t know if he’s changed over the last few months. We did not speak for very long,” Elora smirked here slightly, knowingly, and blue eyes turned to the brother instead, seeking a reprieve from that stare, “and he’s angry with me, that we’re together.” She motioned to Lawrence.

“Excellent.” Elora breathed, finishing off her glass of wine at that moment. “We can use that to aid us.” She licked her lips and Madison couldn’t help but feel that the action was for her benefit. The fleeting thought made her stomach tighten and she looked immediately down at her food, resuming the pause in her eating. “Lawrence, you’ll have to play the part of a doting paramour.”

“Gladly. I am a very generous lover.” The playfulness in his tone made their guest laugh, cerulean eyes darting over to him as he winked at her. “It will irritate him. If he is a bit emotional, she can use that.”

“I want to keep our interactions minimal.” Madison interrupted, having finished her vegetables.

“That simply isn’t possible, little sprite. He needs to be around you, to see you, to fall back in love with you.”  Elora chided and the other woman winced. Love. Sky above, how she had loved him. Every breath she had taken had been in service to him, to them. The decisions made after their union served only to keep them alive, keep him safe and fed and happy. How she had loved him then – heart, mind, soul and body. How she still did…

“Elora…” Lawrence cautioned but she swatted a hand in his direction.

“No. If she’s committed to this, to killing the High Commander, if she asks that of us then she can do this in return.” The composure she kept so tightly in place faltered and the black-haired beauty exhaled, pushing her plate away from her. The light in the room seemed to flicker with her irritation. The flare of anger in Madison was stoked to life and she whipped her head to Elora. They had become friendly over the past months of training but the lioness was unleashed.

“Do you know what you’re asking me?” The hiss left her lips, anger flickering up higher. as“Do you understand what you’re asking me to do?”

“I’m not asking, Madison.” Elora’s gaze flicked angrily to the other woman. “We need this. We need it. To be free of him.” And the anger turned to desperation, stopping Madison’s ire immediately. Bright gaze met pleading green eyes and she leaned back.

Could she do that? Could she lead Remy on? Could she extort their past relationship for information, to aid in the Resistance movement? The idea made her uneasy, uncomfortable, deceptive. Yet, hadn’t he deceived her for months on end, used her?

“You don’t, if you can’t. We can find another way.” Lawrence murmured to break the silence, examining the exchange between his sibling and their trainee. The intense stare between the women concerned the Terril heir but not in a way he expected.

“Fine.” The word left her lips, curtly. Elora broke their eye contact and glanced at her brother. Surprise lingered on his face and he raised one eyebrow at them both.  Madison pushed herself away from the table, with her chicken completely untouched. Turning on her heel, she headed for the exit before pausing. The half-finished bottle of merlot was snatched off the table and then she headed back up to her room.

“What was that about?” Hands ran through his blonde hair, moving it back from his forehead.  

“We need her to do it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Elora shrugged in response, casually, her mask sliding back into place with practiced grace. “Don’t pull that shit with me.” Lawrence examined her face, narrowed his eyes slightly and she squirmed beneath his stare. He was the only person that could see through her façade at any time. No secrets grew between them. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the wooden table on either side of his dish. “You want her to be around him. You want her to reject him, to hate him.” Then he laughed, it was full of sadness and disbelief. “Selfish, Elora. We have no time for selfishness.”

“If the High Commander falls, the heir is no longer of interest to her…what does it matter then?”

“Then. Then it won’t matter. Now it does. Leave her be.”

Upstairs, Madison had finished a fourth of the bottle in only a few minutes. The blur at the edge of her senses was soothing and Damien found his way up to lay at her side. She held the bottle in one fist and stroked the thickening fur of her canine companion. The ceiling flickered in a dancing mixture of shadows and light, a result of the descending night outside and the moon’s light disrupted by thick, swirling snowflakes against the window.  Absently, she wondered if Remy thought of her now, as she did him. Whether it was the wine, the snowstorm, or the awkward heat had Elora caused earlier, thoughts drifted to the cabin. The loft of the cabin and the slow lessons he gave with his words, his hands, his mouth. Those memories rolled into the Grafton Inn, the measured path of his hand down her side, across her hips to rest between her legs. Heat blossomed like a spring flower in her core as she set the bottle on her nightstand. Closing her eyes to savor the ghostly touch as if he had just caressed her.

If she had not stopped them, would it have gone this far in the hallway? The slow, tenuous ache in the pit of her stomach coiled tight at the thought. His warm palm traced up her exposed thigh, blue silk barely covering her lower half. His other hand cradled her neck, fingers twisting into her curls. She didn’t stop him, not now. She parted her mouth for him, ravenous. The scent of him surrounded her, cedarwood and smoke. Home. Home. Home.  Remy moaned her name against her skin and that was her undoing. The narrow table barely provided support for her as frantic fingers fumbled at his belt. And in her mind, in this impassioned daydream she permitted herself in the dark solitude of her bedroom, their bodies came together in one perfect movement. They were two raging tempests colliding, fueled by winds of pain, swells of need, and a love they sought to but were unable to ignore. Pleasure rocked her, and among the physicality of their union he said it, the words she wanted to hear him say just one more time. “I’ve never felt anything like what I feel for you. Emotionally and physically. I love you, Madison. I didn’t know it could be like this. What you do to me…I want you. Always.” The daydream ended in a bright burst of desire and need, sliding into melancholy once more. Was she sad because the daydream was over or because it hadn’t been real?  Labored breaths were the only sound in the bedroom as she rolled onto her side, curling into a ball, trying to hide from her need and the love that lingered in her heart for the man that had broken it so entirely.

---

Elora was distant for the subsequent three weeks. They trained daily but it wasn’t as it had been before, for either of them. Not once did Madison come close to besting her sparring partner. They traded punches and each time the huntress begrudgingly muttered ‘yield’ after minutes of brutal blows.  The moment it ended, Elora excused herself from the solarium and set about her tasks for the day, leaving Madison to her own devices and classes. The awkward air that hovered around them was overpowering and the huntress remained at an utter loss on how to broach the tension.  Lawrence was Madison’s usual dining companion on the days that he was not away on business.  They exchanged books and discussed them. Novels occupied her free hours between etiquette lessons and sparring, the one part of her body that didn’t hurt to move were her fingers. Elora stayed relentless and finally, the huntress broke after yielding and before the victor could flee.

“What is wrong with you?” Madison’s voice was sharp, irritated by another brutal defeat. Pushing herself upright, bare feet lifted her upward and blocking Elora’s retreat.

“Nothing.” The Amazonian returned, cleaning one of the dull blades that they were beginning to use in their close quarters combat style.

“You’re full of shit. You’ve avoided me for weeks.”

“We’ve trained every day. Don’t be ridiculous.” Her tone was flippant, similar to talking to a petulant child while she was working on other tasks.

“And you’ve said maybe twelve words to me. What is your problem?”

“I told you, nothing. I have things to do. Is this ludicrous conversation concluded, now?”  The beauty turned to face the huntress, whose arms were firmly crossed against her chest – partly in annoyance and partly to cradle the bruise developing on her ribs. Elora sought to push past the guardian of the doorframe

“No.” Madison’s hand shot out and gripped her upper arm loosely, jerking her back to face her. “Tell me. What did I do?” Blue eyes searched jade ones expectantly, clearly wounded that one of the two supporters she had had suddenly become distant. Elora scanned her face and the muscle in her jaw flexed before exhaling slowly. For once, the ever articulate goddess appeared at a loss for words – momentarily, that is.

“It irritates me that you still love him. You still pine for him. You cry at night over someone that treated you that way. Why?” The cadence of her voice was level, carefully so but emotion cracked behind it. Surprise flickered across Madison’s face, loosening her hold on the other woman’s arm.

“What?” Incredulously, she formed the word but the back of her mind flickered with the memory of Elora’s finger along her face. The huntress was astute and despite failing to be as swift as Lawrence, she realized what was happening. The minute space between them remained and suddenly all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Shame washed over her like the pounding droplets of her shower. How could she still feel just as strongly for the man that betrayed her?

“Don’t play coy. I’m not as blind as the High Commander. Your feelings haven’t changed, not truly. He deceived you, Madison. He didn’t trust you. You deserve someone that does.” And with that Elora slipped out the glass door and disappeared before the doctor’s lover could even catch up to the train of her thoughts.

Standing in the sunny room of glass, the Gallow girl remained at a loss for how to move forward from this moment. Questions tumbled about in her mind, spinning around and around one another until they grew so large and overbearing that she closed her eyes against the brightness of the morning light. Elora desired her – it has been a suspicion that was no confirmed through her relatively vague words. The woman was stunning, passionate, intelligent and witty. Had she met her before Remy, it all might have been different, something she might even be able to fully entertain. A dalliance to distract her from all the pain, all of the memories, all the unanswered wishes of her heart. Yet, to participate in such an affair would be cruel for one singular reason.

There was no one else in the entirety of the world made for her as Gregory Remington Walther II was. Everything about the Northam heir was fashioned to fit perfectly against her, fill the gaping maw left by her parents’ deaths and years of solitude. The physician cultivated desires in her that she could never had even contemplated without him – reading, dog training, and the comfort of a bottle of wine after a long day. Soulmates, the mere idea of them, was foreign before her expanded her horizons through books, through conversation, through lovemaking. Now, now, she felt incomplete – as shell without what it once held so close. Remy had been, and remained, the only one she could ever love.

The revelation rocked her to the foundation of her being. Cerulean eyes opened in a flash, taking in the refraction of light off of the white powder coating the ground beyond the spotless glass. Nausea roiled in her, bile threatening to make her ill. The sickness was brought about by the realization. After all he had done, she would never escape the threads that bound them together. Tied and wound into a masterful tapestry of their pain, their love. Without comprehending it, Madison had begun to walk back towards her room, lost completely to her own thoughts.

Kris, the tall butler that had been in service of the Terril family since he was a child, was escorting a woman with a large bag from the kitchens into one of the back rooms. Drawn out of her reverie, suspicion prickled at the base of her neck. She followed them on silent feet and the young woman with the bag met with Elora. Madison learned in the doorway, interest piqued at the odd location for the meeting. However, she had not made certain that Kris had left and so the door opened wide with her standing beside it.

“Madison. Perfect timing, please, come in.” Elora said, apparently having showered within the span of time that the huntress had been lost to her own thoughts in the training room. A blush darted beneath the freckles on her cheeks, and Madison stepped into the room. “Shut the door behind you.” Exchanging places with Kris, she shut the door behind her. Blue eyes examined the younger woman with the large bag. She was clothed in a thick skirt and a loose top tucked into the waistband. Everything about her was…plain, ordinary. The new arrival turned with a smile and stormy gray eyes full of amusement.

“Madison, this is Clover. Clover, Madison.”

“So you’re the heir’s little minx.”

“What is it with everyone calling me little?” Madison breathed with narrowing eyes, knowing full well that she was above average in height - looking down slightly at the unknown woman. Something about the color of her hair and the set of her jaw tickled at Madison’s memory but it was quickly pushed aside. “And I’m no one’s minx and I’m certainly not his.” Wrinkling her nose at the offensive pet name as she lied through her teeth about her inextricable connection to the Commander.

“Exactly as you described.” Clover cast an appreciative smile to Elora, who smirked and nodded.

“Who are you, exactly, anyway?” Crossing her arms to cradle the bruised rib.

“Clover, I thought that was obvious.” Leveled by Madison’s irritated gaze, she laughed. “The Resistance, darling. I am the Resistance.”

“You’re the leader?” Madison breathed a bit incredulously.

“Hard to believe a seamstress can lead a well-coordinated system of spies and rebels?”

“You’re a seamstress?”

“Gotta have a day job.” Pausing for merely a heartbeat, Clover smiled and revealed slightly crooked white teeth. “Makes it easy to gather information, enter homes, speak with my sources without suspicion.”

“And she has the steadiest hand in Northam.” Elora chimed in, eliciting an appreciative nod from the Resistance leader.

“You’re too kind, but accurate.” Her laugh was gentle, nudging at Madison’s memories once more.

“I was just updating Clover on our plans and how it has proven difficult to maneuver you and the heir together.”

“Yes, the High Commander has kept his son under wraps it seems since your fateful dinner a few weeks ago. He is scheduled for a trip to the Carib Territories soon, leaving a General in charge and his son to assume – presumably – some of the duties left behind. Perhaps a meeting with Lawrence could be arranged and then…” She waved a hand at Madison, who stood uncomfortably shifting her weight by the door, waiting for a proper moment to exit.

“That could work nicely. A midday meeting and we can arrange some time alone perhaps?” Elora brought her eyes to Madison’s and there was a fleeting flicker of hurt.

“I don’t…” A shaky exhaled left her lips as she watched the plotting women stare at her. This served a purpose – the death of the High Commander. It would allow her to sink her blade deep into him and watch his blood spill over her fingertips in grotesque satisfaction. “Fine.” The word escaped through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to seduce him, though.” Clover laughed suddenly and her face scrunched at the nose at Madison’s words.

“You don’t have to sleep with him, but feel free if that makes it easier.” Clover declared, ignorant of the stiffness in Elora’s shoulders at those words. “I just need you to ascertain if he can be trusted. He has been in the High Commander’s house for some months now. I’ve had some of my toughest operatives crack under that pressure – never exposing anything of real value, of course – but enough to irritate me now and again. If he can be persuaded, controlled in some way – whether with logic or whatever magical sway you hold between your thighs – it will permit us to gather untold intelligence.”  Stormy gray eyes captured annoyed blue ones. “By your hand, naturally.”

With each word that Clover spoke, Madison grew increasingly uncomfortable. Determining Remy’s allegiances was one thing, but actively manipulating him was another. That is what he did to her and she would never want to treat him in such a manner, no matter how badly she was wounded.

“Let’s start there,” Clover continued, “and perhaps another function in the near future.” The seamstress sighed in a fashion that clearly demonstrated her frustration. “It would be much easier if you would just pose as his mistress. The simplicity of meeting under such a guise.  Easy, easy, easy. Even him taking you as his mistress would be so simple.  Commander sees something he wants, takes it.” A shrug lifted her shoulders as she moved to rummage in her bag for a small wrapped package. She tossed it to Elora, who caught it with one easy swipe of her left hand into the air. “Think it over. Imagine the information!” The tight smile Elora gave didn’t reach her eyes but she nodded. It was a brilliant idea, if the supposed mistress-to-be would be more compliant.

“I’ll consider it.” The lie came easily enough – but she could never be his mistress. She couldn’t do it…not after what he had done to her. The familiar pangs of shame and guilt and sadness swirled around her like a suffocating cloud. Was it always going to be this way? Would she always feel like this at the slightest thought of him?

“Excellent. Consider quickly. It is going to be my new year resolution to stage the most delightful coup.”

Madison’s brows furrowed, and she opened the door without turning around and slipped out before she had to hear one more word about using her feminine wiles to gather intelligence from the physician.

The huntress made for the stairs just as Lawrence was descending. Bright blue eyes startled from her deep thoughts as she took in his attire. Hunting attire.

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting on the Commander’s property with one of the major generals. You look…displeased.” He straightened the wrist of his jacket.

“I just met one of your associates.” The distracted girl responded, casting a glance back at the closed door behind which Clover and Elora plotted.

“Ah. Yes. She can be abrasive. A bit full of herself. Stubborn.” Lawrence’s smile widened with each successive description of the Resistance leader.

“She’s a nightmare personified.” Madison added, smirking slightly.

“She clearly got under your skin.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Need to release some tension?” One perfect blonde eyebrow rose and the left corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

---

Lawrence lent Madison some of Elora’s hunting clothes, that were infrequently worn and the walking goddess found the pastime deplorable and unnecessarily cold. They were the finest clothes the huntress had ever used, with thick woolen socks protecting her feet beneath calfskin boots with water resistant soles. The jacket zipped to her neck was thin but almost hot due to some fabric technology that was beyond her comprehension. They rode horses, which had been a small part of Madison’s lessons over the past few months but she was still adjusting to the saddle.

“Major General Carrillo, this is Madison.” Lawrence introduced her to their companion that rode up on a dappled mare. He was dressed in military blues, made for travel and hunting, two bright sterling stars resting on his shoulders. The woman stiffened at the use of her true name and it did not pass unnoticed by the munitions dealer. “He is a close…friend.” The man dipped his head to her.

“Pleasure. Lawrence has told me quite a bit about you and your unique adventure.”

“I’d prefer Magnolia in public, if that’s alright.”

“Magnolia it is.” Paul Carrillo corrected. He turned to his pack attached to his saddle and reached to hand them three perfectly cared for rifles. Lawrence leaned, taking one and examining it.

“You’ve restored this beautifully, Paul.” The caress of the Major General’s name made Madison smile and she looked down to hide her amusement. When the rifle was offered to her, she politely declined.

“I prefer my bow and arrow. Guns are far too loud.”

“But they are faster and more precise.”

“Not necessarily more precise.”

“Care to wager?” The man asked, smiling and that was when Madison decided that she immensely liked this man.

The young woman quickly abandoned the horses at the edges of the woods on the High Commander’s expansive property. They would maneuver through the forest better without the beasts, at least that is what Madison convinced her companions to do. The moment she slipped between the trees, a calm slid over her. The comfort of the rustling animals, the wind through the long branches and the gentle crush of snow beneath her boots. Crystalline eyes closed and she inhaled the scent she had forgotten she missed. Steady fingers nocked an arrow and she tried to ignore how heavy footed her fellow hunters were. Their loud stomps made her cast a gaze at them out of the corner of her eye, irritation dancing on her face. Even Remy learned how to step quietly through the brush, after significant training. Sighing, she supposed that it would not be the same. Lawrence was her new hunting partner and it appeared that she would have to educate him on the finer points of actually hunting and not using it as an excuse to meet up with Paul. 

A shot rang out and she jumped slightly, turning with an annoyed expression to see that Paul had managed to bag a rabbit. The competitive side of Madison flared with jealousy before she settled the emotion down deep and tried to ignore Paul’s friendly, yet smug, expression. The trio spend hours walking the forest, capturing numerous small game until the competitive pair were tied. It was getting late, with the threat of darkness looming just beyond the skyline. Turning back, Madison kept an eye out for anything that would secure her the lead, the victory. Pausing, intent gaze fell on a clump of snow that was obviously out of place. Focus traveled upwards and spied three large pigeons huddled on a branch. Excitement crept into her fingers as she pulled back her bow, just slightly. Capturing the sight of Paul raising his gun, she held herself steady. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Bang.

A pigeon fell to the ground as Madison loosed one arrow and then another in quick succession. Two bodies thudded the ground and snow puffed up in plumes around the gray feathers.  Casting a glance at her companions, the woman smiled, shouldering her bow and picking up her kills.

“Impressive.” The major general grinned, assisting her and making for the near clearing where their mounts were tethered.

“I’ve never hunt for sport.” Madison admitted, thinking of all of the jerky their spoils from the day would make. It would have fed her for a few weeks at least when she had been making her journey towards Thebes.

“Could have fooled me.” Warmth blossomed in Madison’s chest at his compliment. As they rode back, the playful banter between Lawrence and Paul drastically decreased. They parted at an appropriate location and Madison taunted him and left open to opportunity for a rematch.

---

A few more weeks passed and Lawrence extended an invitation for discussion regarding the upcoming munitions imports. Elora and her brother hatched a plan that would permit a certain amount of surprise to be maintained on Madison’s behalf. Lawrence instructed Kris to permit the Walther heir entrance and seat him in the sitting room to wait. The Terril heir would be fashionably late, allowing the second most powerful man in Northam to grow bored enough to begin to wander about the estate. The timing perfectly coincided with Madison’s training session with Elora, who would make it so that their sparring ended in enough time for the pair to see each other.

While the butler escorted Gregoray Remington Walther II to his waiting area, the huntress was unwrapping her wrists.  Long ponytail swung with her movements, brushing against her back and tickling the exposed skin between her training crop top and high-waisted blue leggings. Sweat glistened along her temples, catching the bright light streaming in through the solarium windows.

“One more?” Elora inquired, trying to hide how heavily she was breathing. Brilliant green eyes flickered over to the glass entrance as if she was searching for something.

“Another?” Madison questioned, pausing her movements as she considered the proposal. “I’ll be late for lessons.”

“It’ll be fine. I just don’t feel tired yet. You’ve been slacking.”  

“Tell that to your panting.” Madison smirked, before her lunging and beginning the final match against the Amazonian she lived with. Madison brought her knee up into Elora’s chest, just in time to catch a fist to the side. One fist swung out to catch her companion in the shoulder, only to be thwarted when the Terril dropped and swing her food beneath Madison’s feet. She fell onto her back and immediately rolled to the side, putting distance between them until she could adequately catch her breath. Elora made the first move, coming out with fists and elbows that were blocked on her opponent’s forearms. It was clear that on this occasion the heiress was holding nothing back and it lit a fire in the huntress’ veins. A dodged kick to the neck and a few precisely placed blows to her sides left Madison angry at the minor setbacks in their fight. One landed on her chin, splitting her lip as it caught between her teeth. Elora paused, temporarily hovering beyond her adversary’s reach. Bright green eyes watched the physician’s ex-lover wipe a dot of blood onto her thumb and then examine it with irritated gaze. Their eyes met and Elora smiled, raising both of her brows.

“Yield?” The sultry voice filled all the spaces in the glass.

“No.” Madison snarled just in time to duck beneath Elora’s bare foot. Back and forth, back and forth – too evenly matched. Each breath grew more labored and she feared that she would have to yield to the goddess before her once again. And that was something that she did not want to do today, a conviction settling in her chest.

Lawrence quietly entered the hallway outside of the solarium, spying the back of the heir of the country of Northam as he watched the sparring women behind the glass. He hovered a ways behind him, watched as Elora caught Madison’s wrist and twisted. He noticed the minute movement of the Commander’s head back and forth and the fighters moved, intent on the lithe woman seeking to overpower her partner.

Molars ground together in frustration and the opportunity presented itself as a swift epiphany. The huntress spun, her back brushing the heiress’. She kicked out with her foot behind Elora’s knee, which caved from the contact. Grunting, the heiress’ grip on the wrapped wrist loosened enough to allow her hand to grasp her shoulder and push away, creating space between them. The mask slipped on the Terril’s face and anger flashed across it. She had hoped to a quicker victory, a tired opponent. Well, she was sorely mistaken if she expected that from Madison after weeks of pointedly ignoring her and making thinly veiled jabs at Remy. It irked the huntress that someone else would find fault in the character of the man she had given her heart to. And as childish as it was, only she could bring those flaws to life, only she could insult him.

Elora dove, using Madison’s unset footing against her and they crashed back onto the mat. Little did the tall woman know that this was precisely what Madison had desired, what she had wanted all along. The moment her back slammed onto the cushioned floor, she brought her legs up on their side of the other woman and kept propelling them backwards, turning the momentum against her opponent. Elora made a point to instruct Madison in yoga each day and her limbs had grown quite agile, enough so that she could twist her body over and pin Elora down with significant force. One arm pinned Elora’s wrists above her head and her dominant right rested loosely around her throat. Strong legs held to the ground and Elora squirmed beneath her briefly.

“Yield?” Madison asked, eyebrows raised to a firmly set mouth of her partner. Silence consumed the room before Elora nearly spat the annoyed words.

“Yes. Yield.”

“Quite flexible, isn’t she?” Lawrence remarked, finally coming to stand at the Commander’s side. Hands clasped behind his back, he kept intelligent green eyes on the sparring floor. The tone he used was liquid heat, wrapping around the small space between them. It held all the barely disguised lust that the Walther heir might expect from Madison’s new lover. “A stunning woman, indeed. Though she is also quite opinionated and she may not appreciate our uninvited audience.” The munitions dealer lingered his gaze on the victorious woman slender form, but turning his eyes to his male companion.  “Shall we set to business then?”

The unexpected sight of her had startled him into a trance. How long had Remy stood there, his feet rooted firmly to the marble tile? Seconds, hours, days—he could hardly tell the difference. He longed to run to her, sweep her off her lithe feet and spin her in his arms, to hear the peal of her warm laughter and watch the winter sun catch the ocean swells in her blue gaze.

Because despite the polished stone beneath his boots and the steep pitched ceilings above, the feeling that swelled in his chest at the sight of his huntress was unmistakable.

Home.

The word echoed though his mind as if it had been sung, the melody of which he knew somehow by heart.

Embroiled though she was in a sparring match with Elora Terril, the huntress alone had his rapt attention. She moved with feline agility, the bright afternoon light clinging to her limbs, and the way she danced from attack to parry with effortless grace belied the strength behind her strikes.

Their heated exchange continued until the huntress suddenly pulled back, the match paused—a bright swatch of blood beading on her lip. Remy’s muscles tensed, and he fought against the urge to go to her. But she dabbed the crimson away with an irritated frown, and after an exchange of words he could not make out from his distance, they launched back into a blur of motion as though nothing had happened.

Remy knew enough now to recognize many of the techniques both women used, but it was Madison who surprised him most. The ruthless energy she had always carried within herself was channeled now into deliberate, choreographed blows, the intensity of which only grew the longer the fight went on. It was truly a sight to behold—her familiar firestorm of determination, of emotion, at long last leashed and controlled and made stronger in concentration by its harness. Like the layered, billowing storm clouds of midsummer, shifting and powerful until at last they let forth their fury.

All at once, the warring women tumbled to the ground. He held his breath as Madison expertly turned Elora’s momentum into a downfall, a pang of deep-rooted pride swelling in his chest. The huntress, coiled like a spring, twisted upward from the mat to slam her opponent to her back—legs pinned by Madison’s thighs, wrists bound by Madison’s ironclad left grip and throat constricted by her right. Elora writhed against the huntress’ weight, but quickly realized her attempts were futile. And though he couldn’t hear it, he saw the Terril woman’s full lips form the word that clinched the Gallow woman’s victory: Yield.

The smallest flicker of a smile pulled at Remy’s lips. Well done, my love.

But a familiar silken voice drew him from his reverie, and he snapped back to the reality of where he was…and what he was doing. Lawrence Terril stepped to Remy’s side, hands clasped casually behind his back, green eyes transfixed on the figures in the solarium. The doctor tore his gaze from the woman he loved and looked to the infuriating blond man instead.

Lawrence looked as dapper as ever, his olive skin radiant in the sun’s reflection. The man watched Madison now as Remy had, his green eyes gleaming with lewd fervor that he did not bother to disguise. A shock of jealous heat burst to life in Remy’s gut, and he stiffened, lifting his chin. He looked back to Madison, who had relinquished her hold on the Terril heiress, and watched as both women rose tiredly to their feet. “Miss Sterling performs admirably,” the physician replied, his tone neutral.

“I should say she does,” Lawrence returned salaciously, his voice a sultry drawl.

Remy bristled. Despite his immutable physician’s morals, he longed to forcefully erase the smug, suggestive smile from the blond man’s mouth. Preferably with his fist, or perhaps a swift, agile kick…

It seemed neither man had quite gotten over the night of the dinner party.

Lawrence led them back to the study, where the modest fire had significantly warmed the cool air of the room. Remy glanced back over his shoulder toward the solarium before closing the heavy door behind them. The blond took his place behind an expansive desk and gestured for his guest to sit opposite, his expression composed as he retrieved and opened a thick, leather-bound ledger.

“You’ll forgive my tardiness, Commander,” Lawrence said, flipping through several tabs of bright white paper as he spoke. “A new shipment required my attention at the harbor, and I’m afraid we were overly optimistic regarding the state of the roads after the storm.”

Remy folded his hands in his lap. “The shipment scheduled from Espania?” he questioned, arching a brow. “I trust all is well…it’s three weeks late, which I understand is abnormal, even in the winter.” He paused, studying the man through slightly narrowed eyes. “I should hope your trade assurances with Espania remain intact. If they begin limiting exports to Northam as they’ve done with the French Republic, I fear there will be…consequences.”

A brief look of surprise flashed in Lawrence’s emerald gaze, and he offered a careful smile. “I don’t believe that will be a problem,” he assured. He flattened the open ledger and turned the book to Remy, whose gaze swept over the neatly organized reports.

Remy had learned that despite the transactional nature of munitions dealings, trade was never just about the import or export of goods—it was another vital piece on the vast board of the political chess game. Success or failure may have been measurable in numbers and figures, but the nuances of international trade extended far beyond simple logistics. The Terrils’ ability to maneuver within those boundaries was what made them so valuable to the regime; they were smart, and they were ruthless where it counted.

“As you’ll see, Commander,” Lawrence drawled, hand sweeping over the lines of ink until his finger pointed to a particular entry. “These are the up-to-date numbers as of this morning’s haul. All has been accounted for. I was assured the weather was truly to blame for the delay.”

“And do you believe them?” Remy asked, examining the numbers on the page before looking up. “Given the turmoil in the region?”

Lawrence threaded his fingers together and tucked them beneath his sharp chin as he leaned over the desk. “You’re asking if I trust them,” he said, meeting the Walther heir’s blue-gray stare.

“I’m asking for your insight,” Remy clarified. “If you suspect there might be something more to the gradual decline in declared export value than just a lack of manufacturing resources or manpower.”

The Terril man did not look away, instead taking a moment to study the Walther heir up close as he considered his answer. Gregoray Remington Walther II was as strikingly handsome as his father, with the same cut of his jaw, the same angle of his brows, the same severity of features that could be either dazzling or terrifying depending on the scenario. But where the paternal resemblance stopped were the eyes, where long lashes adorned the gentler slope of his lids, and steely blue resolve held fast and unblinking.

It required no stretch of the imagination to understand why Madison might be attracted to him, at least physically. But Lawrence simply could not comprehend what she saw in him other than a beautiful face and chiseled physique. He wanted to believe the young woman…to trust that Gregoray Remington Walther was, at his core, not a bad man, as she had put it. But that had been unconvincing. Despite the fact that the heir had revealed his identity to rescue her from death’s maw, Lawrence would require far more persuasion than Madison’s frankly lackluster endorsement. Anything less than unadulterated enthusiasm was suspect and unacceptable.

However, the fact that the Walther man had trained as a physician was an unexpected piece of information, and Lawrence could not quite puzzle together out how that knowledge might or might not factor into their opinions…or their plans. ‘Do no harm’ was far easier to say than it was to execute. By trade, Lawrence Terril was a man of action and exchange; steeped as he was in a world where accomplishment was easily measured in data, words could mean everything or nothing at all. Madison could testify to the heir’s medical prowess all she liked, but it was all just talk until the goods changed hands. Just like everything else.

Needless to say, Gregoray Remington Walther II had a lot to prove. And he was doing himself no favors now. The heir’s demonstration not just of his competence in the Terrils’ business—if he was honest, Lawrence hadn’t been expecting any of that—but also his intimate knowledge of sensitive international intel, led the blond man to conclude that Remy was not solely a bystander in his family’s regime. If the High Commander entrusted his son with information of this depth and complexity…well, it was certainly telling that their relationship was far more than just ceremonious.

“Do I genuinely think the recent Espanian shipment came in late due to the winter weather? Yes. So in that, I do believe them. Captain Ruiz is a contractor, and a seasoned one at that, whose only stake lies in the safe delivery of cargo. He would have no reason to lie,” Lawrence said at last, his face neutral. He drew a breath. In spite of his personal dislike of the man across from him, this was still a business meeting, and feeding falsehoods to his high-ranking guest, even by omission, only put himself at risk. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in a little sharp-pointed allegory. “The instability in Espania has been brewing for some time, however. Already the northern region is fighting to declare itself independent.”

Remy tilted his head with mild interest. He had been briefed on this topic from his father’s advisors, but it made sense that someone like Lawrence, who communicated directly with transatlantic crews on a weekly basis, would have his own astute take.

Lawrence went on. “Espania and Andalusia have existed as a united peninsula for a long while. They were allies. Partners. Sworn to defend one another, unbreakable.” The blond man drew out his words, peering intensely into his guest’s eyes for any sign of a reaction. “Until Espania discovered that Andalusia, who controls the Strait to the Mediterranean, had been keeping a secret with powerful political implications.”

The tempest in Remy’s eyes darkened, a shadow changing blue to gray.

A devilish thrill pulsed through the Terril man. The Walther heir was good at hiding his feelings, almost as good as his frightening father—except, it seemed, when it came to Madison Gallow. Lawrence continued, his baritone a smooth, satisfied croon. “Andalusia had never completely severed an alliance with their age-old political enemy, the Kingdom of Italia. They allowed Italian ships to pass freely through the Strait, despite having sworn separation…always disguised, or even bare, in the dead of night.”

Remy’s heart began to race with a feeling he couldn’t identify—because, he quickly realized, it was no singular emotion. It was a strange, sudden mélange, dominated by fury and tainted with notes of shame and fear and confusion.

“It took an incredible degree of orchestration, to deceive so completely for so long,” the munitions dealer went on. He closed the ledger and smoothed his palms over the cover, his expression a perfectly stoic mask—as if he were completely oblivious to the painful parallels this particular political narrative drew to Madison and Remy’s own ill-fated story. “If it weren’t for the catastrophic consequences, I might even be impressed with the whole farce. The logistics alone, keeping it hidden at all hours…can you even imagine?” He trailed off, concluding the tale with a dismissive, conversational chuckle. But when he spoke again, his tone suddenly shifted, and he leaned in. “So, Commander, I suppose the short answer to your question is…no,” he murmured, low and venomous. “I don’t trust them at all.”

Remy met his stare in challenge and found menace lurking in those vibrant green eyes, a verdant forest standing firm and immovable against the force of a gray storm. But it was gone as swiftly as it had manifested, replaced by a bright nonchalant sparkle that once again made the physician want to knock the man to the floor. The whole report seemed far too pointed to be a coincidence. Did Lawrence Terril know about Madison and Remy’s checkered history? The man was savvy, to be sure, but how much did he know?

Had the huntress confessed under the protection of night, lying naked in the man’s arms? Had she opened her heart to Lawrence as she had to Remy in the mountains? Was this the arms dealer’s way of staking his claim?

The thought made Remy’s stomach turn.

Nevertheless, the barbs of Lawrence’s words had found their mark, burying tight into the Walther heir’s skin. And the more he struggled against the brambles, the deeper the thorns embedded in his flesh. He didn’t need to be reminded of his failures; he breathed that pain every day, a poignant ache in the hollow of his chest that he was slowly learning to live with. Lawrence Terril had no right to carve the hole of Madison’s absence wider.

If that’s what he was doing. If he knew, or suspected, that Madison had once belonged to Remy, and he to her, body and soul…if he knew Magnolia Sterling was in fact Madison Gallow.

Remy forced a smile that appeared just as warm and genuine as the one the blond man wore. “Thank you, Lawrence, for your insight,” he drawled. “I will be curious to look into Espania’s plight more closely. But I wouldn’t rule out the Andalusians so fast.” He cleared his throat, expression pleasant. “Difficult, isn’t it, to judge where we should place our allegiances.”

A knock at the door caused Remy to turn, narrowly missing the briefest of sour looks from Lawrence. Kris the butler stepped inside. “Commander Walther. Master Terril,” the man greeted, bending low at the waist. “Luncheon is served.”

“Excellent, we were just wrapping up. Thank you.” Lawrence rose to his feet and brushed imaginary dust from his immaculate coat. “We’ve looked forward to hosting you again,” the blond man said to Remy, stepping around the desk. “I believe my lovely sister will be joining us, if she is not too humiliated after her defeat at Magnolia’s hand today.” As if on cue, the man’s eyes glinted with something Remy could only interpret as desire, laced perhaps with pride. And not pride at his lover’s victory…but pride that the huntress was his, and not the doctor’s.

Remy looked away pointedly. The last thing he wanted to do was spend more agonizing time with Lawrence Terril. But even if he had the power to refuse, it was not the proper thing to do—and so the doctor stood and followed the blond man to the formal dining room.

It seemed a wholly unnecessary extravagance for a party of just three, but propriety dictated the finest when hosting the second highest ranking man in Northam…and the Terrils were nothing if not strictly comme il faut. Lawrence ushered Remy inside with an elegant smile and gestured to one end of the table.

But as the physician moved to take his seat, he saw that there were not just a trio of place settings awaiting them.

There were four.