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

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

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

Suspect under surveillance. Earl’s Crossing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t the luxuries of his home estate that he’d missed. It was this. It was her.

His eyes flicked down to the movement of her hands as she ran a finger over a faint silvery scar on her knuckles. He slid his fingers over hers, tracing the same line with his thumb with a tenderness that belied his physical strength. “Miss Paice, I would never mistake you for a fool,” he purred, keeping his eyes cast down to their joined hands. In all their encounters, he hadn’t noticed the scar before. The errant scrape of a needle, perhaps? A dull fabric blade deviating from its path along a straightedge? A curious hum rumbled in his throat, and he looked up when she spoke again, meeting her gaze from just inches away.

Conquest. The word sent an unbidden shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the night’s chill.

Her eyes gleamed dark in the shadows, dark with a desire mirrored in his own. “That could be arranged,” he responded, his voice a whisper. His hand slid to her knee, and he allowed his fingers to trail slowly away as he leaned back in his seat. “I do some of my best work at that desk,” he declared, mouth quirked in a crooked smirk. “I’d be happy to…show you.”

As if on cue, the carriage lurched to a stop. The driver tapped quietly on the door, and Quinn slid open the lock mechanism. A sigh of wintry air sliced the heat between them, but the general barely noticed; he climbed out and extended a hand for Chloe. A few fine snowflakes fluttered from low clouds; they danced like sparks as they caught the golden light of Avondale’s front entrance—fitting, considering the heat growing behind his ribs that threatened to catch fire right then and there.

“Please have Willa prepare a flagon of wine and prepare a guest room,” the general instructed the driver, who nodded as he moved to tend the horses. Quinn led Chloe through the double doors and into the warmth. He reached up to brush away the snowflakes that had landed on her raven hair, and smiled. “Follow me, if you would,” he said. “I believe we have some…strategy work…to prepare for.”

Gold met silver as he leaned forward. The woody scent of whiskey on his breath mingled with the distinct earthy aroma she had come to associate with him. Clover inhaled deeply, never taking her gaze from his face - tousled hair, molten eyes, and lastly (briefly) to his mouth. Traitorous heart thundered against her ribs and despite herself the seamstress shifted, as if to mask the sound of it. “Quinn.” She exhaled, dropping pretense. They were completely alone, the loud clamoring of hooves keeping their words contained. Even the driver wouldn’t be able to discern anything said. A dangerous smile ticked her lips upward. She should have him drop her at her shoppe. She should bid him goodnight. Things were growing more treacherous for the Resistance by the moment. Someone, some rising star among the Commander’s favorites, was finding her spies at an alarming rate. Not to mention the disaster at Earl’s Crossing.

And still.

She couldn’t shake him. The smell of him lingered long after he departed. The sound of her name on his lips haunted every dream. The memory of his fingers along her skin occupied her thoughts, distracting her. It had shifted inexplicably to imagining what he might be doing, who was making him laugh and who might be listening to his fears and aspirations. She found herself feeling his arms around her in a way that wasn’t purely of physical intent. The allure of feeling safe whispered seductively to her - a siren luring her to her death. Warning bells sounded faintly in the back of her mind. Fate had taken the shimmering strands of their lives and knotted them together, cruelly twisting and tightening until Clover felt like she couldn’t breathe properly when he wasn’t around.

Taking that freeing, easy breath now, the rebel leader assumed the same position the Northam general did. Elbows pressed into her thighs and there were scant inches between them. “Have I foolishly assumed you were taking me to Avondale?” It was safest. Tone was nonchalant, casual, and without innuendos. Having him at Rose’s would draw unwanted attention from nosy neighbors peering out their windows in the dead of night at the sound of a carriage’s arrival and abrupt departure. “I thought, perhaps, you

might be willing to show me where you do all your strategic planning.” Chloe’s voice was casual, as though she had every intention of a business conversation. Detached despite their proximity.  She looked down at her nails, studying them, before brushing her fingers over a silver scar across her knuckle.

Voice dropped low, sultry, and beckoning suddenly. As if she had slid fluidly and fully into Clover now, the curated mask slipped away. She was his now. The dark, enigmatic monster whose soul - did it even have one? - twinned his own.  “I seem to remember a grand desk upon which you could led a wholly different sort of conquest, general.” Shimmering eyes flicked back to his the moment she murmured conquest.

“A room full of half-naked women, and you’re over here flirting with…a fully clothed delivery girl?”

“Seamstress,” Quinn corrected casually, tearing his gaze from Chloe’s wake to meet the booze-bright eyes of an eager sergeant. The general looked the young man up and down, noting the bloom of pink in his clean-shaven cheeks and the slightly rumpled state of his uniform. “I see you’re enjoying yourself, Sergeant Rowan,” he drawled, forcing his thoughts away from the dark-haired tradeswoman.

“Oh, immensely, General, sir,” Rowan gushed, the words slurring from his tongue in a tangle of near-unintelligible syllables. The man was fresh to his rank but a good soldier, one that Quinn had helped to train himself before his new duties had called him away from instruction. This interaction was certainly unusual, the inebriated sergeant demonstrating none of the usual deference between a trainee and a superior officer, but Quinn was willing to let the lack of typical decorum slide. He was feeling…well, distracted. Generous.

Rowan swayed on his feet, watery eyes becoming momentarily unfocused. Quinn arched an amused brow. “Take it easy on the liquor, Sergeant,” he advised, stepping out of the thoroughfare leading to the stairs and back towards the lounge. The young soldier tripped after him out of the way, his eyes snagging on a scantily clad brunette who had sidled over to one of the blackjack tables. The lad probably wouldn’t remember a single second of this interaction, let alone the rest of his night—which seemed more likely to end embracing a toilet than a woman—and Quinn took advantage of his distraction to slip outside. Like most other over-eager soldiers, Rowan would learn the hard way to control his intake of booze and debauchery.

Where the air inside Catherine’s was clouded with incense and heavy with notes perfume and sweat, the bite of the winter breeze outside was crisp and fresh. Quinn inhaled it deeply, feeling it fill his lungs and cool his rushing blood. The Belvedere coach pulled around the curved driveway and paused in front of him, the driver moving immediately to climb down from his perch above the horses. Quinn held up a hand. “We’re waiting for another,” he instructed, the words a silvery cloud in the lamplight.

The wind tousled his hair as he waited, the seconds stretching to minutes that felt more like hours. Still, the frigid weather did little to staunch the heat building behind his ribs. How the seamstress managed to appear where he least expected it, he didn’t know; but he also wasn’t about to complain. The sight of her sent a fresh shockwave through him each and every time their paths fortuitously intersected, and this night was no exception. It just proved how much of an impact she had upon him, when the only person he wanted—just as Sergeant Rowan had drunkenly pointed out—was the fully clothed woman in a sea of very willing half-naked escorts.

His amber eyes caught the light when he looked up at the sound of the front door opening, and his pulse thundered in his ear when Chloe’s familiar face greeted him. “Miss Paice,” he said, his voice a rumble even as a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. She stepped up to him just as another exiting patron crashed into her shoulder, knocking her closer. He reached out to catch her, his hands gripping her upper arms.

“Watch yourself!” he barked after the man, who sported disheveled military blues. He glared over Chloe’s shoulder.

The offending man’s watery eyes widened in recognition. “S-sorry, G-general,” he stammered, nearly colliding then with the coach. One of the horses stomped a foot in warning.

“Be on your way,” Quinn ordered, then turned his attention back to the seamstress in his arms, her blue-gray eyes sparkling wickedly as he met her gaze. His lips curled into a wicked smile of his own as he recalled the manner in which he’d acquired her gift…the feel of the handsy captain’s finger snapping in his hands as Quinn removed the ring and left him to bleed outside his own manor. “It was my sincere pleasure,” he whispered to her, the space between their lips vanishing as he brushed his mouth against hers. The monster that lived within him stirred to life, recognizing the proximity of its own kind. Chloe was feeding his darkness with her own, and he would devour it willingly. Shadowed though they were to the side of the doors, he reached up to her neck, trailing a curved finger along the sharp line of her jaw. “And I would do it again,” he murmured, moving his lips to her ear, “and again, and again.”

Desire coiled tight in his abdomen. “Let’s go,” he rumbled, dropping his hand to her forearm and tugging her toward the carriage. He opened the door and climbed in after Chloe, the dark privacy curtains falling into place as the driver snapped the horses’ reins. The carriage lurched forward on the cobblestones.

Quinn sat facing her, perched on the edge of the cushion with his elbows on his knees, bridging the gap between the opposing seats. “Well, Miss Paice,” he asked huskily, his eyes dark but unmistakably hungry even in the velvety shadows. “Where am I taking you?”

Despite herself, a flush dappled her cheeks at his comment and thrilled her. Whenever the need arose…did he have any idea how frequently that was? Did he have any idea how much she had thought of him over the last agonizingly long days since they were last together? “Perhaps I will linger…” she retorted, stepping close as she made to pass him in search of her informant. “Build the anticipation?” She queried softly, voice thick with want. “And perhaps then I won’t have to wait until we arrive at Avondale…”

Clover slipped away then, sliding though the crowd of people that were growing more boisterous by the second. The alcohol was flowing freely for the stag party and providing enough cover that hopefully no one would remember Quinn Belvedere’s paramour. Chloe ascended the stairs, unnoticed, and found her way to Veronica’s room. She knocked appropriately – one of their many signals – and the door swung wide.

“About time you brought what I needed.” She said loudly as a man stumbled with a laughing woman, clad similarly to the others downstairs. The woman’s blonde hair was piled high on her head, perfect ringlets dangling down as if by happenstance but in reality, were perfectly cultivated. Her eyes were an alluring hazel, contrasting sharply with her pale features. She appeared as though a fairy princess and having stepped straight out of an old tale. The ideal woman to lure men into her bed, and then to create an air of innocence that loosened their tongues.

“I’m so sorry. I –“

“Enough with apologies. I don’t have time. Come in and let’s be done.” She snapped, standing wider so Clover could enter.

The room was rather large and ornate – as symbol of her status as one of the favorites at Catherine’s. It was perfect composed and not an item out of place. Clover didn’t spend long looking over the space as she fished out the clothing form her satchel. She held it out and Veronica’s face immediately changed. “It is exquisite. Perhaps I shall debut it tonight?”

“And risk standing out from the other girls?” Clover joked, smiling.

“It would be such a travesty to steal all the spotlight, wouldn’t it?”

“Might actually assist me if I can slip out after your elaborate entrance. It’s more crowded tonight with more big players than I would have liked.” The spy admitted. “Clover wouldn’t like me to stick out.”

Veronica nodded as she began to change and speak at the same time. Clover adverted her gaze and leaned against the closed door, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “Captain Brisley, you now the one?” The woman continued when Clover nodded. He was the right-hand man to a high-ranking general - a grunt but well positioned. He took all that he had and spent it on Veronica, begging her to run away with him in marriage every single time. It was a relationship the woman had cultivated over the last two years. “He mentioned two nights ago that there would be a large change coming amongst the generals. His boss was not pleased about it – kept going on and on about the High Commander’s new favorite. Favored, he said, to inherit Northam since Gregory has no heirs.” She referred to him by his first name as they had once been more intimately acquainted. The reminder made Clover’s skin crawl. She and Veronica were the same age.

“Did he say who it was?”

“No, unfortunately it’s hush hush.”

“Do you think you could find out?”
“Possibly, but he bought be this –” She held out her arm and jingled her wrist where a beautiful silver and emerald bracelet resided, “in an attempt to win my heart and I think it will be some time before he can afford another visit.” Clover scowled at the words.

“If we can find out…” Clover chewed the inside of her lip. If they could discern who – there were a couple of options that the rebellion could pursue. But her father’s chosen heir…they would be truly the most monstrous. There could not be a recruitment. The only ending possible that would be favorable would be to end the heir early to disrupt the line of succession – keep the High Commander wondering if he would ever be able to find someone to take over for him. Clover’s mind kept racing when the other woman interrupted her musings.

“I’ll send word.” Veronica said, tightening the stays and securing her stockings to the new outfit. She gave a small giggle of glee. “This is exceptional. All the girls will be jealous.”

“After you.” Clover said, motioning to the door with a pleased smile.

The rebel’s escape was much less eventful than her arrival. Veronica did precisely as she intended. She drew every single eye as she descended the stairs, making quite the show of her new attire. So much, in fact, that one Captain Langston maneuvered his way over to her. She had never managed to draw his attention, but she was quite pleased with the development. Chloe found the cold air brushing against her cheeks when she arrived outside. She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes.

“Miss Paice.” His voice was like a light in the darkness that drew her in, a ship tossed about on turbulent seas that finally spied a lighthouse. She turned to the sound of it and opened her eyes, letting them settle on him. Disheveled locks brushed his forehead and she itched to tangle her hands in them immediately.  Lips parted before she said a word, just staring at him beside the coach. His driver resided on the box, eyes pointedly away from them and on the horses idling.

“General.” She said, as someone bumped into Chloe – looking over her as the commoner she was. Knocked off balance, she caught herself a few inches from him, just as he reached out his hands to catch her. Clover straightened and tilted her head up to him. “Quinn.” She exhaled his name into the space, a caress. “I thought you weren’t coming.” The seamstress admitted, reminiscent of Earl’s Crossing. “Your gift was much appreciated.” A wicked curl twisted her lips. “Though, it was unnecessary. I had told you I could handle my affairs.” The distance between them closed, her chest brushing against his as she stared up into his eyes. “I’ve never had someone to fight my battles for me. Someone to want to. It is…” she rocked forward on her toes, brushing her parted lips against his mouth, “fucking intoxicating.”

People were stumbling in and out of Catherine’s and paying them little mind in the dark, barely illuminated by the window light from the brothel. Even with the risk, she couldn’t stop herself. The ring nearly burned her skin, so heated was the reminder of what he had done, what he had done - for her.

They were drawn to him with a force just as strong as their fear. He could read the conflict in their eyes, prey caught in a predator’s trap. He basked in it still, just as he’d confessed to the seamstress the night in her flat above the shoppe. But what made this situation all the sweeter was the fact that Chloe was there to witness it firsthand, that she could watch that same series of wariness and admiration flicker across the faces of the people in his presence—and perhaps to revel in it herself by association. She had never been one to hide her hunger, her strength from him. Perhaps she would enjoy that feeling of power too. It was an experience like no other, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to share it with someone who understood the dark core of him.

But what he saw, instead of gratification, was sudden apprehension in her expression as she noticed the stares that were rapidly accumulating. Her head bowed low, a curtain of raven tresses tumbling to conceal her face. She wasn’t intoxicated by the attention; she was…embarrassed? Quinn’s brows shot up. This was…unexpected. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing her be bashful. Then again, this was the first time they had truly been seen together in a public setting; the privacy of a bedroom—or storage room—was another story entirely. It was surprisingly difficult to remember that Chloe Paice, whom he viewed so much as a kindred spirit, had not been raised to wear the spotlight as he had. She was out of her element.

And she reminded him as such. I am but a humble tradeswoman. A shiver sprinted down his spine at the same time that a spark of heat flared to life behind his ribs. She was hardly just a tradeswoman. But he nodded his understanding, the sharpest edge of his mirth softening in the smile he flashed back at her. Still, oblivious though he was to her plan, her aim to distract him with impassioned memories was certainly successful. The distance between them suddenly felt like miles, yet at the same time they may as well have been the only two in the room—his golden eyes blazed with the remembrance of their first night, and no amount of perfume in the air or scantily-clad escorts sauntering the perimeter could compete with that.

“You may have a ride whenever the need arises,” the general murmured suggestively, dropping his voice so only the seamstress could hear. He straightened and clasped his hands politely behind his back, but the glow of desire in his gaze matched the hunger in Chloe’s tone. His pulse was a steady drum against his sternum. “Don’t be too long.” A thinly-veiled plea disguised as an order, and he didn’t care if she saw right through it. “I’ll be waiting, Miss Paice.”

The apology caught her by surprise. Of all the words she expected, they were not in her imaginings. She inhaled sharply at them, savoring the brush of heat at his proximity. She made a move to respond but his mouth was on hers. Desire rocked her at the precise moment that fear gripped her heart. Loved and spy battled inside of her for dominance. And for once, when it came to Quinnley Belvedere, did reason reign supreme. The Executioner had kissed her in a room full of people. He was drawing far too much attention to her and while she often let her relationship with him push the boundaries of what was safe - this was too much, it had gone too far. People would inquire who she was. They would remember her. And yet all the fear in the world could not stop her lips from savoring the contact and a shiver to run down her spin at his confession. He pulled away and she held back a sing of relief at its brevity.

Fuck.

She felt eyes all over them, their curious gazed searching for what made her special. Clover struggled to slow down the rapid pace of her heart, the fear that was pumping adrenaline through her veins. She dipped her head slightly, allowing some hair to hide her face, as if embarrassed by his public affection. The resistance leader needed to shake him without arousing suspicion. She must extricate herself from association with The Executioner, favorite of the High Commander of Northam. Thoughts raced around haphazardly in her mind, complicated by the warring feelings inside of her. Clover took a slow, steadying breath and her mind went completely blank. Slowly, she allowed purposeful thoughts to enter and a plan to formulate in her mind that would permit her to accomplish what she needed to and also what she wanted to. Chloe slipped a step back from him, as she let her attention flicker over some of the people watching them.

“So chivalrous, general.” She smiled, releasing her hand on her satchel as their eyes made contact again. “But I fear I’d be more at risk of drawing others’ ire for keeping the Executioner from his adoring fans.” She cocked her head slightly and indicated both his compatriots and their beautiful counterparts. “And the price of your escort may be beyond what I could afford.” It was a risk, but she closed the space between them for a fleeting moment “I am…but a humble tradeswoman.” Memories raced through her mind and across her skin as she draw back to a respectful distance once more. The recollection of their first union thrust back upon both of them by the words, drawing them into something no one else in the room could share. To distract him. 

“Though, I do not have any more deliveries after this.” Hunger laced her words. And she knew, despite what she told herself, that she wasn’t just seducing him here to eliminate suspicion. She was doing it because she ached to feel his bedsheets against her skin again. “If the offer of a ride still stands.”

It dawned on him suddenly, so unexpected that it was little wonder he hadn’t thought of it straight away. Was it…jealousy? From Chloe Paice, the wittiest and most wicked woman he’d ever had the immense pleasure of taking to his bed? A smirk tugged at Quinn’s lips that he tried, and promptly failed, to tamp down. Warm satisfaction shone in his amber eyes along with a flicker of amusement, an impish (and probably inappropriate) contrast to her withering glare. He couldn’t help himself. She just looked so…well…it was endearing—the slight crease between her brows, the hurricane in her stare, the way she’d stepped up to him, planted her feet, and squared her shoulders as if preparing for a brawl instead of a conversation.

It might’ve been easy to fire a response just as scathing right back at her, about how he was working too, all the fucking time, that he’d hardly seen the inside of his own home in the past seven excruciating days. Even being here, at Catherine’s, was more a work function than a true night out; he was there as the Executioner, a celebrity in attendance to boost Colonel Antonio’s social status. But instead, the general’s mirth slowly shifted, and the shadows in his eyes darkened. A fleeting pang of shame, or something very much like it, echoed through him at what he now could interpret as a hint of hurt in her expression. It had been a whole week, hadn’t it, and it bothered him that hadn’t had the time or the space to check in on her.  It was not the longest stretch they’d gone without contact. But they had been growing closer, and this didn’t feel the same.

Chloe was standing so close he could smell the familiar spice of her hair even through the clouds of perfume that hung thick in the brothel’s air. Without any regard for who might be watching him—and people surely were watching him, given his current fame—he leaned closer and angled his head down until his lips hovered near her ear. “I’m sorry,” Quinn whispered, inhaling the scent of her skin. His lips were so close they nearly brushed against her ear as he spoke. “I was…busy. But I should have made time to see you.”

He pulled back, but not far—because his mouth sought hers, lips brushing in a featherlight but heady kiss. “The only debauching in which I’m interested in partaking is the kind depicted in your note,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the music and chatter. “You. Naked. In my bed.”

He straightened, putting a little more distance between them, and grinned slyly. “What do you say I accompany you as your personal security detail while you finish your work?” he suggested, a note of concern weaving its way into his tone. But it turned devilish once more when he added, “I can have my carriage waiting by the time you’re done.”