How could she not? Everything about him beckoned her, the physical embodiment of a siren song. Clover knew she would drown in this moment and not regret a second of it. He was a perfect compliment to her (sexually, only, she reminded herself - there could never be anything more). He met her challenges head on, muscles rippling and yearning and straining against mental reservations. No one had ever held this physical sway over her, such an immediate tether that bound them together. Briefly, she thought of how she had initially planned to spend the evening with Bernard. A quick, somewhat satisfactory lay that would have tided her over for a short while. But this already...
A gasp rushed from her as the general jerked her against him after liberating her body from her bra. Their bodies pressed together and she felt a throbbing ache between her legs and shifted to feel a tight pressure against her skin. His tongue swirled around her breast, causing her to close her eyes while letting her head fall back. His mouth worked on her sensitive flesh and she groaned into the night above them. No one had ever paid much attention to her body...besides Elora, that is, but this. Fuck, this was already like nothing she had experienced. A mewling sound escaped her as his hand splayed across her back, holding her firmly in place. Hands tangled into his hair, following the movements of his head. And fucking hell, fucking hell, he was changing his actions in response to her pleasure. He cared about her pleasure, her wants, her needs. And fuck was the brigadier general observant.
It ceased suddenly, leaving trails of hot saliva on her skin, causing an explosion of gooseflesh when his mouth abandoned its current task. The ravenous kiss made her grind her hips along his body until she was suddenly on her back. A wicked grin flashed across her lips as he bound her hands above her head. She took a ragged breath, trying not to writhe beneath him like some common country girl on her second sexual encounter. But, fuck, how she craved him.
“Do you speak to all your mentors using such a demanding tone?“ A challenging smirk tugged at her lips as her hands acquiesced to his command the moment he released them. Deftly, slender fingers unhooked the buttons from their loops, leaving the fabric gaping open to reveal a triangle of matching black lace. A heady moment passed between them, the spy purposely taking her time working the fabric down the sides of her legs. She used both hands to lean forward slightly as she pulled off her pants. As she did so, Clover snagged his lips in another bruising kiss. With a simple, small kick, the garment crumpled and fell off the end of the bed with an ignored thump. Her breath came in shallow pants as she met his eyes from beneath him once more.
Swollen lips parted and she licked the corner of her mouth before drawing that same area between her own teeth. As she kept his eyes trained on her face, the seamstress let one of her freed hands explore the elastic of his waistband. Palm slid drown the front of his hips and lingered over the evidence of his arousal. Clover couldn’t prevent herself from a lascivious gleam slipping into her gaze that held his still. She wanted to see the look on his face as she gently moved her hand in place, slow teasing strokes. The deep brown of his eyes shrunk as his pupils dilated in response. She suppressed a smile of satisfaction, much like a preening peacock.
“Or is that reserved just for the ones you know have a tendency toward insubordination and wandering hands?” Clover purred the words into the space between them before removing her hand languidly. Subsequent movements were almost dismissive as she examined his features. Fingers traced the long scar on his right side, following it to where it vanished beneath the scant clothing. Hooking her finger, she tugged his briefs with it to reveal what has been hidden from her. Breath hitched at the sight of him and then exhaled shakily. “Fuck,” the words followed in a whisper, “how are you even real?” Clover asked in exasperated awe before she realized she had said it out loud. She pushed him back slightly, drawing off the final offending article and tossing it somewhere in the room.
She propped herself up on her elbows, bringing her face millimeters from his. With the same almost disinterested ease, she drew his hand to her hip. She guided his hand along the side until his finger snagged her panties. Clover released his hand, leaving it in place as her gaze flickered down the length of him in an appraising fashion. The poor girl was struggling to not mount him immediately, so great was the pressure mounting inside of her. The serpentine predator in her sized up the predator in him. She knew they both liked to play with their prey before devouring it fully even with only just meeting him.
“You may show your devotion as you see fit,” Clover pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of his lips. “But I plan on making you scream my name, Quinn, over and over before this night is through.” She promised against his mouth, smirking as she shifted herself upward with an arched back to permit him easy removal of her final garment.
Chloe beckoned him like the shore calls to a wave…the pull inescapable, the collision inevitable. And as their lips crashed together, as their fingers grasped glistening flesh, it felt as obvious and powerful as the tide that their two forces should meet like this.
Satisfaction flared in him as she heeded his order. Her hands departed his chest and moved to her waistband in compliance, where she unfastened the gathered fabric and slowly, at an agonizing pace, eased the garment down the length of her legs. The general held himself above her even as she rolled her spine forward with the effort, and he dipped his mouth to her slender neck. As his lips and teeth worked in alternating caresses and nips at the silky flesh beneath her jaw, his free hand ventured lower until his palm met the back of one of her hands. He squeezed it tightly and urged her grasp downward, hastening the removal of her trousers. When her efforts descended farther than his reach and her spine curved even farther forward to complete the task, his fingertips slid away to tease at the delicate lace of her panties.
Her voice was a tantalizing vibration against his lips when she spoke, and Quinn pulled away just far enough to meet her eyes through his thick lashes. “I speak however I want,” he responded silkily, amber gaze molten, “to whomever I want.” A sly grin tugged at one corner of his lips. He slipped a single finger beneath the lace near the curve of her hipbone, relishing the faint quiver he detected beneath his touch. His lips parted to speak again, but whatever else he’d been about to say vanished with the sudden, bruising, insistent press of her mouth, and he melted back into her—gold meeting silver.
It was odd and enthralling, the way she seemed to reflect back what he knew resided within himself. In the silvery-blue mirror of her gaze gleamed an image not just of their kindred desires, but of deep cunning, of ruthlessness, of battles waged and won and lessons learned and taught. He could feel it in the electricity of her touch; it buzzed in the wake of insistent fingers, vibrations that quaked down to his very bones. The monster imprisoned in the cage of his ribs had found a similar creature lurking beneath the unassuming surface of the enigmatic seamstress, and now it was ready to burst free of its confines with unprecedented freedom.
But in spite of—or, indeed, perhaps because of—his demons, Quinn was a charismatic person. Like the high commander himself, he could charm even the surliest of old generals, or the demurest of high society debutantes. Effortless though it seemed, it had taken years to perfect; the Belvedere heir had carefully sharpened his inherent natural magnetism into a tool he could brandish with as much control and purpose as a blade or a firearm in his hand. The real Quinn was kept tight-leashed and guarded, with fragments of a complicated whole emerging only when specifically summoned. Few were privy to the complete picture of the man—or the monster, if the two could be distinguished at all—that dwelled behind those light brown eyes and powered the muscles that corded his bones.
But the brash seamstress was getting a rare glimpse. Hell, far more than just a glimpse…because at the insistence of her deft fingers, he soon found himself wearing nothing but the lamplight and the wicked smirk on his face.
With the last shred of fabric gone from his frame, Quinn’s body was bare before her. He observed her with a predator’s focus as her gaze strayed downward, watching as her eyes darkened from bright, fevered blue to a dark, desirous hurricane gray as she beheld what was revealed at last. A ragged breath snagged in his throat as he took note of the heat rouging the seamstress’ cheeks, the flush that blossomed across her own bare, heaving chest.
The artist and the warrior, so familiar with anatomy in their respective fields, were about to become very well acquainted with one another’s.
Her electric touch drew sound from his throat was somehow melodic and animalistic at once—like the full moon conjuring a wolf’s howl, or a valley amplifying a falcon’s screech. Heat exploded from where her fingers brushed the sensitive flesh, the sensation rippling with abandon through his limbs from his knuckles to his toes. His eyes briefly closed, and when he opened them again, his gaze was black as the night descending beyond the windowpanes. For a man who prided himself in control, he was all too willing to toss the reins aside and surrender to the wildness clawing its way out with each insistent stroke of the artist’s fingers.
“Fuck…” he rasped, baritone rendered a whisper through clenched teeth. Tension coiled in his abdomen, stretching taut—a bowstring pulled, the arrow nocked and ready to soar. “Fuck.” His mouth crashed against hers, free hand grabbing her neck to pull her lips tighter against his. From there, his touch migrated down to her heaving breast, and then lower still, until his fingers snagged the soft lace of her panties once more. He broke the fervent kiss then, teeth tugging at her lower lip as he pulled his face away to meet her eyes. “Is that a promise, Chloe Paice?” breathed the general, rolling the lace teasingly between his fingers. “I’ve spoken it, I’ve whispered it.” He enunciated the words as though tasting her name all over again, reveling in the heat of their exchange. “Yes, I think I would enjoy screaming it, too.”
The grin that curled his lips was feral. “You should know that I take promises extremely seriously.” With a hot breath catching in his throat, he pulled roughly at the lace at her hip, tearing the delicate material as easily as though it were made of the paper in her discarded sketchbook. And a moment later, the ruined garment joined the artist’s tome on the floor, forgotten. He tucked his lower lip behind his teeth and slid his hand lower and lower…slowly at first, tormenting, until in one swift plunge his fingers slid between her thighs.
Moving his digits experimentally against her warmth, he kept his stare on her face. “Do you like that, Miss Paice?” he murmured, tone caught somewhere between saccharine and gruff. He leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear while his occupied hand continued. “Because this is just the warm-up.”
The general concluded his statement with a savage kiss before he began a gradual journey pointedly downward. His seeking mouth trailed across her breasts, her stomach, her navel, her hipbone…and then beyond, until the prelude of his fingers was replaced by the raucous overture of his tongue. And if he was any good at his job—and he knew he was—he couldn’t wait for the aria of her pleasure to follow.
The lace pressed against her skin, the abrupt action of his hand leaving a delightfully searing imprint on her opposite side. The offended flesh stung as the panties ripped, a red brand appearing along the side of her hip. Excitement raced through her, a torrent of need born on the wings of his brazen actions. The fabric was forgotten the moment she no longer felt it’s presence. All the seamstress saw, all she felt, was him. The magnetic general drew her to him like he drew his lip between his teeth. The movement of his hand was agonizingly slow, traveling along the dip of her waist and then across the sharp bone of her hip. Clover took a sudden, hissing inhalation between her lips when his fingers found the most sensitive skin between her legs. This was what she had longed for, thought about in fleeting glimpses from the moment she set eyes on him. Lucious warmth spread upward through her abdomen and then down each limb. Magnificent golden waves of pleasure began to roll against the shores of her pent up desire. Yet, instead of dampening the roaring inferno, it was kerosene on the flames.
The storms within her grey eyes raged as she fought to hold his gaze as he worked to bring her to her first peak of pleasure. Quinn’s head dipped and the spy permitted her eyes to close as she began to lose control of her once steady breathing. The words against her ear made every muscle tighten, from the twitch of her thumb against his hip to the ones around his working fingers. Before she could even release a whimper of need, his mouth was on hers. As he sought to pull away, she followed him as far as he would permit. Suddenly his mouth found all the sweet spots of his skin, without a moments respite from his hands’ ministrations. Clover couldn’t stop herself then, as she whispered, “It will take more than deft fingers to impress me.” The tone attempted nonchalance. She failed, a slight quiver entering her voice when his teeth grazed below her navel. His mouth swiftly replaced his hand. Clover abandoned all attempts at maintaining composure and “Oh!” The surprise mingled with delight that gave way to a darker, sultry alto “but that…fuck…yes…” Her pulse pounded against his tongue and her hand reached down to tangle in his thick, dark hair. Everything grew and grew and grew. Minutes passed in pulses of liquid pleasure, drowning in the feel of him. Clover felt her skin grow searing hot, the familiar sensation before her ultimate climax. A swift, efficient crescendo that would leave her sufficiently satisfied.
But then the general slowed. Tantalizing, taunting. As if he knew, he sensed, he anticipated the responses of her body. He wanted her pleasure drawn out. It wasn’t a ploy to get what he wanted. No. He wanted her writhing. A growl rumbled in her throat, only to be replaced by a moan when his laugh hummed against the sweetest part of her. “Oh fuck you.” She hissed at him, hand tightening almost painfully in his hair. The seamstress attempted to extract her pleasure from him, small twists of her hips to claim her prize. The Belvedere’s hands soon held her in place, not permitting her to alter the course or speed of the activity. The man played her like an instrument he had possessed all his life. “Quinn, fuck.” An inhalation of shocked, tight want escaped her. “Quinn, oh god. Fuck.” Words slipped from her mouth as she released his hair in favor of her own breast, hips snapping up against his restraining hold. Pleasure exploded through her in shock waves, intensifying until the final quake left her chest heaving and her legs shaking against his shoulders. He had reduced her to a trembling, throbbing mess - yet sated only for the briefest of moments.
Chloe was very easy to please. Demur, compliant, submissive. Chloe would have smiled and drawn him up and let him take his pleasure. Clover was not and would not. Today, today only would someone see the serpent behind its flowery disguise. Elbows propped her up and she reached down, beckoning him up to her. Mouth captured his in a kiss that sought to devour him whole. The taste of him after he had savored her threw more fuel on her fiery desire. Hands were itching to make frantic movements but despite her inclinations, she maintained a steady control of her fingers as she explored the male form before her. Releasing his mouth, Clover searched the golden eyes that glittered dangerously above her. With a shift of her legs and a forceful hand on his chest, she flipped them over. Despite the weakness in her lower limbs, she held herself above him. Fingertips rested on his chest, holding her aloft with a gentle pressure. The heady moment stretched, twisted and thickened. Clover ran her tongue along the corner of her lip, as she spread her hand out until her palm laid flat against his chest and a smattering of scars.
The spy had never used sex as a manner to gather information - there were other members on the ladder that were superior in that. Didn’t stop them from offering their colleague helpful bedroom tips, though. The leader had utilized them from time to time but it was hard to constantly be a giver and intermittently receive the same in return. Clover’s lovers had been adequate, some even good. No one had ever brought her to complete fulfillment with such ease while simultaneously leaving her wanting more. Quinn was this delightful enigma, a contrast to everything she had heard and expected out of a high-ranking officer in the Northam army. He derived his pleasure from giving it, that much was evident, as she flicked her eyes down below his hips. A slow smile curled her mouth, before she slid her gaze to his once more.
“I always keep my promises, general.” Voice dipped to a sultry purr as she guided them together in a tantalizing slow descent. The sensation of their joining momentarily overwhelmed her. Heat swept through her, lips parting in surprise at the feel of him beneath her, a part of her. Muscles in her abdomen tightened and her legs gripped his hips. Tension built between them as she held them in that remarkable place, that immediate union electrified her so completely. It took every ounce of control (that Rose had all but beaten into her) to prevent herself from releasing an exclamation of pleasure. After all, she wanted Quinn to be the one crying out her name.
Clover’s movements were controlled at first, exacting. She rolled her hips against him, filling herself with the entirety of him. Breaths grew more shallow as their union brought her closer and closer to the edge he had already drawn her off of one that evening. Faster, deeper, longer as her own passion momentarily took the reins. Yet, the seamstress kept her hand quite firmly on his chest to prevent him from rising towards her, to keep him from moving. She was in control. She would control his climax, his pleasure. She would suspend her own second peak to draw him to the very cusp before slowing once more. The sounds he made sent twinges of electricity along her spine each time. A wicked smile flickered across her lips, briefly, as suddenly, the motion all but ceased, so languidly was she keeping them joined.
“How badly do you want this, Quinn?” Clover leaned down, lowering her body against him in a swift shift. Breasts brushed his bare chest as her mouth found his ear. “How badly do you want me?”
She had given him permission to show his devotion how he saw fit, and that was precisely what the general intended to do. Quinn Belvedere was devout to no god, but for this enigmatic seamstress, he would be the first to sink to his knees in praise. To bring pleasure to another—to coax and cherish and knead and build—was itself an act of worship, one that didn’t require blind faith or worse, utterly unprovable saccharine drivel. No, this was the kind of piety he could wholeheartedly support, with the evidence of his success as obvious as a lightning strike in the heat of a summer storm.
The careful, teasing ministrations of his tongue were a prayer murmured in the barest part of her…and answered with every quake of her lithe form against his mouth. To use the body not just for combat or defense, but to take advantage of all it had to offer, including the physical bliss…well, wasn’t there something holy in that? And even if there wasn’t, Quinn had done far more damnable things than guide another body to rapture.
But for all the ferocity in his brown eyes, he devoured her not ravenously, like a predator might consume his hard-won prize, but slowly, reverently, like the spring melting the winter snowdrifts. Heat blazed through him, his blood molten in his veins. Still, he took his time, reading the spasms and quavers until he had pinpointed exactly what conjured the moans from her lips, the hums in her throat, and proceeded to bring her ever closer to the edge.
Oh, fuck you, he heard her rasp, and he grinned wolfishly against the intimate folds of her. “Oh, I intend to,” he growled, his expression utterly wicked as he drew himself up from between her thighs just far enough to catch her glittering gaze. “Be patient.” The words were a command, not a platitude. He reached up to grasp either side of her hips, pinning her in place even as she attempted to twist her pelvis against him. She was precisely where he wanted her now—wanting, writhing, needing—and when at last he heard his name on her desperate tongue, he knew it was time to deliver on the first of several promises that impassioned evening.
She quaked against him when at last the tension snapped. Quinn loosened his grip and followed her through the storm of her pleasure, riding in her wake until the waves stilled and her body softened. But he knew better than to think this was the end of it; no, this was merely the eye of the hurricane, the briefest of pauses before the tempest raged again. His lips curled back into a voracious grin as she beckoned him upward. Had Chloe been someone else, someone demure and submissive, it might have been enough; but here, with the taste of her lingering on his lips even as their mouths crashed together, he found his hunger amplified rather than satiated. He wanted another taste. He wanted more.
Almost before he knew what was happening, he found himself looking up into her eyes, his back pressing into the mattress with the weight of her svelte form atop him. The seamstress gazed down at him, her cheeks aglow with a rosy blush, her intelligent eyes feverish and bright with renewed desire. Just as it had been when he stood before the mirror, he did not shy away from her appraisal—and certainly did not shy away from her exploring hands.
His attempt to rise onto his elbows, however, was thwarted by the insistent pressure of her palm against his chest. A thrill rocketed through him as she pushed back against his efforts, immobilizing him against the duvet. Despite himself, he bared his teeth in a roguish grin. For a man so accustomed to doling out orders, it was a rare and unusual experience to find himself on the other side of the dynamic—indeed, as rare and unusual as the bold, sensual seamstress perched on top of him. And if the flushed smirk on her elegant features was any indicator, she certainly knew what she was doing to him.
His own shamelessly lascivious gaze returned the attention and roamed over the point where her thighs came together, lingered over the gentle swells of her breasts, and then flicked to the hungry blue-gray of her eyes. He tucked his lower lip beneath his top teeth, clamping down on the flesh nearly to the point of drawing blood. No, he wouldn’t give in so easy, even as obvious as it was that he wanted her, needed her, would lose his mind if he did not have her. But he was Quinn Belvedere, and he would make her earn the prize of hearing her name on his tongue, even if she brought him to the precipice of madness in the process.
Thankfully, the narrow divide between safety and insanity was a tightrope was one he walked often…and although he prided himself on having excellent balance, sometimes it was more interesting to take the tumble.
Nevertheless, his intentions were once more subverted by the surprising woman, because as soon as she lowered herself upon him, as soon as their bodies united in the most carnal of ways, he was utterly at her disposal. The seamstress, living up to her job title, had wrapped the intricate threads of Quinn Belvedere around her deft fingers and seemed determined to unravel him completely.
It was his turn to mutter, “Fuck,” the syllable barely distinguishable from the gasp that left his lungs. If he heard her quip about keeping her promises, he made no show of it—instead, a moan of bliss rumbled deep in his chest, thunder to the lightning thrill of the feel of her closing around him. “Fuck me, Chloe,” he managed to rumble, but this time there was no ambiguity as to whether it was a charge or an exclamation—the order was practically a plea. The look she wore when he met her stare was caught somewhere between triumph and lust, and despite his best efforts to maintain any semblance of self-control, he felt his muscles ripple in response to her rolling hips and smug expression. He played right into her impassioned vendetta, writhing and quivering beneath her as she drew out his pleasure just as he had done to her. As if he had any choice. As if he had any control at all…
But the words she purred into his ear were gasoline on the raging fire, melting away whatever faltering pretenses might have remained. The heady tension she had crafted was no longer just unbearable, it was unendurable. “Chloe…” Quinn heard himself stammer, her name like a prayer, strangled and fervent. But his body spoke its full retort before his voice could find purchase—his spine curled as his pelvis bucked, and he buried his face in her inclined neck as their conjoined motion resumed with a vengeance. They moved together until the waves they rode sent him plunging into the depths of ecstasy, and all at once he was drowning in warm, honey-sweet pleasure.
If he never had to come up for air again, the general would have been content to die right then and there. He drifted in the current until its raging waters calmed, breath ragged and limbs trembling. His chest rose with a deep inhale that he held for several speechless moments. He turned to his side to face Chloe, who had eased herself languidly to the mattress at his side. “You’re looking pleased with yourself,” the general murmured, reaching out to trace a finger along her jawline. He paused at her chin, which he tilted upward and leaned in to plant a slow, tantalizing series of kisses. “And,” he added between brushes of his lips, “I’ll concede…rightly so.”
The command of her name sent a flare of heat through her skin that was already slick with sweat in a room that had grown hotter than any she had ever occupied before. Every sound he created was just for her, just hers alone but it wasn’t enough. The breaths, the moans, the commands - they all paled in comparison to the prize that she sought. She wanted him to beg her, plead with her, cry out her name. The sole purpose she now possessed was to bring him to a precipice, the height of a cliff he had never quite scaled this way before. As they would never see each other again, never be lovers, never anything more than this…she at least wanted him ruined for any other woman that would follow. It was a selfish, fool-hearted need to render him unable to claw her from his mind. Chloe should have been forgettable, easily mistaken for any other dark haired woman in town. A common thing. A simple girl.
Something about Quinn Belvedere made her forget herself.
At long last, the general gave her what she sought and their desire collided, twining and twisting and culminating in a deliciously warm liquid pleasure. For a long moment the pair merely breathed one another in, before the seamstress extricated her limbs from his. Sliding to his side, keeping a sliver of space between them, Clover cast her stormy eyes to the ceiling. If that wasn’t the best fuck in all of Northam then she would gladly reveal herself as the spymaster herself. A contended, smug smile played her swollen lips as she ran one of her legs over the other. “Mmmm,” a soft hum left her lips as she turned her gaze to him, letting the smirk on her features linger. The tenderness of his kisses surprised her and for the first few she didn’t even close her eyes. The compliment sent a different kind of want slithering through her limbs like the snake of the tattoo on her inner thigh.
“High praise from one of the High Commander’s favorites.” It wasn’t a fact she knew, but rather largely suspected from their interactions thus far. It would assist her to confirm his true station, especially since they had been unaware that his father was…absent. A glimmer of amusement entered her eyes as they flicked downward toward some of the scars on his chest. “I suspect you won’t need me as a mentor if you attend to all of your activities with such…dedication.” A light laugh left her lips before she shivered slightly. The sweat of her once sweltering skin cooled and left a trail of gooseflesh up and down her arms, across her stomach.
The spy turned onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. Twining her fingers in and out of each other, Clover looked down into the cool brown eyes of the man that had rendered all other potential lovers completely mundane. “I can honestly say that I have never had such a pleasurable client meeting.” Clover allowed her attention to drift to the window and the darkness that had settled beyond. Bright blue-gray eyes lingered on the fading embers of the fire as she trailed her gaze back to him. She parted her lips to make some excuse for her to slip away when a knock rapped on the door. Startled eyes darted between the sculpted man at her side and the man behind the door at the other end of the room. Raising her eyebrows, she inclined her head as a voice traveled through the door.
“Master Belvedere, I am afraid that you missed dinner. Would you like us to bring something to your room while you work?”
Clover smiled dangerously, leaning towards him. “You need all the fuel you can get.” A heady pause. “I’m not done with you yet, general.” She purred into his ear, withdrawing to meet his eyes.
To describe their tryst as extraordinary did little justice to the shock of lightning that had seared through his every last nerve the moment their flesh became one. All of it—from the fingers that had twisted in the waves of his hair, to the taste of her on his swollen lips, to the weight of her body pressing him into the duvet—was a perfect storm of thrill and pleasure, a tempest of sensation that left him simultaneously satisfied and already craving more. Quinn was hardly a stranger to casual sex, but this was altogether unlike any encounter he’d ever experienced before…and the night was still young. Never had he felt so spent and energized at once. Never had he had a partner play his own game and rival him for it.
Perhaps he had finally found his match.
Cloaked in innuendo though her promises had been, the enigmatic Chloe Paice had not undersold her abilities. The Belvedere heir could still feel the electric current thrumming in his limbs, and it settled in his bones even as his pulse slowed and breathing calmed. He had the distinct impression he would be feeling those ethereal vibrations for a good long while, long after the seamstress made her departure from his bed, and long after they returned to their respective lives after this brief, though electrifying, rendezvous. He may not have anticipated his run-of-the-mill fitting appointment would end in tangled sheets, but he suddenly couldn’t have been gladder it had been Miss Paice to draw the measuring tape—and other things—against his skin.
The general rolled to his side to face her, propping up his head with his palm. Brown eyes glittered as they traced the lean curves of her bare silhouette against the soft glow of the lamplight. His hands itched to trail the same path as his stare; he craved the feel of her glistening skin beneath his touch again, but he fought the magnetic pull and instead raked his fingers through his own mussed hair. A soft, surprisingly tender laugh quaked his shoulders despite the wicked warmth that began to stir at thoughts of her body, of running his hands over her form…
He narrowed his eyes and met her gaze through his lashes. “One of the High Commander’s favorites, you say?” he replied silkily, brows arching onto his forehead. “Wouldn’t that be an honor.” Quinn’s lips curled into a smirk. It was no real secret that he had been favored by the Walther ruler in recent years, but his promotion had not yet been made public knowledge—and as alluring as the seamstress was, he wasn’t about to confirm or deny what he could only assume was a passing compliment. Besides, the last thing he wanted to think about was politics when Chloe’s naked figure was curled just inches from his own…
The general flexed his forearms against a tremor of excitement, which suppressed the quaver but heated his blood to a heady simmer. “My list of favorites is rather short, I’m afraid,” he drawled, feigning a bored sigh, “but I could foresee a certain seamstress earning a commendable ranking, if she happens to position herself right.” Another laugh, this time more salacious, spilled from a self-assured smile. “How quickly the student surpasses the teacher,” he quipped.
This time, he couldn’t manage to keep his hands to himself. He cradled her cheek against his palm and ran his thumb featherlight across the fan of her long lashes, then abruptly slid his hand back to thread through her dark hair. He tightened his grip until he felt the tension of her tresses in his curled fingers, firmly enough to guide her mouth to his in one sudden, calculated pull.
So precise was his movement that despite the speed in which it happened, their lips did not collide so much as gently brush—touching only when one of them breathed in, Chloe’s head held in place by his grasp in her hair, Quinn’s held in place by sheer force of self-control…threadbare control that was, once again, rapidly fraying in the proximity of this completely baffling, utterly beguiling woman. His brown eyes met her blues with devilish intensity. From this distance, he could make out the starburst of gray flecks in her irises, like stormclouds over a glassy sea.
Enthralled, he studied the patterns in her eyes as though he could suss out the mysteries behind them, as though the ocean of her gaze might yield its secrets if he searched hard enough. The knock on the door was barely enough to draw him back to the bedroom, and with heavy reluctance he withdrew his hold on the seamstress and rolled to face the door. Chloe’s warm purr in his ear sent a shiver down his spine that contrasted the flare of desire that licked up the ladder of his ribs, and he grinned.
“You may leave a tray outside,” he called to the servant outside—the footman Percival, if the monotone was any indicator—but the general had a feeling whatever was brought would remain untouched. Quinn turned back to Chloe and licked his lips. “I don’t wish to be interrupted.”
“Very good, Master Belvedere.”
The footman had hardly finished speaking before Quinn rose onto his elbows and hovered over the seamstress. “Lucky for you, I’m trained in endurance,” he murmured, his expression roguish and dark. He slid a palm over her breast—he really couldn’t keep his hands off her, it seemed—and leaned in closer until his mouth brushed her ear. “Now tell me more about your plans for the night,” he said, words dissolving to a sultry whisper. “Unless you’d rather show me?”
That golden stare transfixed her, cementing her in place and preventing her from she even considering the prospect of fleeing. Quinnley Belvedere had bewitched the seamstress entirely, without even uttering a single word. It was the mere sight of his commanding presence in naught but a thin swath of fabric over his torso and thighs. It had left enough for her imagination to wander, while exposing enough to intrigue her. Even after taking her pleasure (and giving the general his fair share as well), Clover could only think of having him once more. The couch? The wall? The rug? Heat rushed through her again, warding off the slight chill from her cooling sweat. At such a proximity and without as many distractions, she studied his face. Amber swirled in twisting liquid pools of bronze and brown. She’d drown in them, she mused, if she remained here too long. No - he was a raging inferno, consuming all in his path and leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. If she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t drown in them - no - she’d be incinerated, utterly consumed by his fire.
With a tight grip on her hair, suddenly their faces were millimeters apart. His lips grazed hers, barely permitting her the sensation of his kiss. A tremble coursed through her, delight in being the prey and the predator simultaneously. Fuck, he was breathtaking. The rebel leader struggled to keep her breaths even and her lust at a containable volume. The only grace that saved her was the knock on the door. She watched him roll away from her and she released a small sigh, a breath held as she had been ensnared in his sight.
Before she really had a moment to gather her thoughts, he was above her again and his rumbling voice met her ear. A knot twisted in her stomach at the words, the insinuation and the promise of something more than what they already had. He wanted more of her, he wanted to taste her again. The thrill of being desired so completely, when she had been so utterly Clover, left her momentarily speechless. She searched his face as she twisted onto her back, staring up at him with a tempest of gray and blue. Nimble fingers flexed before trailing languidly up his side - from his hip to his scapula. She followed the dip of each rib, with a touch that was more a brush than a stroke.
“General Belvedere,” Clover mocked the cadence of one of the high ranking ladies she served so frequently in her shoppe. The feigned shock and embarrassment at an illicit proposal. “You’ve already seduced this poor seamstress into your bed. What more could you dream that I’d have in mind? I am but a humble tradeswoman.” The grin on her pink lips belied the nature of her words. She slipped away from him before he could reach for her. Starkly bare and skin glistening in the lamplight, she looked at him over her shoulder. Long black hair was tousled, forming a wild crown about her head. A devil with a dark halo. Without further preamble, the seamstress retrieved one of the crumpled blankets at the end of his large bed - one that resided on top of the duvet and had witnessed the ferocity of their first union. She wrapped it around her body, beneath her arms. Her left hand clutched the ends just above her breasts.
“Did you imagine you might have the pleasure of sliding up behind me on that bed? Slipping your hand along my stomach and down until I rocked back into you, begging you?” She cast her glittering eyes to the rumpled duvet before flicking them up along his body to meet his gaze. She took slow steps around the bed, a feline toying with its next victim. “Or perhaps you thought of how my back would arch up off of this carpet and into your body.” Clover ran her foot along the frayed edge of the ornate rug that rested in front of the large bed frame. The path she wound continued until she stopped one one side of the couch. As if considering, she hovered there momentarily. Her eyes appeared lost as she examined the lush fabric of the cushions. Tantalizingly she ran her finger along the wooden back of the furniture, moving around it before stopping beside the arm.
“Or did you picture bending me over this couch? Envision taking me right here until I cried out your name?” At that moment, the second she finished speaking, she snapped her eyes to his and quirked a brow.
Shrouded though it had been behind the dense clouds of their late autumn storm, the last light of day faded to crisp darkness beyond the windowpanes—and at Avondale, perched on its hill on the edge of the city, the night was always blacker, richer. The flames that danced in the bedroom’s marble fireplace had calmed to a pile of smoldering ash, emitting a soft, pulsing scarlet glow that left the golden electric sconces along the walls to fill in the shadows.
Quinn watched as the gentle light played across Chloe’s form and caught in the subtle waves of her hair, gilding the dark locks with streaks of honey. Her ethereal, unexpected beauty struck him all over again, just as it had when he’d attempted to render her likeness in graphite—the sharp cut of her jaw, the sweet curve of her cheek, the intensity of her gaze as she watched him study her. A wave of warmth swept through him beneath the weight of her attention, but it wasn’t just the prospect of further tangling the sheets that heated him from within…no, it was something stronger, something deeper, that same inexplicable magnetic pull that had caught him off-guard the first time their eyes had met before the mirror. She was a puzzle he longed to solve, and yet the intensity of the brewing storm between them made it seem like they’d known one another far longer than the scant handful of hours that had passed since her fateful arrival.
Chloe’s fingers over his back drew back the electric thrum from its place in his bones, and he felt his muscles flex involuntarily in the wake of her featherlight touch. He narrowed his eyes at her impersonation of a demure high society woman; the seamstress’ mock offense was betrayed by her wicked smile, and Quinn returned it with a dark, knowing smirk. He arched his neck forward and down, hovering lightly parted lips just a fingerbreadth from her mouth. Heat radiated from her skin in the cool air in pulses.
“A humble tradeswoman,” the general repeated, his baritone a suggestive purr. The designation rolled from his tongue with the same reverence he might have mustered for a queen, but the grin that stretched across his face was anything but decorous. His amber stare followed as she slipped from beneath him and perched on the edge of the mattress, tracing the outline of her silhouette as if memorizing each plane, each lean muscle, each contour of her figure. A flare of raw desire licked up the inside of his ribs. And when she looked back at him, a cascade of dark tousled hair pouring over her bare opposite shoulder, it was all he could do to keep himself from pulling her right back to the bed.
Instead, she stoked the flames of his hunger higher and higher still, until he was ready to burn the whole world to the ground just for another taste of her.
Quinn’s gaze was molten as he moved to the side of the bed, not bothering to hide his obvious arousal as the sateen sheet slipped off his skin. He tracked her like a predator as she moved about the room, homing in on her bare hips as they swayed beneath the supple drapes of the sheet she’d wrapped casually around her form. Every move she made dripped with sex—from the way she cocked her head and cast her glances back to him, to the feline grace with which she moved her hand as she traced the back of the sofa—and if he had his way, he would take her up on every one of her maddening suggestions before the next day dawned.
“Chloe.” Her name was a growl low in his throat. The space seemed to shift as their eyes locked across the room, and all at once, he was behind her. Her hands still gripped the sheet near her chest, and he slid his palms down each of her arms until he covered her knuckles. Pressing his cheek against her hair and leaning down until his lips brushed her ear, he whispered gruffly, “Drop the sheet, Chloe.”
The ghost of white fabric fluttered to pool at their feet on the carpet. Quinn moved his grip, positioning one hand flat against her sternum near her throat and his opposite forearm across her abdomen just beneath her breasts, and pulled her tightly against him. “What a wicked thing you are, corrupting a general with such impure thoughts,” he hummed lustily in her ear, nipping at the soft flesh between sentences. “Putting so many ideas in his head.” His pulse pounded in his chest, thunder in the squall that was nearly upon them. He squeezed her tighter to him, his right hand inching higher until it wrapped around her neck. “Purposely driving him to the verge of madness,” he continued, tone darkening as he felt her heartbeat similarly drumming against his fingertips beneath her jaw. He tsk-tsked his tongue. “Guiding him right to the very, very edge of ruin…” Bending at the waist, he angled their bodies slightly forward in tandem over the upholstered arm of the couch, and his hand slid from her throat to her breast. “So, what’ll it be, Chloe Paice?” he finally inquired, his body ablaze, his limbs buzzing. “Will you finish what you started?” Both hands slid lower, settling on either side of her hips. “Will you push him over the brink?”
And that question—and the challenge it thinly veiled—was all the catalyst they needed to coax flame from the heady moment. Quinn hadn’t needed her push, he was ready to leap; but the thrill of the plunge came all the sweeter with the seamstress at the helm. Strike after strike of lightning spurned a wildfire that raged well into the night, until the dimming embers on the hearth turned to dark gray ash, and the air grew cold. Not that they noticed, manifesting their own scorching heat as they found their respective pleasure time and time again.
They collapsed together to the mattress after eventually finding their way back to the bed, completing their illicit tour of his bedroom in a tangle of glistening limbs and heaving chests. It was late—well into the early morning hours if he had to hazard a guess—and he settled heavily into the disheveled linens. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but his body, satisfied and spent, succumbed easily to slumber, with Chloe Paice on his mind well into the blackness.
The luxurious sound of her name rumbling from his lips caused a shiver of excitement to race up her spine. The spy didn’t have a single moment to savor the growl that reverberated through her before his hands were upon her. Thighs pressed into the wood of the sofa and the feel of his arousal was apparent against her lower back. Heat rushed across her neck and between her hips. Clover did not even realize that she had dropped the sheet to the floor until his skin contacted hers. She gasped, delighted when he began to speak against her ear. Dark head lulled back against his shoulder, trying to keep from rocking the rest of her body back against the hard planes of his body behind her.
“I’m surprised you would even have to ask.” She breathed in response, missing the feel of his hand against her throat the moment it was gone. The sheer power, coupled with the dark enigma inside, that he exuded was enough to make her legs weak. Hands on her hips, she envisioned what was to come, savoring the tension in the moment before she rolled her lower half back into him, begging silently for what she had teased him with.
And the general did not disappoint her. Every single second against the couch was a completely different form of ecstasy than the bed, and the rug that followed, followed by the bed again. The pleasure was infinite. Even when the military leader wasn’t quite ready for their next bout, he proved himself to never have idle hands…or tongue for that matter. At one point, she was certain her pleasure count had exceeded a dozen. That had not happened since…well, ever.
Finally, they found their way in a roundabout manner to the bed. Sheets tangled around their limbs as Quinnley Belvedere finally fell into a slumber brought about by complete physical exhaustion. Gazing at him, she was surprised by the softness that his features took. Beyond the tenderness though, something deep and unknown lurked. She had glimpsed it in brief moments of his predatory movements. She saw it there, like a mirror before her. The darkness of her soul reaching for something familiar, something kindred. Clover almost permitted herself to close her eyes, to fall into that peaceful in between of sleep at his side. She could see herself stretching in morning light beside him, his taut muscles encircling her to wake her completely in a wholly pleasant union. Licking her lips, the rebel permitted herself to revel in that fantasy for a moment longer.
Reality hit her, as though she had run headlong into a brick wall. Jarred, she waited until his breathing steadied - deep, even. Slipping out of the sheets in an expert fashion, Clover gathered her clothing - cursing internally when she found the torn panties. Rolling her eyes with a smile, she dressed herself quietly. The clothing was rumbled, a complete disheveled mess. She stood before the mirror, twisting her hair up into a bun after attempting to rid it of the multitude to tangles his hands had caused. She gathered her sketchbook, hesitating. In the silence, nimble fingers removed the sketch he had made of her. Part of her longed to keep it, a memento of a night she would never forget.
Rebels did not have room for such sentimentality.
The torn page was placed on the nightstand and the graphite pencil beside it, after a quick scribble.
On, to the edge of ruin.
-Your wicked thing.
She shouldn’t have written it, in her flowing elegant script. She should have just left but something, that same darkness, compelled her. Stormy eyes flickered to the sleeping form, ran over the scars and muscles and tanned skin. The large pack settled on her shoulder and she cast her eyes into the night beyond the window. It would be a terribly cold walk back, but there was nothing to be done. She could not stay in his bed. That would make things far too complicated - moreso than they already were with her having given herself over to passion. Fuck.
Clover slid from the room - a wraith in shadows - with the door shutting inaudibly due to her slow movements. The descent down the stairs was painstakingly slow. She did not want to alert anyone to her presence, did not want them to alert their master to her departure. Making it to the landing, the spy released a soft sigh and turned towards the door. Shock slid through her and she quickly averted her eyes downward. “I’m so sorry.I was just leaving.”
Entrenched though she was in the garish beau monde of Northam, Maria Belvedere was foremost a soldier.
As one of the few women who volunteered for military training, and one of even fewer who followed through to graduate from the brutal academy, the brunette was a force few were willing to trifle with. And though she could no longer best her twin brother in the sparring ring—few could, in truth, so she didn’t feel that bad—she had never been able to shake the pull of a routine.
Her alarm would have clangored at quarter to five if she hadn’t woken on her own ten minutes prior, as she always did. A decade out of training and she still found her eyes opening an hour before dawn each day. She was a creature of routine when left to her own devices, and it was little wonder; her strictly regimented childhood had led to a strictly regimented adolescence, and there was no way the Belvedere blood in her veins would let her abandon it now. Maria Amoreena was her father’s daughter more than she’d ever been her mother’s.
She threw back the heavy down-stuffed duvet and dressed quickly to stave off the chill. The fire in her room had burned itself to stagnant ash overnight, and it would be at least an hour before the servants got around to reviving it. Quinn had pared down the full-time staff since their parents’ deaths—a wise and sensible move, considering how little time either of them spent at Avondale, but it did mean a cold room in the morning for guests who deigned to arrive days ahead of schedule. Her own doing, she supposed.
Not that she minded, not really. She yawned as she tugged on a pair of thick wool leggings in the dark, then slipped on matching wool turtleneck that clung like a second skin to her frame. Over that she layered a tunic sweatshirt in deep burgundy, roomy enough to allow a full range of easy movement. Pre-dawn training was something she looked forward to whenever she came back home, even if the drafty old gymnasium was as frigid as the bedroom. That was one thing her fiancé Max, as much as she adored him, simply could not understand about his betrothed. Most of the time, Maria forwent her morning sessions to sneak in a few more hours with him beneath the covers, since he traveled so frequently for his profession. Maxwell Lane was smart, and handsome, and a brilliant businessman. But he was no soldier. She couldn’t explain, or deny, the magnetic pull on her muscles for a good workout, and how her chilled skin itched to heat up to a sweat.
The gym was exactly as she remembered it, and exactly as she expected—empty and cold. She flipped on the lights. Judging by the way the equipment was meticulously arranged, Quinn was its sole regular visitor. Despite the ritual of it all, and the preciousness of the time, her routine was short and efficient, just enough to get her body engaged for the day; there was no sense in tiring herself before the sun even peeked over the sea.
By the time she cooled down, a healthy flush rouged her olive complexion, and the air no longer seemed so punishingly cold. A glance at the clock told her it was quarter past five. Perfect. The kitchens were still empty, so she could make her coffee in peace. She filled the enamel kettle and lit the stove, removing it from the flames before its whistle could wake the whole household, then proceeded to pour the scalding water over fragrant grounds in a French press. The coffee—from rare beans imported from Brasilia, a gift from Max—perfumed the air as it bloomed and steeped. Her mouth watered as she picked up the French press in one hand and a round white mug in the other, departing the kitchen and heading for her bedroom.
She padded across the parlor toward the stairs in the dark, halting in her tracks at the unfamiliar shadow creeping toward the door. Instantly she was on alert. She silently placed her coffee on the sideboard and shoved her baggy sleeves up to her elbows. What servant would tiptoe toward the landing with such care? No, it was someone else, an outsider…
And then she caught sight of the pack and realized. So this is why the tailor never showed to talk with me, she thought, slipping from the shadows with her arms crossed over her chest. Fucking hell, Quinn, seriously? She probably should have known when he didn’t show for dinner. The Belvedere twin stood there unmoving, as though carved from stone, and waited for the seamstress to notice her. And when she did, Maria narrowed her eyes, deriving more than a little pleasure from the woman’s genuinely startled expression.
“You’re late for my appointment,” Maria said, her alto a low drawl. “Or maybe you’re just…incredibly early?” She arched a dark sculpted brow high onto her forehead and reached for the light switch, abruptly flipping it up. Golden light flooded the staircase and the atrium. Her amber gaze, so like her brother’s, glanced from the woman’s mussed hair down to her boots and back up again.
It occurred to Maria suddenly, given the tailor’s current hopelessly rumpled state, that her brother never actually communicated that she was supposed to have met about her dress after his measurements were taken. Christ. The hard edge melted from her expression. Whether she’d known or not, it would be unwise to aggravate the tradeswoman who might be constructing one’s wedding gown. “You’re in for a miserable trek down the hill,” the brunette continued, humorless but not unkind. “It’s glare ice under that snow.” Another glance to the woman’s boots indicated she was in no state for a multi-mile venture through the elements after a late-autumn sleet storm. This is what I get for leaving Washentown early. Cold rooms and mopping up Quinn’s fucking messes. She sighed. “Are you a coffee drinker? I just made it. You’re welcome to have some while a cab is prepared in the stables, Miss…?”
Genuine confusion flickered in Chloe’s eyes, searching the beautiful face before her once the spy raised her dipped head. Golden eyes met that swirling storm of her gray-blue ones. Eyes that she had grown quite familiar with over the last several hours. Mind racing, the seamstress pieced together that the irritated woman before her was Quinn’s sister. She was a Belvedere and she must be the one that was engaged to be married. Fuck, she was stunning to behold. Gaze quickly roved over the woman before her, in workout attire and with a fading flush on her cheeps. A steaming cup of coffee resided not far away, the smell filling the air. Suddenly, light flooded her vision, causing her to wince and squint.
Adjusting to the brightness, Clover straightened in time to see a shift in the high-class lady’s expression. “Paice.” She supplied, altering her stance slightly as if ashamed. “Chloe Paice. I’m one of the seamstresses in town.” She glanced down at the dark liquid in the white, round mug on the table not too far away. Steam wafted upwards, carrying the strong scent of exceptionally good coffee. Rose had shared coffee with her on a handful of occasions, but it was not something she could afford to indulge in. Money went to the Resistance (and a small amount went to her sketchbook and graphite). There was little left for culinary frivolities. “I haven’t had coffee in a long time. It’s not something readily available.” She added, her tone nonchalant. “I don’t want to impose. I am more than capable of walking back to town.” She cast her head back over to the front door that was within her reach.
It would be awfully miserably, though, to trudge in the snow at dawn miles into town. Biting the inside of her cheek, the rebel leader saw the woman shade her head and dismiss her words with a wave of her hand. She turned and led the interloper back to where the French press still held the hot beverage. The kitchens were enormous, that was the first thought she had as entered the room. She looked around, just like anyone of her station would in such an unprecedented situation. There were multiple ovens and ranges, bordered by beautiful white granite countertops. The cabinets were a bright white with golden handles. Everything exuded elegance, but showed a bit of age - as if it was done about 10 years ago and been thoughtfully maintained but not improved upon.
While she was busy examining the room with feigned awe, the Belvedere woman had prepared her a matching white mug of coffee. She offered it to Clover, breaking the supposed spell that the room has cast on her. With a bashful expression, deft fingers took the warm container and held it between both of her hands. It send a shiver through her, before she raised her gaze.
“Thank you, for your kindness. It is more than I deserve, for missing our meeting though I am sorry to say that I was unaware that we had an appointment. Had your staff messaged my shoppe to schedule a time. I only had one house call in my book for…last evening.” A warm blush dappled her cheeks and she purposefully averted her eyes. Bringing the cup to her lips, she blew gently before taking a tentative sip. The flavor burst across her tongue and she blinked, startled. “Were you needing a wedding gown?” She had pieced it together by now that this was the wedding that Quinn had been requesting his suit for. “If so, it is better to meet in my shoppe, so you can sample the fabrics. I should be able to set aside a private meeting tomorrow, if you have availability then.”
Maria led her unexpected guest back to the kitchens, sweeping up her French press and empty mug from the entryway credenza as they passed. She nudged the light switch with her elbow, forgoing the blinding overhead lamps the servants used during the day and instead illuminating the brushed gold pendant lamps suspended above the two islands. Dim, but strangely homey, even though the sheer size of the room and absurd number of appliances were far from what might comprise a typical residential kitchen. Subjecting Chloe Paice to the usual industrial-bright lights would also mean subjecting herself to them; Maria may have derived a bit of devilish amusement from watching her brother’s latest plaything squirm, but it was barely half past five in the morning. And she hadn’t even had her coffee yet.
The Belvedere twin inclined her head toward the stools along the island, indicating the seamstress could sit if she chose, and slid the brewed coffee across the smooth white marble top. “It’s strong,” she cautioned. “There should be cream in the icebox if you need it.” She twisted the knob on the nearest stove and placed the kettle back over the blue flames. “I’ll be back before that boils.” Tossing the seamstress a hard glance, one that said stay put, she slipped into the shadowy corridor to give orders to the staff to prepare a ride into the city.
As promised, she appeared back in the arched doorway just as the kettle began to wheeze out a low whistle. Retrieving the empty French press from the island, barely sparing Chloe a glance as she did so, she removed the spent grounds and replaced them with new. Her slender hands moved practically on their own accord. Slowly, she poured the steaming water into the glass cylinder, pausing to let the coffee bloom once the grounds were moistened. Was she deliberately taking her time, letting her guest fidget in the awkward silence? Perhaps. But the woman, a perfect stranger, was drinking a very rare, very expensive cup of joe. She filled the remainder of the vessel and watched for a moment as the grounds swirled suspended in the water, staining it rich brown.
With a long inhale of the fresh-brewing aroma, at last she looked up and met the stranger’s gaze, gold meeting silver. “Chloe Paice,” she addressed, fastening the lid on the coffee press and resting her palm on the plunger. “I’m Maria. I assume you’ve met my brother.” The faintest flicker of a smile crossed her face. She pressed the plunger down, forcing the grounds to the bottom of the cylinder, and poured the rest in her own mug. “Your ride will be ready well within the hour.” Unless you’d rather wake him now, she thought, but chose to keep that particular innuendo to herself. Quinn owed her. Big time.
“General Belvedere was supposed to have arranged a quick meeting before you left last evening,” Maria went on, purposely using his formal title. She blew gently across the surface of her mug. “I suppose, technically, we now have met before you left.” She reached up, brushing away a few strands of hair that had escaped her messy bun. The smile she wore was difficult to read—polite, but restrained, with just enough of a smirk in her light brown eyes to make it feel tenuous.
“My brother wouldn’t hire you if you weren’t one of the best,” she said matter-of-factly, studying the other dark-haired woman. Her stare glittered through the whorls of steam rising from her coffee. After another pause, she gave in to a sigh. “And I want the best. I was hoping you had room in your schedule for a dress. Unless General Belvedere will be taking up all of your time”—she pointedly drew out the word by taking a sip, unable to resist that little allusion to their extracurricular activities—“with his suit.” She took another swallow, savoring the strong bitter liquid as its layered flavor washed over her tongue. “The wedding is in two months. I will gladly pay whatever might bump me up the queue.”
She tapped a manicured nail against the ceramic mug, betraying a little of her excitement. Maria Belvedere may have possessed a soldier’s heart, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a custom wedding gown…and at surprising Max with it. “Tomorrow?” she repeated with mirth. “Or, given the hour, do you mean today?” The brunette waved her hand, a soft laugh leaving her lips like a sigh. “Either way, I will make myself available for that appointment. You won’t find your compensation lacking. At least not from me.”
Quinn so owed her.
“What do you think of the coffee?” she asked, her gaze still intense as it locked with Chloe’s. “My fiancé is a spice trader. Sometimes I wonder if I love him more, or the coffee he brings me back from his travels.” Her lips twitched into a crooked smile. “Just one more incentive for a gown to stun all of Northam, if you're up for the challenge.”
Maria. Lovely name really. Maria and Quinnley Belvedere- the heirs to a military empire that was steadily growing in influence with the High Commander it seemed. After all, no general would risk her father’s ire with a mildly insulting suit without being a favorite, without a comfort in their position. Instead of letting her eyes flash to her companion’s with a wicked smirk, Chloe turned her head away at the first of the heiress’ innuendos. “Thank you. That is very kind.” She murmured in a soft tone before taking a slow sip of the magnificent liquid. She allowed her eyes to roam everywhere but on the svelte form of the twin before looking down to pick at the skin around one of the fingers that held the mug. It was a habit the seamstress had to force herself to remember. By her very nature, Clover was a still being - observing, monitoring - before moving with conviction and purpose. Chloe was not. She was jittery and nervous and delicate.
Finally, gray-blue eyes flicked back to meet those amber pools that examined her with irritation. Clover would have smiled. She had every right to be annoyed at an intruder who fucked her brother sideways while also failing to show for an appointment. A blush dappled her cheeks at the backhanded compliment. Clover was the fucking best seamstress in all of Northam, but Chloe was modest. Two months for a custom suit and a wedding dress. A contemplative look flickered across her face. She had the two gowns to finish for the upcoming event in a month. Surely Elora would need a dress for the wedding as well. She’d have to refuse all other clients in order to make a dress beyond her normal caliber.
Clover couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “Tomorrow.” Chloe said with a gentle smile. “The shoppe is closed today.” She responded quickly, thankful that she had chosen one day off this month that fortuitously coincided with her reckless choice in sexual partners. “The coffee is exceptional, more than I deserve for intruding upon your morning.” Chloe dipped her head down to the mug as she slid onto one of the chairs that Maria had indicated earlier. She kept her eyes down as they flashed with amusement. Clover was always up for a challenge. It was how she had ended up taking and being taken by her brother on nearly every piece of furniture in his bedroom. Except the desk….what a pity.
Lost in the steam of the coffee against her flushed skin, Clover briefly imagined what that would have been like. His head between her legs, kneeling before her after he had hoisted her onto the large oak writing surface. She’d have been able to see him work in their reflection by the mirror. The scarred skin of his back would ripples as his muscles moved, hands digging into the pale skin of her hips. One leg hooked around his, almost holding him to her as he devoured her entirely. A shiver whipped through her. Leaving goosebumps along the back of her covered arms. What a pity indeed.
Releasing the mug, Chloe reached for her sketchbook, purposefully flipping two pages past the drawing of Quinn in his custom embroider suit. No doubt he wanted to surprise his sister with the dashing outfit. Setting down a fresh graphite pencil, Chloe raised her eyes to the bride before her. The young seamstress was demure except when designing, except when discussing her craft. Precision was needed when crafting such an item. “The timeline will be tight.” She admitted, tapping the end of the pencil against the blank page. “Up until the day of your wedding, if you truly desire a gown that has never been worn in Northam before.” Clover could see that burning desire in the woman, the same need that Quinn posed. They truly we’re a remarkable pair. Briefly, the spy wondered if the sister was just as eager a lover as her twin.
Turning her eyes to the page, pencil set to sketching the lithe shape of the heiress. “Describe it to me. What you see yourself in. Lace? Tulle? Beaded?” Stormy eyes caught her gaze once more, allowing the bag to settle off her shoulder and down to the floor. “How daring so you want it to be?” As she inquired, Clover prayed that the cab did not take too long. It would undo her if the general strolled into the kitchen before her departure. Hell, would she even have the willpower to leave without begging him to take her against the large, farmhouse since that overlooked the side yard of Avondale?
“I’m glad you like it.” Maria leaned forward to rest her elbows on the island across from Chloe, lifting her mug slightly to indicate the beverage they both enjoyed. “I doubt even the High Commander has coffee this fresh.” She savored another sip. It was a point of pride—not so much for the Belvedere, but rather for her fiancé, whose family occupied a far lower rung on the social and political ladder than her own. Maria couldn’t care less where the Lanes stood in the firmament of Northam’s stars; even with her parents dead, the Belvedere blood in her veins carried all the clout she could ever need. Fortunately for the couple, Quinn, as newly-appointed head of the household, had seen things her way even if her father—and especially her mother—had not.
“It would be a shame to waste a cup on someone who can’t appreciate it,” she continued, drumming her fingers against the ceramic. Despite the matter-of-factness of the words, the Belvedere twin’s tone had warmed, and her expression had lost most of its accusatory gleam. She could give Quinn a hard time later; this poor embarrassed tradeswoman had probably had enough punishment for the morning.
Even still, like her brother, the brunette’s brown eyes never quite lost that spark of intensity; it was the same glimmer that allowed Quinn to give off the impression of a predator. Her smaller statue did little to lessen what was evidently a familial trait, but she wore it decidedly differently—it was less obvious, to be sure, but also a little wilder, as though the force were stronger than the leash that kept it tethered. Her brother may have interfaced with Northam’s most dangerous ruling men on the daily, but Maria was no more a shrinking violet than her infamous twin. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea—particularly for the tastes of Thebes’ traditionally-minded upper crust—but at least Chloe Paice seemed to be tough enough to hold her own when caught off-guard. Or at least was wise enough to fake it for a sale.
Then again, the woman had just spent the past twelve-odd hours in Quinn’s bedroom and tried—almost successfully—to sneak out of a noble house undetected. Maybe Maria and this Chloe woman weren’t made of such different stuff after all.
She watched her newfound companion expectantly as the woman clearly mulled over her schedule. Two months was cutting it close. “As I said,” the brunette repeated, “your compensation will be generous.” A smile quirked the corner of her lips when Chloe slipped a sketchbook out of her bag. “Shall I take that as a yes?” She took a swallow of coffee, resurfacing with a pleased grin. If she noticed the seamstress’ sudden faraway gaze, she made no mention of it. “How daring do I want to be?” She thought of Max, how his face might pale and then redden at the sight of her gliding toward him down the aisle. He was always so open, so readable—her opposite, in many ways, but it was one of the things she loved about him.
“I want something new. Something different,” she responded after a moment’s consideration. Surely every bride yearned to be unique, but Maria wanted more. She’d bucked strict tradition her whole life, and she wasn’t about to start being conventional just because she was to be someone’s wife. She wanted to stun. “I don’t mind pushing the boundaries of tradition and propriety, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “I’ve never followed the rules, and I don’t really have any desire to start now.” Her smile became a smirk, but she regarded Chloe carefully, searching for any kind of reaction. Not every tailor was willing to go against the grain for a family so close to the High Commander, whose disapproval might render them collateral damage. “I’m intrigued by the idea of beading—if it’s possible to shake the look of my mother’s generation, that is,” the brunette went on. “Something more contemporary.”
“The bill will be extensive, but yes, I’ll make your wedding dress. A courtesy for intruding upon your morning.” Clover replied, letting one side of her lip curl slightly before running her blue eyes over the woman before her. A characteristic Northam high-ranking lady. Turning her attention to the parchment before her, she sketched a loose form of Maria Belvedere on the page. As her newfound companion finished a sip of coffee, Chloe caught the expression on the woman’s face. Clearly she was thinking about her fiancé. How fortuitous to have found someone worth daydreaming about. It did not happen to many woman these days, especially those high-ranking ones. Briefly, fleetingly, the image of her mother swirled in her mind before she snugged it out like a candle.
Every word the heiress said next was extremely similar to what her brother had requested of his wedding suit. Clover’s mind flicked to that fateful moment, when he ensnared her utterly with a few similar words and an exquisitely toned physique. “Not excessive beading then.” She responded, beginning to let her pencil glide along the page as something began to take shape in her mind. Excessively beaded gowns had been a staple of her mother’s generation, as if to demonstration wealth with each single sewn jewel. She remembered, suddenly, the last dress she had seen her mother wear. It had been entirely made of sequins, hand sewn by Rose herself. Clover remembered running her small hands down the fabricate before her mother had donned if for some function of state her father required her to attend.
Nimble fingers began to bring the idea to life on the paper. She drew long sleeves beneath shoulders that resembled the Northam military epaulettes. They would be softer, but still bold. They would draw attention to her family’s military prowess with a nod to the powerful feminism she exuded. She wondered about the type of fabric the woman might choose. “It may be best to finish my entire sketch after your visit to the shoppe. I’ll need you to choose the type of fabric - unless you already know. I have some very fine white, unless you really want to buck with tradition and have a colored dress.”
The seamstress tapped the end of her pencil on the side of the sketchbook.
Of course, she would incorporate a rose to represent the Belvedere crest. “Tell me about your betrothed.” Chloe said softly, reverently as she refined some of the strokes of the gown’s silhouette. It would help to know the man who she hoped to surprise with the bridal dress. It would also give Clover more information that the Resistance might be able to utilize. It was an innocent question. One no one would suspect of having an ulterior motive, a dark purpose. Chloe took a polite, short sip of the delicious liquid, letting it warm her. This carriage better make its appearance before the other Belvedere rose, and she prayed that, even if the information was valuable, Maria would not tarry too long with stories.
Maria watched, fascinated, as her rough likeness appeared beneath the quick strokes of Chloe’s pencil. The Belvedere had no training in fine arts—few of her station did, aside from wealthy housewives looking to stave off boredom with expensive and mostly worthless private lessons—but she could certainly appreciate skill, and even more so, talent. The effortless sweeps of the graphite across paper were calculated but smooth and performed entirely without hesitation. The woman made it look easy, as though anyone could pick up a pen and perfectly translate a vision in one’s mind to a composition on the page. Even more admirable, considering Maria herself wouldn’t have had the faintest idea where to start.
Her lips twitched upward. Maria was far better working in three dimensions—even four, if one were to factor in the element of time. Like Quinn, her strict military upbringing had molded her into someone who thought in action, strategy, and consequence. She could choreograph everything from an innocent sparring routine between recruits to a bloodthirsty battalion’s advancement on a battlefield. A dancer, but also a predator. So observing Chloe, who came from a vastly different profession requiring a vastly different set of skills, offered a rare glimpse of a style of thinking in which Maria rarely participated herself. And as such, it was a genuine pleasure that left the twin thoroughly impressed.
“I consider this a preliminary consultation,” the brunette said, a little more authoritatively than she intended. The excited smile she wore negated the tone, however. “I look forward to visiting the shoppe to see the samples. The details can be finalized at our appointment.” As promising as the seamstress’ quick sketch was, seeing and feeling real swatches of fabric would allow it all to come together in her three-dimensional mind. Her fingers already itched to feel the material.
At the mention of colors, her smile broadened to a mischievous grin, like a schoolgirl plotting a nefarious prank. “Red,” she said immediately, and with such conviction anyone who overheard might have thought her serious. She reveled for a moment in the prospect—would Quinn approve, or would he have her assassinated on the spot? And Max…poor Max would probably faint, even if it wasn’t something that should have surprised him after how long they’d been an item. “Alas,” she conceded with a sigh, “perhaps that is one tradition we should stick to. But I wouldn’t be opposed to an ivory. Or a blush.” Much more acceptable.
She sipped at her coffee a moment, formulating how best to describe her betrothed at the woman's prompt. “My fiancé is Maxwell Stewart Lane,” she began, oblivious to Chloe’s ulterior motives for inquiring after the man. “A family of the upper-commerce class who made their name in the global spice trade. We obviously come from very different backgrounds. My late parents did not approve of the match.” She scoffed and paused. Her eyes followed the movement of the pencil like a perched hawk might stalk a fieldmouse. “My mother’s dream was to marry me off to some other high-ranking son, but most of those prospects were shot to hell when I enrolled in military training with Quinn. Not many of those men, even the military ones, want a wife who can kick their ass. And, in some cases, who did kick their ass, since I was in at the academy alongside a good number of them.” A wicked smirk flickered over her features before she schooled them back to a cool neutral, realizing she had no idea how this virtual stranger might react not only to her casual cursing—unbecoming of a well-bred young woman, as her mother would have chided—but her attitude toward high society in general.
She cleared her throat. “But with Max, none of that mattered. We’re good complements, he and I.” She tilted her head with fondness. “He is incredibly kind. And thoughtful,” she added, lifting her mug to indicate his gift of fine coffee. “But whip-smart and worldly. He’s been all around the globe and speaks three languages. He’s also an excellent mediator. Useful for a trader, of course, but also for when his fiancée won’t back down from a challenge.”
Draining the last of her coffee until only fine lingering grounds clung to the sides of the mug, she moved around the island to stand at Chloe’s side and view the drawing from the correct orientation. “Oh, yes,” she hummed with approval. Already the small military details—the structure of the shoulders, the long tailored sleeves—were precisely up her alley, and something she might never have imagined on her own. “I—”
“Pardon the interruption, Lady Belvedere.” The young servant from which she’d requested Chloe’s ride appeared in the doorway, bowing quickly at the waist. “Your cab is ready out front.”
Lady Belvedere. Maria wanted to gag. Lady Belvedere would always be their mother Irina to her. Still, she stood up straight and arched her brows. “Excellent. Thanks very much for your haste and your discretion, Stefan. We will be there shortly.” She turned to the seamstress, who seemed all too relieved to hear the news. “We’d best hurry out if you want to minimize your risk of running into my brother on the stairs,” she said, not quite able to suppress a knowing look. “He’ll be up any minute, and he’s never been one to sleep in. Although you’d know better than I whether he’d be needing more rest…”
Listening to the woman before her describe her fiancé was almost remarkable. It was, indeed, a love match. Surprise rippled through her as she made some tired lines on the page, fatigue settling into her fingers and her eyes. Red would certainly have made a statement. Clover felt her lips tick upwards briefly, approving of both the cursing and the color choice. The woman drew close and Chloe cowered away slightly under her scrutinizing gaze and being so close to someone of such high stature. In another world, another life, she might have been friends with this Lady Belvedere.
The interruption set her heart racing and she closed her sketchbook. Hastily, she shoved it into her bag and rose from the chair. Clover appreciated final barb that Maria delivered, but Chloe let a deep blush color her cheeks and mumbled her thanks beneath her breath. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. I’ll make sure to cancel surrounding appointments to allow sufficient time for you to decide on your dress.” The dress would be dependent on the fabric, but she had an exceptional blush lace that would be a showstopper with small hand sewn bead detailing along a bodice. Following out the kitchen, she was led towards the front door. Fleetingly, the seamstress cast a glance up the stairs of the large manor. Fresh memories flooded her and she knew that she would never forget that room where pleasure was the sole purpose of their magnificent union.
The cab carried her all the way home and with the Belvedere crest on the door, they were able to move swiftly through the streets. Clover had them drop her a half mile from the home that double as her place of work. It would not do for any prying eyes to see her return in the carriage of a high-ranking Northam general at such an hour, in a state of complete dishevelment.
The shoppe was blissfully closed that day out of sheer coincidence. The leader of the Northam rebellion had planned on some reconnaissance and a meeting with the presumed (male) head of the movement. Instead, she crawled into her tiny bed and thought she would immediately fall asleep. The swirling thoughts had other plans as she just stared at the ceiling, feeling phantom lips along her neck and fingers up her thighs. Heat bubbled molten in the pit of her abdomen, a thrumming ache that perpetuated lascivious thoughts of the General she should not have slept with. Forcing her eyes closed, Clover heard her name on his lips and in her hair. Even though it was Chloe that he uttered, everything was suddenly too hot despite the ever present chill in her tiny apartment.
Throwing off the covers, cool air met her flushed skin and she released a sigh of irritation. A slender shadow appeared on the mattress beside her with a number of choice words at the lack of a dinner snack the previous evening. Eventually the barrage of angry meows twisted into soft purrs at her side. Idle fingers stroked the black fur as her mind attempted to suppress the memory of his teeth, the low growl of his need, everything. She couldn’t shake the image of his head between her legs, his hands pressing into her hips. Clover couldn’t stop
“It was entirely unexpected. It won’t happen again.” The cat stretched out in reply and released a small chirp. “Don’t be so negative. It was one time. I’ll deliver the suit by courier in two weeks. I won’t have to see him again.” Yes, to help minimize her body reacting to him in a way her logic could not counter. “He’ll have forgotten all about me by then. Who remembers a seamstress when there aren’t clothes to be mended or made?” Clover turned on her side and closed her eyes as she continued to talk to her now silent companion. “It was a nice reprieve from my normal, but that’s all it was. Just a little respite.”
Hours later, the General’s one-time lover stretched awake and proceeded to set about making something of the remainder of her day. She performed inventory and began working on the three dresses that were due to be picked up within the next few days. However, she found herself listless. Each stitch was dull, as if cast in a darkness she could not shake by opening the shutters from the back windows. Without realizing, she found herself staring at the sketch of General Belvedere in the suit she had designed in a whirl of inspiration in the confines of his bedroom. And then she found herself selecting the beautiful wool that would comprise the suit for his sister’s wedding. It was expensive, lavish and elegant. Over the next several hours, well into the dead of the night, she stitched and measured and pinned and hemmed. The manner in which she reverently touched the fabric mimicked a lover’s caress.
At some point she ate, but she selected the threads for the embroidery while she did so. Thoughtfully, she chose a bright navy than contrasted midnight blue of the wool itself. The snakes would be blue, they were always blue. She remembered, a fractured recollection that remained hazy at the edges. The twin snakes of her father’s tattoo. The blue was deep, beckoning, but not a void of intense black. The skin on which the tattoo resided in her memory shifted and it was suddenly her mother’s brand. Smaller, dainty and almost - almost - beautiful. It rested on the inside of her arm, along the soft flesh covering her bicep. It wasn’t until later that Azalea, young and under Rose’s instruction, realized it was a possessive marking and not a lover’s commitment.
Clover began the embroidery around the cuffs, delicate stitches with the snakes twining around the opening. Anger imbued the threads as she crafted part of the Commander’s insignia from memory. Deft fingers had just begun the deep green vines of Belvedere roses when there was a knock on the shop door. Blinking, she looked up and realized the day had dawned without her noticing. Bleary eyes blinked a few times, shaking the obsession from her gaze. Dennis stood confused on the opposite side of the door, holding a basket. Shaking her dark head, the owner strode to the door and unlatched it, swinging it wide for her protege to enter.
“Working early....or late?” He said, eying her suspiciously. Intelligent eyes flickered to the wool on the counter where threads littered the space and different size needles were scattered about.
“Late.” She smiled, slightly rubbing one eye. “Also early.” Clover took the offered breakfast sandwich, inhaling the scent of sausage and cheese.
“Seems like the General was very demanding.” Dennis said, setting down the shirts he had taken home to completely. His words, however, made Clover choke on a bit of the biscuit she had just placed in her mouth. Forcefully, she swallowed the offending bite of food and settled back onto the stool behind the counter.
“You know how the militia can be.” She brushed, studying the embroidery. The snakes had turned out precisely how she desired, blue with a flickering of glimmering silver. The green vibes had begun to twine around and the roses would come next. Granted the suit was nowhere near complete but the seamstress had been a woman possessed to make it as far as she did in the hours she had labored on the piece.
“Want me to take over?” Dennis questioned.
“Mmm, no. Perhaps you can finish the hem on the Reina Kurtz dress. I almost finished it earlier. I cancelled her appointment for today. The general’s sister has chosen us to design her wedding gown.” Dennis’ eyes shot upward as he moved into the back room to retrieve the Kurtz gown. It was an older design hat she was having repaired and adjusted. Their family was not as wealthy as the Terrills, who had a new outfit for each occasion. “She’s coming in today to select fabric and finalize her design.” Remembering, Clover paused in her task and flipped to the page of Lady Belvedere in her book. She examined it, thoughtfully and having rested, a few small details came to her. She smirked to herself as she scribbled a few words and indicated the sleeves with small arrows.
The rest of the morning passed with a few brief appointments, some purchases of pre-made items and other smaller affairs. Looking at the small clock on one of the shelves, she realized that the Belvedere heiress would be arriving shortly. “I’m going to freshen up real quick.” Clover ascended the stairs and changed into a clean pair of black britches with a soft gray top, sleeves rolled up halfway along her forearm. She braided her black hair before pinning it in a bun at the nape of her neck.
Descending the stairs, she heard a feminine voice conversing with a stuttering Dennis. Furrowing her brow, she adopted Chloe’s characteristic soft look before turning the corner to see that it was Elora and not Maria that stood in the entryway of her shop. Raising her eyebrows, she strode over to the embroidery at the counter. “I didn’t have you down for an appointment today.” She said casually, before turning to Dennis. She tossed him a few coins. “Would you run and fetch fresh water from the market and perhaps some sweet cakes for our next appointment?” He nodded, averting his gaze from the stunning woman swathed in an elegant royal blue jacket with fur cuffs and tall black boots that rose up to the hemline. “Well?” Clover brought her eyes to meet striking emerald ones.
“Can I not just pop in and see the leader of the rebellion?” Clover pulled a face at Elora’s words.
“You know that you can’t and yet still you persist.” Clover grinned slightly, settling onto her stool once more and folding up the embroidery on Quinnley Belvedere’s suit jacket and setting it aside. “I have an appointment soon and it is private.”
“I won’t be long, I promise. I just wanted to take a peak at the newer shipment you said you got in. With the gold satin.” Clover waved her hand and Elora helped herself to the back of the shoppe that was meticulously organized with shelves and rows of fabric, lace and beads. “But be quick. you have five minutes.’
But she didn’t even have that long. A cab drew to a stop in front of Rose’s, drawing the attention of stormy gray-blue eyes. Her gaze roved over the side and the striking Belvedere emblem. Clover was drawn back to where she saw it in the hallway of her childhood and then in the entryway of the Belvedere estate. The door of the carriage opened and the svelte form of Maria emerged. Stunningly beautiful and a striking presence even without the weight of her name following behind her. The shoppe bell rung as Clover was lost in her thoughts, jarring her to rise.
“Lady Belvedere. It is a pleasure to have you here.” Chloe smiled demurely, dropping her gaze was familiar golden eyes. “Would you like to see more of your sketch as I had a few ideas since we last spoke?”
Quinn’s eyes fluttered open to a dark, chilly room. The eastern sky had just begun to brighten over the sea, a faint peach glow ahead of dawn’s full blush. The house was still and silent, and not even the faint thrum of electricity disturbed the early peace.
He sensed she was gone before he even turned his head to look. The absence of Chloe’s warmth spoke for itself even if he hadn’t listened for the soft breaths at his side. Wicked thing, he thought, a devilish smirk pulling at his lips in the darkness, slipping away in the dead of night. He rolled to his back, fixing heavy-lidded eyes on the shadowy outline of the canopy above. Even through the lingering fog of sleepiness, his mind filled with flashes of silken skin and heat, tumbling dark tresses and silvery blue eyes, and the pleasure…oh, the pleasure. He’d had good partners before, even great ones. But never had a nighttime rendezvous been so prolific, leaving him satisfied and spent, electrified and exhausted.
He’d never quite noticed how empty his bedroom felt until he experienced the space without Chloe Paice in it. The realization coaxed yet another grin from his lips. Remarkable how swiftly she’d shrugged off the persona of deferential tradeswoman; how she’d gone from hardly more noticeable than a shadow to a bolt of lightning in the night—a veritable force, a presence so intense and dazzling that she’d had him in her thrall the moment her brazen hand had grazed his thigh with her measuring tape.
From invisible in the room…to the only thing in it.
Heat bloomed over his skin all over again, and the contrast against the chill in the air sent a shiver through his limbs. His morning certainly would have been much nicer if he’d woken up to Chloe slumbering at his side; he could have coaxed her awake with hungry lips and searing touches, and they might have pleasured one another all over again as daylight broke.
More than a little disappointed to be solo, but not entirely shocked by it, he extricated himself from the impossibly tangled sheets. The air was cold, but with the thrum of last night’s electricity still warming his skin from within, it was easy to ignore the chill on his naked form. He flipped on the lights, squinting a little against the sudden glare. Aside from the state of the mussed linens on the bed, they hadn’t left too much destruction in the wake of their pleasure tour. He noted (with more than a little chagrin) that she’d taken the panties he’d ripped from her body and discarded to the floor. But it seemed she’d left him a souvenir of a different type…
He sauntered to the nightstand and picked up the paper there, which lay face down against the mahogany. One side of his mouth quirked upward. She’d scribbled a note, the soft graphite slightly smudged. On, to the edge of ruin, it read, signed with the tantalizing pseudonym, Your Wicked Thing. The general bit his lip as his mouth pulled into a broad, involuntary grin. His own words, turned back on him. Wicked, indeed. He could practically hear the purr of the words in his ear as his gaze took in the sentence again and again, eyes tracing the strokes of her elegant penmanship as though he could manifest the sultry alto of her voice with desire alone. He had no doubt she knew what consequence her little memo would have, and if she were here, he would show her precisely how profound that effect was…
He flipped the page over, suspecting what might be on the other side. There she was—Chloe Paice, her pose languid and confident despite the roughness of his shading, her shape clear despite the imprecision of his unpracticed linework. It spoke more to the seamstress’ enigmatic aura than to Quinn’s amateurish skill that her likeness on the page was so apparent. Or maybe it was simply that his head was so full of her. Those gentle curves and that lean strength of her body—he was Northam’s foremost warrior, an expert in combat technique, and had not failed to notice what immaculate physical shape she was in—had felt even better beneath his hands than it had beneath the graphite and his gaze.
Damn that wicked thing.
By the time he showered and dressed, the sky had brightened just enough to stream hazy light through the tall leaded windowpanes. The reflection from the night’s thin blanket of snow bathed the upper corridor in an alien glow when he emerged from the bedroom. He padded downstairs and made his way promptly to the kitchen, following the novel scent of coffee in the air—an aroma that only ever beckoned when his sister was there to prepare it.
He breezed through the half-closed door, dark hair slicked back and still damp from his shower, and found Maria perched on one of the island stools with her amber gaze solidly fixed upon him. Only his sister could make workout attire and messy hair look that obnoxiously regal at six in the morning. Her manicured hands were wrapped leisurely around a large white mug, whose rim hovered near lips pressed together in an expression caught somewhere between a smirk and a frown.
“Save any of that for me?” the general asked, quirking a brow.
“Good morning to you too, Quinnley.” She took a long sip, watching him through the whorls of steam rising from her cup. “Grounds are in the canister.”
He prepared the French press—which she’d taught him how to use properly, on pain of death—with the rest of the hot water in the kettle. He slid into the seat opposite her and rested his forearms on the silvery marble while he waited for the coffee to steep.
“You ought to be thanking me,” Maria finally drawled. “And not just for the best cup of joe you’ll have all year.”
“Oh?” He poured his cup and took a tentative sip, wincing at the heat of the liquid. “And why is that?”
“For finishing your chores for you this morning.” She placed her mug on the countertop, obviously savoring his bemusement. “You know,” she goaded, tapping a nail on the ceramic cup handle. “Taking out your trash.”
To Quinn’s credit, and a testament to his political skill, his face remained even and unfazed. But Maria knew him better than anyone. She recognized the new stillness in his shoulders, the ever-so-slight stiffness to his movements as he took another searing drink of his coffee, this time without so much as a grimace at its temperature. A knowing smirk spread across her features, and he knew he’d been made. “Give it up, Quinn,” she said, then paused. “Oh, wait…I guess you already did last night, hmm?”
At that, the general had the decency to look a little sheepish. Her brother wasn’t exactly known for his puritan lifestyle, and it wasn’t the first time Maria had witnessed a woman leaving his quarters at an odd hour, but when confronted he usually put on a smarmy grin and leaned into the joke. Either he’d matured significantly since she’d moved to Washentown, or he hadn’t been kidding when he said he was overwhelmed with his familial and political duties. She might’ve been made to feel a pang of guilt for that, considering the upcoming wedding on his plate in addition to everything else. But the other option—that he was actually embarrassed—seemed too far-fetched for her mighty brigadier general of a brother.
“So many times, I lost count,” he finally conceded, tossing her a wink.
Maria rolled her eyes. “That poor girl.”
“That lucky girl,” he said, then corrected, not without a telltale glimmer in his eye, “Woman.”
Maria’s dubious expression remained unchanged. “Yeah, so lucky she’d rather walk all the way back to Thebes in the dark, after a sleet storm and two inches of snow, than face you this morning,” she commented flatly.
Quinn’s brows had the decency to twitch together in concern. “You let her walk back in this?”
“Oh, fuck off, Quinn. Of course not. I arranged a cab.” She rolled her eyes. “She can’t very well make my wedding dress if she’s recovering from frostbite.”
Quinn guffawed. “There’s that famous Belvedere compassion.” He took another long drink of his coffee, his exhale sighing through the steam. “Mother would be so proud.”
A smirk was Maria’s answer, but it barely masked her irritation at his jab about their mother. A retaliation, no doubt, for similarly comparing him to their father the previous day. She narrowed her eyes. “Does she only do one specific kind of house call?” she replied. “Because she seemed surprised when I asked after the consultation she missed.”
“Ah, right. About that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It…ah, it didn’t come up.”
Maria barked a laugh. “Really?” She waggled her brows, the innuendo too obvious to pass up. “It sure seems like it did. If the state of her hair was any indicator.”
“I teed that one up for you,” Quinn said. He rolled his eyes, a perfect echo of Maria’s earlier gesture.
“Don’t worry. I set up an appointment at her shoppe for tomorrow.” She slid to her feet and placed her empty mug in the sink. “I hope you haven’t let the estate fall to financial ruin already.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned a hip against the counter. Quinn quirked a brow. “My money was on it taking a year before you drove it into the ground. Trading sexual favors for a new suit is unbecoming of a general of your status. Will I need to bring you along as payment for my dress too?”
Quinn’s smirk darkened to a glower. She regretted saying it even as her tongue formed the words; she knew the estate was a sore spot for him, and prodding the fresh bruise unprovoked was a little too cruel, even for her. “Sorry,” she said. “Low blow. I’m tired. You’re absolutely not invited to the shoppe with me. There, how’s that?”
His irritation—or at least the part of it he allowed to show—gave way to a suggestive grin. “I know I can be a little distracting.”
Maria stepped up and gave him a condescending pat on the forearm. “Only you would take a girl running away as a compliment. I can’t decide if that’s a healthy perspective, or just plain sad.”
As she strode to the door, Quinn called, “Your coffee’s terrible, by the way.”
She smiled but didn’t turn around. “No, it’s not.” He snorted, but she heard the kettle rattle as he moved to make himself a second cup.
—————
After a day of meetings—from confirming the wedding menu with the caterer (selected by Max, naturally) to debating security protocols with Quinn for the big day—Maria found her diplomatic patience wearing dangerously thin. Her only real consolation was the budding excitement for her appointment at the dress shoppe the following morning, a rare bright spot in an otherwise insufferable schedule. She was getting tired of talking about things. With Max on his way to Thebes, and their date looming closer each hour, she was antsy and excited and impatient, like a child awaiting a holiday. Planning, necessary though it was, was entirely too nebulous for her current state of mind. It was time to touch something with her hands, to see something more concrete than seating charts sketched crudely on paper…the likes of which swam before her tired eyes in the evening firelight, the names all blurring together as a headache bloomed in her temples.
With a weary sigh, she decided enough was enough. She tucked the unfinished diagram into the reading room desk and went to bed without so much as a knock on the library door, where Quinn had holed himself up after a quick dinner.
Maria didn’t see him the next morning either, although that wasn’t so unusual. Her eyelids had fluttered open before her alarm, as they always did, and she rose feeling significantly more refreshed than she ought to have, considering the odd hours she’d kept. But even her pre-dawn training routine had benefited from an extra buzz of energy in her step, all before she’d ingested her caffeine.
After another sluggish handful of hours and a swift ride into town from Avondale, the cab at last pulled up to the shoppe door. She emerged from the cab before the driver could climb down to open her door. The other night’s snow accumulation had mostly melted away, but despite the clear skies and sunshine now, there was a bite to the air that tinged her cheeks pink.
The bell on the door announced her presence with a tinny jingle as she stepped inside, just as eager to escape the chill as she was for the appointment itself. The warmth of the shoppe’s interior wrapped her in its embrace, along with the faint but distinct aroma of cinnamon. The space was far more organized than she’d anticipated; she’d been to fittings before, of course, but never to Rose’s, whose ample inventory was neatly stacked and sorted in such a way that it acted as décor as much as storage.
Maria’s brown-gold gaze met Chloe Paice’s as the woman approached. “Miss Paice,” she greeted amicably. “I have to insist you call me anything but ‘Lady Belvedere.’ My mother would roll in her grave.” Her eyes scanned the seamstress in a quick once-over. The woman’s beauty was far more obvious in the light of day, with her appearance clean and unrumpled. Even dressed in the simple clothes of her trade, it was easy to see how Chloe’s svelte form and steel-blue eyes had caught the Belvedere general’s eye.
Then again, they both looked far different from when they’d encountered one another on the stairs. The Belvedere woman, too, had made certain to look presentable this time—she’d traded her messy bun for a simple but elegant Dutch plait that fell between her shoulder blades and showed off the highlights in her brunette hair, and instead of workout clothes, she’d curated an outfit appropriate for her station. Trousers the shade of gunmetal, woven with wool for warmth, sheathed her legs and disappeared into fine black leather boots; on top, she sported a pale blue blouse beneath a structured black coat. Aside from the gentle curve of her waist, which was accentuated with a tied fabric belt, the jacket was all severe lines and monochromatic black details. It may not have been military blue, but no one could deny she cut a commanding figure.
“You’ve no idea how I’ve looked forward to this afternoon,” Maria continued. She flashed an easy smile…doing her best to keep the knowing smirk from her expression, but not quite able to prevent it from creeping into her eyes. Still, her words were genuine. “Yes, I’d love to see those sketches. I appreciate your flexibility, by the way.” And I’m sure Quinn does too, she added silently, biting her lip to silence a chuckle. Clearing her throat instead, she added, “I hope you’ll let me know whatever I can do to make your process most efficient. I know we’re pressed for time.”
Chloe dipped her head, admonished and apologetic for calling her the appropriate title. She did so so that Maria would not see the surprise flicker in Clover’s stormy eyes. Elora was the only one she did not call by her designation of rank and Chloe Paice would certainly never address the heiress by her first name - no humble trades woman would ever take such familiarity. Recollection shifted through her as she raised her head once more to meet the golden eyes so like her brother’s. Something stirred inside of her and she tamped it down, focusing on the task at hand.
“Of course.” Intelligent eyes took in everything about the new arrival with an efficiency of a spy under the guise of an appraising seamstress. Maria Belvedere maintained the same commanding presence as her brother, without that innate sexual magnetism that Clover had fallen victim too. Fortunately for the young rebel, she would be able to keep her composure and not attempt to seduce the engaged woman into her bed upstairs. Deft fingers pulled her sketchbook around to the other side of the counter to show Maria what she had drawn up between embroidery sessions for the General’s suit. As she rounded the furniture to stand beside the bride, Clover hid a bemused smile at the mention of her flexibility. It seemed as though the general’s sister was just as quick-witted as he was. The thought sparked to life the memory of Quinn. Heat momentarily flared to life inside of her as she recalled the words against her ear. Guiding him right to the very, very edge of ruin. She could hear the lusty growl against her skin and ached for it anew. Chloe instead kept her head bowed and indicated a number of small details of the sketches in an attempt to draw herself back to the task at hand.
“I devised a number of different options, depending on which fabrics you choose. My particular favorite is this piece…though naturally it is also the most expensive.” Clover had exceptional taste in clothing and would have swathed herself in the latest fashions, if her guise was not that of a humble seamstress. So instead, she lived vicariously through her wealthy patrons. Turning a page in the sketchbook from the one with multiple different styles hastily drawn out to the backside that boasted a single design. She had rendered Maria’s likeness in striking detail, even from their brief meeting in the halls of Avondale. The eyes, however, beckoned to the rebel as Quinn’s had in his bedroom.
From the front, the dress appeared relatively simple in design. A gentle scoop neck to acknowledge her breasts but not make them to focus of the gown. The silhouette clung to her expertly curated body, focused on the toned length of her abdomen and hips before falling gently against her legs. The arms harkened back to the Belvedere military prowess with padded shoulders and intricate beading as a nod to Northam epaulettes. Between the front and back images, Clover had drawn a close-up view of the beading. To the untrained eye, it would look as though a field of roses and their pedals. Yet, it was a painstaking labor of love of the craft - twining the Belvedere roses with different leaves of spice plants to signify her union to Max. Oregano and tarragon stems of white with their leaves surrounding roses of a soft blush. The back of the dress dipped low, very low. It drew the viewer’s eyes down the entirety of her spine. Chloe had the point ending just above Maria’s backside before the fabric fell out into a gorgeous, lightly beaded train. Roses of white and gold and blush dappled the edge and accentuated the striking exposure of her back. It was unlike anything anyone in Northam had worn before. Woman took chances with their décolletage but never with their backs. If Chloe had to describe the dress, it was elegant but daring.
“We can, of course, change anything you want to suit your style. Colors, fabrics.” She waved her hand slightly. “Scrap the entirety of it and start fresh. Whatever you envision for your wedding we can make that happen but I would - “ the seamstress was interrupted by the melodious voice of another Northam elite.
“The gold is divine. I must have it for myself, but I know you have an upcoming appointment Clo-“ Elora Terril stopped short as she appeared as though an angel from the back. Chloe Paice’s cheeks immediately burned bright red and she opened her mouth to apologize to the betrothed woman beside her. Elora, however, had other plans. “I see she has already arrived and I am encroaching on her private appointment.” She said by way of apology, softly, in a siren tone that had beguiled many a Northam elite. Soft steps carried the dark-haired goddess towards the interrupted pair.
Absently, as though she had been the one intruded upon, Elora toyed with the fur cuff of her blue jacket. Emerald eyes glittered as she took in the svelte form of the Belvedere woman before her. Maria Belvedere was known to the Terrils but they ran in vastly different high-ranking circles. Military and commerce. So powerful was the Terril family that Lawrence had received a special dispensation to study his father’s craft and was exempt for the required military service. In contrast, Elora had begged her mother to let her attend the academy and rebelled for years against the answer she received. Maria, however, was well-known to be one of the few woman to successfully complete the excruciating training that Elora had longed to participate in.
And the bride looked the part. Unabashedly, the heiress allowed her gaze to roam over the woman before her. She took in the toned thighs beneath the gunmetal pants, the slender waist hiding beneath the coat. Attention lingered on the curve of her hip before moving at an agonizing upward pace. Gaze traversed along her slender neck that had likely boasted many a lover’s affectionate kiss. She could just barely make out the defined nature of her collarbone hiding beneath the fabric. What it might feel like beneath her fingers. Finally, green met gold and Elora gave a gentle smile - or was it a smirk? It was difficult to tell with the goddess made flesh.
Clover watched the scene unfold before her as though she was no longer in the room. Carefully, she kept her face blushing and embarrassed, despite the amused expression that longed to play on her face. She knew Elora well enough to know that she was not sizing up an opponent, but rather potential prey.
“Elora Terril.” She extended her hand directly, not in the demur fashion of many women of their standing. “I take it you are Maria Belvedere.” There was no mistaking the military power that she exuded and the glittering amber eyes. The heiress had been around General Quinnley Belvedere enough times to recognize his twin when she finally stumbled upon her. Elora have her that dazzling smile, white teeth exposed against the natural pink of full lips. “It is an immense pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Your impending nuptials have been the talk of all of Thebes, all of Northam really.”
Quinn was going to strangle Maria. Once and for all.
If her elaborate wedding plans on top of everything else weren’t enough justification, then surely her snarky confrontation in the kitchen tipped her solidly over the edge.
Christ. He was too old, too accomplished, to feel this much like a child again—pushed to the point of discomfiture by his twin, in a way only a close sibling could. She knew exactly how to irk him, exactly what to say to fill him with rage (and, in fairness, to make him laugh, but amusement was far from his mind at present). But the real trouble was…when she pissed him off, it usually meant she was right about something.
They were similar enough to one another that even minor differences of opinion felt grating, but much to his chagrin, getting under his skin was an efficient method to opening his eyes to another perspective. He’d never met anyone who could infuriate him the way Maria could. She seemed to intuit what was going on behind whatever persona he presented to the world on a given day. Yet as much as he hated to admit it—and as easy as it would be to dismiss the annoyance as age-old sibling rivalry—he knew he was better for his sister’s challenge.
He couldn’t decide what was worse—that her throwaway comment regarding his management of the Belvedere estate was bothering him still, hours later, or that she had somehow managed to made him feel sheepish over Chloe’s overnight stay. Damn you, Mia. He was obviously no besotted schoolboy, so why had it been so uncharacteristically difficult to let her jibes roll off his back? And why did comparisons to his father still make his skin crawl even when the old tyrant was dead?
He stared into the fire as its flames faded to smoldering ash on the library’s hearth. Marius Belvedere’s body was six months cold in the crypt, yet still Quinn felt uneasy sitting at the old general’s desk. His eyes drifted to the door, as if he were ten years old and his father might stride in at any moment and catch him sneaking around where he wasn’t supposed to be. Perhaps that’s just what it was like to be haunted—not by phantoms, but by expectations.
Forcing himself to dive back into the thick of his administrative tasks, he forewent the butler’s calls for luncheon and didn’t emerge until Maria breezed unannounced into the room much later. She presented her plans for estate logistics for her wedding day—thorough and effective protocols, to his relief. At least she hadn’t let her strategic skills atrophy since graduation. Which was admirable, considering how few opportunities she’d had to exercise them after the academy. She’d endured the same five years of hell he and their male counterparts had, but had not been awarded a military title (and therefore no assignment to jump-start a career as an officer) for the effort. Unfair, but even with his current position, Quinn was powerless to change it.
They ate a small dinner served to the study, mostly forgetting about the food as they worked and reaching instead for the bottle of wine. Maria eventually dismissed herself long after sundown, and Quinn retired to his bedroom with bleary eyes and throbbing temples. His bed had been remade with fresh linens, and a bright fire burned in the fireplace, stoked generously enough to last the night. But rather than collapse immediately beneath the duvet, he strode to the desk in the corner, where he’d stashed a certain portrait earlier that morning. Jesus, was it just this morning? he thought, twisting the lock in the drawer and sliding out the sketchbook page. It seemed like centuries ago…
And yet, at the first glimpse of the composition in the firelight, he felt the embers in his core ignite back to a steady blaze. A smile tugged at his weary lips. He angled the piece toward the light, smearing a streak of unfixed graphite across the corner. A quiet chuckle shook his shoulders. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against his index finger, staining the callused skin gray. He imagined hoisting her onto her artist’s table, that silvery sheen dusting the bare skin of her back and her thighs, an otherworldly shimmer with the motion of their pleasure.
The vision coaxed a satisfied hum from his throat, and he ran his dyed fingertip along the irregular ripped edge of the paper. He hadn’t noticed any ragged remnants of missing pages when he’d perused her sketchbook, which indicated this was the only one she’d torn from its binding. The fierce heat beneath his skin was tinged suddenly with a deep appreciation. Not only had she permitted him to use a page for his amateurish attempt at figure drawing, but she’d ripped it free, sacrificing its reverse side to be left as a memento on his nightstand.
He shook his head, following the curve of his lines with his gaze. Perhaps he was reading too far into it. She probably just wanted to be rid of it so no one at her shoppe thought the drawing was hers.
Regardless, her sketchbook had seemed woefully inadequate for someone of such demonstrated talent. And now it was two pages shorter…three, if he counted her sketch of his suit.
He owed her, it seemed.
An idea bloomed suddenly, and a wicked grin lit up his face. He exchanged the portrait for a piece of Belvedere stationery and retrieved his favorite fountain pen from its holder. Scribbling a note in his slanting, severe script, he wrote out a list of specifications to have Thomas deliver in the morning to the bookbindery his father had always used to produce the family ledgers. He signed his name, melted a piece of wax, and sealed the order with an abbreviated Belvedere insignia—a single rose in blood red wax.
A Belvedere always paid his debts.
————
Maria stepped up to Chloe's open sketchbook, brown eyes glittering as they took in the refined drawing on the stark white paper. Seeing her likeness rendered with such artistic care brought a smile to her lips all over again. It was meticulously done; with how many new details adorned the page, the composition was almost unrecognizable from the initial rough sketch she’d seen take shape in the Belvedere kitchens. She had no reason to mask how impressed she was, so she didn’t; she arched an awed brow and nodded along eagerly as the seamstress explained the sketch.
It was perfect—exactly the sort of design she’d wanted but hadn’t had the words or the imagination to articulate herself. The front was understated and elegant, with a conservative neckline and shape that would nevertheless highlight her figure…but the statement sleeves, structured not unlike a military jacket, ensured there would be no mistaking her for a traditional bride. But there was truly little danger of that, because the back…the back was all drama and daring, sporting a deep plunge that would expose her spine from neck to tailbone. Maria gasped with delight before she could stop herself. She could imagine it now—emerging at the back of the ballroom behind her guests, and slowly letting their jaws drop aisle by aisle as she strode toward Maxwell at the altar.
“It’s devastating,” she breathed, her amber eyes lit with a mischievous gleam. Her shoulders trembled with an excited laugh. Her gaze swept over the inset details of the beading pattern—roses, of course, and culinary greenery. Chloe’s intuition as a designer was utterly impeccable. The brunette could understand her brother’s attraction to the seamstress on her creativity alone, and frankly, Maria could have kissed the woman herself. “I haven’t been this excited for an outfit since my graduation from training,” she quipped, smirking at the memory. The men had all worn basic matching military blues, but given that women’s versions were nonexistent and the fact that she would not be given a rightly earned title, she’d commissioned a uniform of her own…more suited to her feminine shape and definitely not regulation.
Another voice suddenly cut Chloe off mid-sentence, and Maria’s attention shifted to unexpected movement toward the back of the store. The Belvedere’s bright smirk was gone in an instant, replaced with something unreadable. Not unfriendly, exactly, but neither was it entirely welcoming.
The woman who approached at least had the good sense to look sorry for interrupting the appointment, even if the apology lasted only a moment. Maria’s appraising golden gaze swept from the stranger’s boots to her fur-lined coat to her outstretched hand, and then finally to her face—where a pair of startling emerald eyes sent a surprising jolt through the Belvedere woman. Maria clasped her hand perhaps too firmly and without looking away, momentarily mesmerized by the glittering green. “Ah, yes. Lady Terril. Of course,” she replied, her leisurely tone at odds with the intensity of the expression she wore on her features. They were two predators circling one another in the guise of propriety, more out of curiosity than animosity…at least for the moment. “Maria Belvedere. You’ve presumed correctly.”
She released the green-eyed woman’s hand after perhaps a beat too long, and was surprised at how cool her palm felt when parted from Elora’s easy warmth. Maria glanced to Chloe, who had cast her gaze demurely downward in the presence of the two high-ranking Northam women, then looked back to the Terril beauty. Her dazzling white smile brightened the entire room, catching the Belvedere twin off-guard. “The pleasure is truly mine,” Maria returned, surprising herself at how genuine the words felt as she spoke them. “I’m afraid I’m more accustomed to causing controversy than excitement.” Her smile sharpened, not quite a smirk. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to fill me in on what Northam is saying about the wedding. I like to keep people guessing. I’d hate to think they were onto me.”
