Clover awoke to an empty bed again, cursing herself for sleeping through his departure. She knew that she would have been able to convince him to stay if she had been able to but brush her fingers down his back. As she stretched, the general’s words from the night before came flooding back to her. Breath caught in her throat at the memory of his head against hers and the husky rumble of his words. You confound me. I can’t wait to figure you out. Heat twisted in the pit of her stomach, and she groaned into the silence around her, irritated once more that he had abandoned her.
He clearly did not learn his lesson. Or, he much preferred his punishment. The thought made her grin that same wicked one she gave him before pouncing on him. The spy dropped her feet to the side of the bed and all while she dressed for the day, she imagined their prior evening together. The monster that was now firmly back in its cage prowled restlessly. It was one of the few times someone had seen it and reveled in it. The hungry gleam in his eyes when she dropped the careful façade would be engrained in her mind. He had seen her, seen Clover, and wanted her even more. The feral way they had devoured each other once he broke free of his restraints proved that.
The entire day was spent at the bakery, setting final details for her eventual departure and who would be taking over the information drops in the future. That was in addition to preparing lunches and dinner for the troops. She packed a sandwich for Percival just as he was coming through the door to retrieve her for the evening.
“We need to pack your things tonight, miss.” Percival said, standing to her left as they made the trek back to the manor.
“We’re leaving?” Chloe inquired, looking for signs of horse hooves that might mean the General awaited her. She was left sorely disappointed before she turned her attention to her companion.
“Yes, sunrise tomorrow. Most of our force will return to Thebes and I will accompany you home.” He said the words matter-of-factly before adding, with a different tone in his voice. “So, you are stuck with me a bit longer.”
Chloe smiled up at him, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “You made another joke.” She shouldered him lightly as they walked, though her slight weight didn’t really impact his stride in any capacity. “Are you getting sweet on me, sergeant?”
Percival’s face reddened and he looked down at her, only to find that she rolled her eyes and laughed. His expression turned to one of bemusement. “You’re tolerable, miss.”
“Tolerable?!” Chloe faked insult, hand against her chest. “Perhaps one day you might find my company enjoyable.” They settled into a comfortable silence brought about by multiple days of forced companionship. However, when the seamstress did not see the general’s horse at the manor, she turned her expectant gaze to her partner. “He isn’t going to make it back, is he?” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, but by the look on Percival’s face she had failed in the attempt.
“I suspect the final preparations for our departure are keeping him quite busy.”
“Yes. I can’t imagine what running an entire army entails. Running a modiste is far simpler.” She cast her eyes up at him as they entered the manor, the warmth from the lit fires warming her chilled cheeks. “Though sometimes I might argue that the ladies of Northam are more intimidating than any rebellion.” Clover cast the resistance casually into the conversation, looking at him for another smile, which she quickly received.
“Of that, I have no doubt, miss.”
Clover ascended the stairs and packed everything in her satchel, discarding the ruined clothes into a pile and making the bed back up. She hesitated, wondering if he would stop back by the manor before departing. Fingers twitched, before she smirked and retrieved a scrap of paper from her beautiful sketchbook. Slowly, she wrote the words in a delicate script.
To figuring me out, general.
Logic made her hesitate. He shouldn’t be permitted to figure her out. That would be far too dangerous. Quinnley Belvedere was astute, cunning, and devastatingly handsome. This has gone on far too long already. Looking at the words, remembering the hum of his voice against her ear and the brush of his fingers against her skin, the spy clenched her hand around the paper. The message was reduced to a crumpled ball, and she tossed it into her bag before forcing the sketchbook down into it. The torn nightgown was left laid across the back of one of the armchairs.
The next morning dawned without a whisper from the general or him creeping in at the dead of night. Clover couldn’t decide whether she was grateful or disheartened by his absence. Percival escorted her on the journey home, walking beside the wagon that they set aside a spot for her in. They conversed quietly at times, but not frequently on the day-long journey back to Thebes. The chill of the winter wind occasionally cut through her jacket, but somehow the sergeant managed to find her a blanket. There was little intelligence to gather as she rode in the wagon and founder that the time passed more quickly when her thoughts drifted to the lascivious gaze of General Quinn Belvedere.
Night had fallen on her sleepy store street in Thebes by the time they arrived back. Sergeant Percival escorted her the entire way to the shoppe door, with the dress hanging in the window that she had requested Dennis display. She stood on the doorstep, carefully covering the dark smear of dirt on the concrete with her feet. Exhaustion tugged at her limbs, but she was going to have to make a stop at Aaron’s bar before she collapsed into her bed.
“Thank you for suffering through your assignment, sergeant. You did so with distinction. If I could, I would recommend you for the highest commendations that Northam could offer.”
“Not necessary, miss.”
“But since I can’t, I want to show my gratitude in the only way that I can. Allow me to make something for your wife. Send her to the shoppe, whenever she is next in Thebes, and I will craft her something useful and beautiful.”
“It is not necessary, miss.”
“Of course, it’s not, but I insist. And I have the ear of your commander,” she lied, smiling slightly, “so it would not be wise to refuse me.” At that, Percival’s composure broke slightly, and his lips ticked up.
“I wouldn’t want a demotion.” He responded, the joke in his voice.
“I am not against using my powers for evil, sergeant. But again, I am very grateful for your help. Perhaps we might see each other again, without the forced nature of my companionship. Goodnight.” Chloe left him at the door as she pushed herself in and ascended the stairs to her loft. Stormy eyes flicked around as she pushed open the loft door and was greeted by a series of angry meows. The cat wound itself around her ankles, as if in affection, but Clover knew it was attempting to trip her in retaliation for her absence.
“It wasn’t that long, and Dennis came and fed you. Don’t act like you’re dying.” Her pet jumped up on the counter of the exceptionally small kitchen island, making multiple noises of protest. However, she did retrieve some dried food from a cabinet and sprinkled some broken bits into the bowl. Refreshing the beast’s water with some from the ice box hanging just outside the window. Fortunately, it had not frozen with the storm, but it was extremely cold.
Clover changed her clothes and stretched her weary muscles. She touched her toes, holding the position and feeling the strain at the back of her legs. She bent her arm over her head, holding that stretch as well. The spy dressed herself in a thick, loose skirt that brushed her ankles and hovered over the laces of her boots. Black blouse poked out beneath a thick charcoal sweater before donning her woolen jacket against the wind that would whip through the back alleys.
The path she took to Aaron’s was long, cumbersome, and painful to her body that had been unaccustomed to kneading dough at a bakery. The seamstress was exceptional at ensuring that she was not being followed, though she had never had an actual tail before. During her upbringing, Rose had different individuals follow her around on training missions to ensure that she could shake a tail. It was another thing she excelled at. Deception. Lies. They were her lifeblood.
Aaron escorted her to his back office and took her coat, before she settled herself against the back of the chair by the fire. As was customary, the man brough her a whiskey, which she downed in one swallow, before he filled it again.
“Got the message that you were fine but detained.” He referenced the dress in the window, one of their many codes.
“I got lucky.” Clover admitted, though she was loathe to. “The military arrived before I did and…decimated the small resistance there. They were butchered, executed by a General Quinnley Belvedere.” The name left her lips in an entirely different tone than it had two evening prior, in the darkness of his bedroom. “He’s a rising star among the High Commander’s inner circle – one of the new favorites. I would not be surprised if he becomes the heir apparent with the commander’s son being dead.” A swirl of the whiskey sent its aroma wafting towards her. Blue eyes closed as if to savor the scent, the warmth, and the companionship. The resistance leader conveyed the remainder of her adventure to him over the next hour, going into significant detail about the recruit. Aaron settled down at his desk, figuring out the logistics of filtering in the information that the baker would deliver to them and what they would have her relay to other outposts. The two settled into the semantics of their positions, well into the deeper night.
“What about the general?” Aaron inquired, setting down his pencil.
“What about him?” Clover asked, having déjà vu about this conversation.
“You have an existing relationship with him. We could use some of that intelligence.”
“You know it is too dangerous for it to be me.”
“Would it be?” Aaron raised his brows. “There is no way, if you were ever caught, they could discern that you are who you are.”
“Mmm. Nearly true. But you’ve heard the stories of the fucking Mother’s Lament.” Clover met his gaze and held it, unwavering. “I don’t think even I could survive what they do down there.”
The next morning, Clover slept later than she intended and descended with bleary eyes down to the shoppe to find that Dennis had already opened it up. The sun beamed in, dancing off the snow and making everything a bit too bright for her liking. Brushing her hands on her mid-length dress and moving to the counter with the schedule log. She opened in, studying what appointments would be needing to be rescheduled after the storm and what was on the agenda for the day.
“Can you change that dress in the window, Dennis? Put up the plum number that I finished last week.” She asked, clearly meant more as an instruction than as a request. As she reviewed her schedule, she munched on the lightly buttered biscuit that Dennis’ mother had sent along with him. Chloe took a number of appointments that day and in the subsequent ones due to the loss of income over the past few days that she spent with Quinn, that she had spent recruiting. Daytime was devoted to catching up on her work and she attended to it with vigor, if only to keep her mind occupied. For when her mind wandered, it drifted to where the general was now. Why had he not sent her a missive? It had been two weeks and not a word. Was she thankful for that? Was she disappointed? The emotion varied by the hour, by the minute. The seamstress sought to stay as busy as possible, and likely was taking on more work that she should. Better not to think of him.
Three weeks since her departure from the company of Sergeant Percival, Chloe found herself with her third male companion of the past few weeks. Hands tangled into her hair but there was no urgency, no predatory gleam in her partner’s eyes. His lips were dry and fumbled around hers without purpose. Each attempt to rid herself of him was serving only to ingrain his memory deeper. Clover lay in Bernard’s bed, staring at the ceiling as though her will alone could manifest the one person who could right the wrong that just occurred. Instead, Chloe rolled to her side and gave the man a sheepishly smile. He grinned back at her, smugly, because he did not know how terribly unsatisfying that was to the woman in his bed. He hasn’t purred her name against her ear as his fingers curled inside of her. He hadn’t claimed her for rapture or ruin. He hadn’t been Quinn. Fuck.
Had she not been beside Bernard, Clover would have groaned in frustration. How many nights, how many men would it take to rid herself of the ghost of his touch, the brush of his skin against hers? The meek seamstress made some excuse to slip away - knowing this beau wouldn’t mind too much at her hasty departure. He would result to multiple glasses of cheap scotch and pass out on the bed, sated. She would spend the evening on some mundane embroidery until either her fingers or her eyes begged for a respite.
Meetings with Aaron were more frequent and the first intelligence from the baker came in. It was useful, her information, in regard to the development of the military outpost in that area. They stationed a number of Omegas, but the discipline was lacking. She reported that there were now two alehouses and money was coming in as a by way, but her loyalty remained to the Resistance. The baker did not forget the deaths of her family members, the threat paid to her son. It worked well, her balancing the resistance and too much work, with the nighttime excursions to exhaust her body.
A grueling night of sewing awaited her that evening, finishing up a jacket for Captain Angiers new coat for some party of his wife’s family. She closed her schedule book, with her back to the door as Dennis flipped their sign to indicate their closure. Clover shoved the last morsel of cookie from Dennis’ gift of the day into her mouth, just as he was opening the door to depart for the day. She expected him to say his goodbyes, but instead he stammered her name and she turned, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Stormy eyes flicked from him to the man that stood behind him. The door was held open as a gentle gust of wind carried in the winter chill. Robed only in maroon velvet pants and a loose-fitting navy blouse, gooseflesh erupted across her body but it could not merely be attributed to the cold.
“General.” She breathed, nodding to Dennis that he could go, even while her eyes stayed on Quinnley Belvedere. He was not dressed in his military uniform, and she couldn’t decide if that made this harder for her. Dennis stepped away from the door, looking nervously from the man to her as he backed down the street, passing the carriage that lingered in the quiet street.
“We’ve closed for the evening, and I don’t remember having an appointment scheduled.” She leaned back on the payment counter, studying him as he hovered in the doorway. He looked better than she remembered, though clean-shaven now that he resided back in Thebes. One dark eyebrow rose above her gray eyes, studying him and hating how immediately she felt pulled towards him.
Bastard.
Quinn had never been so happy to be back at Avondale.
His extended presence, as predicted, had been required at Earl’s Crossing after the rest of the troops’ departure. With Colonel Franklin still wounded and roughly a third of the young cadets dead, the camp was in too much disarray for the general to leave it to fend for itself. Assigning new roles and establishing new protocols in the wake of the quashed rebellion took another five grueling days, and when Quinn at last returned to Thebes, all he could think about was the comforting embrace of his bed.
And the seamstress he wished was in it.
He slept long, that first night back. Bone-deep exhaustion had rendered him dead to the world for nearly fourteen straight hours, and he awoke, groggy and stiff, just before noon the next day. He dragged himself from his disappointingly empty bed and into the shower, where he scrubbed away the grime that he felt surely still clung to him despite having bathed numerous times since the battle itself. Emerging from a cloud of steam, his olive skin red and raw, he stepped up to the mirror and examined his reflection. His cuts and scrapes had mostly healed and the deepest of his bruises had faded to sickly green. The worst of it, he decided, was that he looked like a man who’d spent far too long in the mountains. The angles of his face just a little more pronounced, the skin on his lips chapped and peeling. His beard—and it certainly was that, no longer merely stubble—was thick and untamed around his jaw, the course auburn hair peppered here and there with a stray strand of silver.
The Belvedere twins had always taken after their mother Irina more so than their father. But in this state, and to his chagrin, he couldn’t ignore the traces of Marius that lurked in his face.
When he finally left the humid confines of the ensuite bathroom, he was Quinn again—clean-shaven, wavy hair slicked neatly back, a polished nobleman of Thebes and distinguished head of the Belvedere family. He smiled to himself as he dressed in his military blues, imagining what Chloe might say about his transformation. How she’d run her fingertips over the newly smooth skin of his jaw and his cheeks, followed in close succession by the brushing of her lips. Heat ignited in his core at the thought. You might be afraid by how much you want me still, even when I’m through with you, she’d said, and fuck, how right she’d been. It had barely been a week since that searing night in Earl’s Crossing, and he craved her now just as much as he had then.
Rein it in, Belvedere, he told himself. His smile faltered; there would be time to seek out his seamstress later. He fastened the silver buttons of his jacket and drew a deep breath. Quinn may have been back in Thebes, but his assignment was far from over. There would be more debriefings with the high commander, more reports, more discussions around strategy and how to tamp notions of rebellion before they could catch flame. And, he thought, a frown creasing his brow, parsing together what little we know about Clover. The one component of his mission that had been wholly unsuccessful, through no fault of his own. One couldn’t find what simply wasn’t there.
Steeling himself with a sigh, he squared his shoulders and departed his room. The high commander would be waiting for him. And while the man would surely grant Quinn some rare leniency after their triumph in the mountains, it was best not to push his luck.
————
Quinn barely set foot outside Compound’s stone walls over the next several days. When at last he stepped free of the military fortress, he found himself desperately in need of a drink.
The Speakeasie Tavern was a high-end establishment frequented by the military elite not far from the city center, halfway between Compound and the sprawling old neighborhoods where most of the high-ranking soldiers lived. To call it a tavern was a bit of a misnomer; there was no stale ale or grimy floors to be found within its old brick walls, but rather shelves upon shelves of fine, expensive spirits and lavish furnishings fit for its distinguished clientele. Bottles glittered like crystal jewelry behind the bar. Despite the electricity humming in the walls, most of the light came from flickering candles placed strategically around the room. Mirrors and mosaics reflected and refracted the flames, warming the nighttime dimness with an ethereal glow.
Quinn entered quietly through the unmarked door—there was no sign posted out front, and none was needed—yet still felt the stares of the patrons already enjoying themselves inside. Their conversations quieted as he strode to the bar, but he pretended not to notice. “Your usual, General Belvedere?” asked the barkeeper, who was a lanky older fellow who had been working there since Quinn had first come as a teenager with his father.
“Please, Mr. Harding.” Quinn smiled and eased himself onto one of the stools. The Speakeasie Tavern was an intimate locale, and most parties in attendance imbibed and conversed while lounging on the finely upholstered furniture. Few sat alone at the bar as the general did now, and it was rare that he would remain that way for long—the people here knew who he was and almost always someone would endeavor to strike up a conversation. But this time, they kept their distance. This time, something had changed.
He sipped at his drink. Even Harding seemed to be disproportionately occupying himself with the opposite end of the bar.
As a couple walked behind him, he caught the reason why. “…been calling him the Executioner,” the woman whispered as she passed, quickly hushed by the uniformed man at her side. Neither of them looked back when he turned.
The motherfucker was right, Quinn thought, shaking his head to himself at the memory of Colonel Franklin confidently telling him that everything would be different now. The Belvedere general had been intimidating before, but now…instead of simple hesitation, there was real caution. Like prey keeping an eye on a predator from a safe distance. This time, when he took another sip of his wine, he smiled against the glass. He liked it, this new reverence. It wouldn’t last, at least not to this degree. But the new feeling of power was as intoxicating as the liquid in the bottles on the shelves. And he felt more like himself than he had since…
Well, since Chloe.
He didn’t look up when someone slid onto the stool next to his at the bar. Not until that someone cleared her throat and reached out, draping a manicured finger delicately on the cuff of his uniform. Bold.
For a moment, for a second, he thought he might look up to find Chloe Paice. But, of course, it wasn’t her—she wouldn’t be here, of all places—and he felt a pang of disappointment nevertheless. The woman was beautiful; her tan skin glowed in the candlelight, and her brown eyes gleamed with interest behind a dark, blunt-cut fringe. She smiled with full, painted lips and asked in a pretty soprano, “What are you drinking, General Belvedere?”
Quinn quirked a brow. “So you know me,” he commented smoothly, swallowing the last of his cocktail and placing the empty glass on the counter, “but not well enough to know my beverage of choice?”
“Shameful, isn’t it?” she purred, leaning in closer. Quinn could smell her perfume—floral and light, like the scent on the air before one of the high commander’s springtime parties. Borderline sickly in its sweetness. “I propose we get to know each other better, then.” She extended her hand. “Reyna Masterson.”
Quinn took it gently, pressing his lips to the back of her knuckles. “Quinn Belvedere. But you apparently already knew that.”
Reyna ordered two more drinks and swiveled to face him. Her ruched black dress hugged her slender figure, which she had positioned on her stool like a muse posing for an artist—conscious of every limb, every line, every curve. “My friends told me to stay away from you. That you were…dangerous,” she said, her lower lip catching beneath her teeth. She dropped her singsong voice to a husky murmur, her gaze falling to his mouth and back again. “But I’m not afraid of you, General.”
At that, Quinn’s polite smile turned predacious, his amber eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Maybe your friends are right.” He leaned closer until his chin hovered just above her bare shoulder, and he delighted in the way she couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Maybe you should be,” he whispered in her ear. Pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, he was surprised to find a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, her languid posture suddenly a little too stiff.
He softened his expression at once, banishing the predator back into its cage and donning a charming, curated smile. Claws retracted, sharp edges smoothed.
Chloe had never shied away from him—not when his face was painted in crimson splatter, not when his navy uniform was blackened with blood, not when his eyes were wild and dark with the fever of battle. The seamstress had not only withstood the presence of his demons but had actively beckoned them from the shadows. And more, she had shown him the shape of her own.
But Reyna…she brightened as he secured his mask, relaxing as if the glimpse she’d caught had been the act, rather than the truth. She tilted her chin up, their faces close. “Come upstairs with me,” she purred, tongue running seductively along her lower lip.
Quinn thought of Chloe, how her teeth had torn at the cut on his lip. How her mouth had been painted not with lipstick, but with his blood. How he’d kissed it off her, the metallic tang exploding across his tongue.
Heat ignited within him at the memory. Reyna slid from her seat and trailed her touch down the length of his arm until her fingers clutched his. “I’ll show you how dangerous I can be,” she murmured, squeezing her manicured nails into his palm.
It was nothing, hardly a pinch against the hard-won calluses on his hand, but coupled with the prospect of danger it was enough. Enough to prove to himself, perhaps, that Chloe wasn’t the only one capable of handling his darkness. Or, more accurately, that he didn’t need it—need her—to be satisfied.
He drained the last of his drink. “Lead the way.”
————
The general needed a drink. Another drink.
Fuck. Since when had he ever needed regular consolation prizes after spending the night with a beautiful woman?
He lay in the dark, tangled in unfamiliar sheets, listening to the soft slumbering breaths of that night’s lover. After his night with Reyna Masterson shortly after his return to Thebes, he’d departed more frustrated than satisfied. The next woman had been similarly disappointing—attractive, but timid. Demure. Boring. And then the third…what had her name been? Quinn genuinely couldn’t recall. Frankly, he didn’t care to.
This night was Miss Jasmine Beech, the witty daughter of an old military captain whose career had been cut short by a debilitating injury. They’d trysted before, and he’d always been able to count on her for an entertaining, if conventional, bout between the sheets. But as he stared at the ceiling, tracing the outline of the bed’s canopy in the dark, he felt restless, not sated.
He took that as his cue to leave, which he did with all the stealth of a shadow. It was almost a relief to collapse alone into his bed at Avondale, where at least he was under no pressure to turn on the charm and soothe the egos of partners who no longer met his standards. A new bar set impossibly high by the most unlikely person. As they tended to do lately, his thoughts drifted to Chloe. He still had to make up for his pre-dawn exit from her bed in Earl’s Crossing…a bed he clearly never should have left.
Fortunately, the opportunity for just that was rapidly approaching.
————
The art world, and museums in general, were things of the distant past. When the Cold decimated modern society, so too shattered the reverence surrounding things in gilded frames or balanced on pedestals. It was difficult to prioritize art when the human race across the globe struggled just to survive. Once-treasured pieces appraised in the many millions now hung forgotten on cracked walls in drafty galleries, their frames dulled with dust, their canvases blanketed in grime, their steel and marble and resin cracked and tarnished and neglected. Some were even repurposed—only this time for firewood, or for shelter, or for desperate barter—until those, too, were lost to time and entropy.
But some pieces survived. And eventually, when the bare bones of survival gradually grew muscle and sinew and strength again, those in power resurrected the pastime of collecting fine art. Pieces of artwork became trophies of ambition and wealth; small personal galleries became the ultimate symbol of status and achievement.
The Walther collection was perhaps not the largest in the world, but it was one of the finest and most eclectic, with everything from relics of the ancient masters to the bright compositions of pre-Cold modernism. The High Commander himself held no real love or passion for art, but he was no fool; it conveyed power, it communicated a regard for finery and culture, and better yet, its inclusion of inter-continental pieces always left a profound impact on the foreign dignitaries who visited Thebes.
The gallery was no museum, at least not by any pre-Cold standard. It was relatively small, with a domed stained glass rotunda at its center and two wings to the east and west. But whatever the building had originally housed—government offices, perhaps, or academic classrooms—it had been meticulously remodeled to replicate the galleries of old. Every corner and bevel and column had been painstakingly crafted to be lavish but invisible, never detracting from the collection itself. It was an admirable feat of interior design that allowed the paintings and drawings on each wall to tell their own stories.
Of course, in spite of the craftsmanship, it was all simply ornament in service of a greater purpose. High Commander Walther used the space for special events and visitors when a ballroom wasn’t necessary, when the goal of the get-together was milling and chatting. For getting his political guests comfortable, whomever they might be—lowering their guards, sating their bellies, and getting their lips loose and liquored. Quinn had attended a handful of such parties with his parents over the years, not quite grasping the reason for the venue, and certainly never considering the art beyond its literal face value as decoration. Now, of course, he was intimately familiar with the notion of a political fête, and while he still couldn’t claim any real expertise about what hung on the gallery walls, he’d come to appreciate the collection for what it was to Northam: a powerful diplomatic tool.
But Quinn knew someone who would appreciate it for what it was, not how it was used. Not as a venue for entertainment. Not as a gamepiece to manipulate the regime’s guests, its contents ignored and faded into the background. But for how it was originally intended, to be admired and interpreted, to communicate visually to an audience who could speak its language.
Chloe, he was certain, was precisely that person. And he intended to find out if he was right.
It had been nearly a year since the museum had last been used, and longer still since Quinn had set foot inside. He was there now for a security once-over on his way back to Avondale, although he suspected he'd been sent in part to startle the staff into productivity. Still, he didn't mind the task. A spectrum of bright afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass dome, mottling the limestone floor with hazy patches of color. Around him, servants buzzed like worker bees, cleaning this and polishing that; others assembled and arranged round cocktail tables, paying the general only enough heed to salute and get back to work.
Volatile weather patterns that year had prevented many ambassadors from making overseas trips, so the high commander had conducted his business primarily via written correspondence—not ideal (especially because the high commander was not a patient man), but necessary. But an unusual early thaw across the Atlantic had allowed for a few ships to leave port that month, and the Walther regime was all too eager to play host after so long a social drought. Quinn knew there were more than a few long-pending international matters in the air, and the high commander was eager to wield his innate charms in person to seal the deals. Like any savvy leader would.
Quinn had learned of this new development and impending visit when he’d returned from Earl’s Crossing. High Commander Walther, his mood bolstered not only by Quinn’s successful (and highly public) vanquishing of a rebellion but by the prospect of striking a strategic pact with Andalusia, had spared no expense in planning their guests’ revels. In fact, there was so much to do in preparation that it was nearly impossible to complete everything in just the four weeks it would take for their guests to cross the sea.
Of course, Quinn mused, nothing the high commander requested was ever truly impossible. The man always got what he wanted.
He meandered through each of the gallery rooms and checked the doors at the ends of the wings, noting where they would need to station additional security, and paused once more in the rotunda before his departure. His lips tilted into a crooked smile as he looked back over his shoulder, peering into the largest central room just beyond where the largest and most impressive paintings decorated the walls. His smile broadened. The high commander’s gathering wasn’t until tomorrow night. By the time this evening rolled around, the gallery would be deserted as preparation efforts shifted to Compound and Wymberly…and Quinn, with both figurative and literal keys to the venue, could at last make up his sunrise departure from Earl’s Crossing to the seamstress who hadn’t left his mind since that frigid morning in the mountains.
————
Dense winter clouds hung low in the sky as the Belvedere carriage pulled up outside Rose’s storefront that night. The air was frigid but thick, and the promise of snow scented the icy breeze. Quinn approached the door to find it already partway open, the threshold darkened by the frozen silhouette of Chloe’s shop assistant. He offered the boy a nod, which only seemed to startle him, and he darted around the general as though dashing past a coiled snake.
Quinn’s gaze locked on Chloe’s as he stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. “Miss Paice,” he greeted, unable to keep a lopsided smile from his lips. Warmth radiated from behind his ribs and spread down his limbs, banishing whatever cold had crept through his clothing. The general was not dressed in uniform; indeed, he had abandoned any trace of military blue for a simple structured peacoat in jet black wool. A houndstooth scarf in charcoal and noir was coiled around his neck and tucked neatly beneath his collar.
As ever, he stood confidently before her, even as she leaned against the pay counter and declared the shop’s closure for the night. “It’s a good thing I didn’t come for an appointment, then,” he drawled casually, taking a step toward her without breaking their stare. “If the shop is closed, I will presume that to mean your evening is free.” Another step now, and he could have reached out to touch her. Instead, he kept his hands in his pockets and wet his lips with his tongue. “Because if I remember correctly, I owe you for my…hasty departure, last time. And I’ve come to repay my debt.” He lifted his chin slightly, smirking. “Our ride awaits, if you’ll agree to let me whisk you away. And you should agree.” He leaned in closer. “I think you’ll appreciate what I have in store.”
Eyebrows rose before stormy eyes narrowed suspiciously at him with an amused tick tilted up the corner of her lip. Clover stayed steadily leaning against the counter, hiding the tumultuous roil of emotions inside of her when he was within arm’s reach. Gray gaze took in the movement of his tongue and the muscles beneath the finely made shirt - foolishly not one of her own. Surprise flicked through her at the explanation for his presence in her shop. Not to fabricate a suit, a shirt, a tie.
The general was here for her.
Clover wasn’t quite certain how she should feel about the situation presented before her. The Captain’s coat flicked across her mind and the significant amount of sewing it would entail. A number of the wealthier military men had begun to request jackets reminiscent of General Belvedere’s since Maria’s wedding. The Angiers family had made their money from fruit - having been able to replicate greenhouses in order to grow fruits year round despite the nuclear Cold. The reason Chloe Paice’s reputation grew so steadily was her timely completion of elaborate garments that stunned and complimented. The idea that she might not have enough time to complete the jacket tightened a knot of worry inside of her.
Desire wrapped its slender fingers around the knot and untied, drawing her attention to the rush of breath across her skin. Clover swallowed, the idea of completing her work slipping out of her grasp. A low fiery desire flickered from the ember she carried for him the last weeks. Why was she holding such a torch for the last man she should be involved with in the entirety of Northam? Why did the sight of him send her heart galloping at a fevered pace? Why did the sound of his voice sent a shiver coursing up her spine and gooseflesh prickling down her arms? Why was she already abandoning reason to follow him to goodness knew where?
“Is this apology in the same vein as the previous one?” Clover licked her lips and pushed off her work counter, a sliver of space containing the lightning that sparked between them. She could almost hear the crackle of it as electricity exploded beneath her skin. A deep breath inhaled his scent, the familiar wisp of faint citrus brought back the whisper of his fingers against her skin. The memory of lips against hers, prying them apart to devour her, to claim her. “But I suppose I can spare a little time. Just know that this apology may require another apology in the future - for dropping in on such short notice when I have so much to get done.” The wicked smile she gave him lingered as she slipped aside, careful to brush against him just slightly.
Clover slid on her jacket, deciding that her velvet pants and blouse would have to do. Hopefully the clothing wouldn’t be necessary wherever he was taking her. The idea brought a twinkle to her eye and she led him back out of the shoppe. Rose’s was locked up tightly behind them, with a clear step leading their way back to the carriage. It was quite the carriage - different from the one that she had to hail to take her to Avondale twice before. The cushions were plush and leather. Two blankets resided on attached baskets beneath the seats and the curtains were drawn, hiding them from view the moment he closed the carriage door. Alone. Blissfully alone and in such close proximity. The general had taken the seat across from her. Silence threatened to envelope them.
Weeks of trying to strip his memory from her skin and his voice from her ears had proved so futile. Because now, when she should have strengthened her resolve, Clover slipped down the seat so her feet rested firmly on the carriage floor but one of her legs rested between his. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. It was probably the most unladylike stance a woman had taken in this carriage.
Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there had been women with skirts around their waists, straddling the man across from her. Their whimpers of pleasure muffled by the drapes as his practiced mouth brushed against their neck, nipped at their ear. The thoughts, running wild in her mind, heated her blood to near boiling. The blue of her eyes gleamed as she held his golden brown gaze. “So where are we going on this sudden and mysterious adventure, Quinn?” She whispered in the dark of the moving carriage.
“It might be,” the general drawled. His casual tone belied the sudden racing of his pulse. The smirk she wore had him mirroring with one of his own, and he made no motion to step aside as she closed the distance between them. “I will take the notion of a future apology under advisement,” he said with mock pretense, watching with gleaming eyes as her tongue darted across her lips. “Consider it noted.”
Electricity jolted through him as she brushed against his arm, startling as much as thrilling him. They stepped into the winter night, the temperature doing little to dissipate the heat that had kindled under his skin, and climbed into the waiting carriage together. In the privacy of the coach, Quinn found it much more difficult to refrain from reaching out to her…but it seemed the seamstress had the same idea and far fewer inhibitions, because she positioned her leg pointedly between his knees and leaned in close.
He responded by leaning closer in kind, eagerly giving in to her magnetic pull. In these close quarters, he could smell the spiced perfume of her hair, the sultry citrus of her skin. “Do you trust me?” he asked, although it wasn’t really a question—surely she would not have accepted his impromptu invitation if the answer was no. A grin pulled at his lips. “It’s a surprise. And it’s not much farther now.”
As the carriage rumbled toward their destination, Quinn felt strangely elated, like a jittery child the evening before Yuletide. It was a wholly different brand of excitement than the one that overtook him before a battle; it was a low-stakes, jubilant sort of anticipation that he rarely felt anymore, so entrenched was he in serious military affairs. Especially these days, after his triumph in the mountains and with all his duties as interim Chief of the Academy, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely looked forward to something. Even Maria’s wedding had been more work than play, more stress than release.
Chloe looked almost ethereal sitting across from him, her striking face framed by a handful of dark tresses that had escaped their tether. Quinn watched as her blue-gray eyes caught the brief flashes of light that filtered through the gaps in the curtains as they passed beneath the street lamps on the Avenue. It had been just over four weeks since he’d snuck from their shared bed in Earl’s Crossing, yet it felt like so much more time. They’d gone far longer stretches without seeing one another before, with no expectations ever to cross paths again, but it had never felt…like this. A little off-balance, like the horizon wasn't straight anymore.
Something had fundamentally shifted in their relationship since those unlikely nights in the mountain town. They had offered one another rare glimpses beyond their respective walls and subsequently forged a bond that went far beyond sex and pleasure. It hadn’t been intentional, at least not on Quinn’s part. Yet the most baffling thing was that it hadn’t been strange at the time; it had felt like a natural progression, a step toward the unknown that they’d taken in tandem.
He couldn’t explain why that made him so uneasy. Or how seeking out alternate companions had utterly failed to remedy the restless feeling that seemed to have taken permanent residence in his bones.
Quinn hadn’t wanted to erase Chloe with his spree of other women, but rather prove that their connection was some sort of mirage. That he was misremembering, that the experience had been colored by the excitement of battle and the stress of his duties. That someone else could fill her shoes—and his bed—with just as much aplomb, a handful of casual fucks to shake off Chloe’s white-knuckle hold of him. Because if that were true, and the nagging feeling in the back of his mind disappeared, then he wouldn’t have to face the fact that the general and the seamstress had become…what? Certainly more than casual acquaintances. Friends?
It hadn’t worked, of course. And hadn’t he known that would be the case all along? No one had Chloe Paice’s magnetic pull, her dagger-sharp wit, her alluring darkness, her skilled hands. Quinn never shied from a fight, but sitting across from the seamstress again now, it seemed pointless to fight this. He found himself almost relieved to be in her presence, as though he’d been holding his breath for a month and finally was allowed to exhale.
When they arrived, Quinn exited the carriage first and held out his hand to help her step down. The same thrill he’d felt the very first time she’d daringly touched him during the tailoring appointment washed over him now as he grasped her hand, and he held her fingers perhaps a beat longer than was necessary. Gentle snowflakes swirled on the thick breeze and caught on Chloe’s dark hair like a firmament of stars. Despite himself, he smiled. Together they ascended the granite stairs toward the entrance, and he paused between the scrolled columns to fish a ring of silver keys from his coat pocket. Swiftly he unlocked a series of deadbolts and tugged open the impossibly heavy door.
The gallery was completely dark, lit only by the faintest glow from the glass dome above the central lobby rotunda. Quinn gestured for Chloe to enter first. He slipped behind her, pulling the door firmly closed and twisting the latches of each look in turn, securing them alone inside. Then he stepped to the side panel where the fusebox was housed. With each flip of the switches, a new zone of the building was dramatically flooded with warm electric light until the entire venue was revealed for what it was: a museum filled with Northam’s finest collection of art.
The gallery had been transformed since he’d seen it earlier that day. The finishing touches from the flurry of afternoon activity had tipped the atmosphere from grand to grandiose. Plumes of evergreen foliage in carefully arranged bouquets crowned each of the cocktail tables, which themselves were draped in pristine satin cloth white as snow. Golden candelabras waited with ornate outstretched limbs for the heat of flame, and the dusty floors were now polished and glassy as a frozen mountain lake.
“I admit that admiring the collection is better in the daylight,” the general said offhandedly, sliding off his coat and scarf and folding it over a chair flanking the door. Beneath his black peacoat, he sported a fine cashmere sweater in rich forest green that somehow enhanced the warm honey tone of his gaze. A structured collar of pale heather gray peeked from the neckline as well as a sliver of cuffs at each of his wrists. Quinn Belvedere didn’t look like a general here, apart from his stature and stance; here, he could have been anyone. They could have been anyone, together.
“But I hope the artist within you can find a way to enjoy it anyway,” he finished, quirking a brow expectantly. He watched her, eyes glittering with anticipation and surety, and extended his arm to take her jacket in turn. He took the garment and draped it over his own, then stepped behind her, leaning forward over her shoulder to murmur directly in her ear. “The gallery is yours, Miss Paice,” he said, the smile worn by his lips evident in his voice. “Lead the way.”
The horses came to a stop in front of a large building that was familiar to the rebel leader. She had been here before – in a lifetime long since dead. Her mother had brought her here once, with her brother running about ahead of them. The High Commander of Northam prided himself on being able to show his generals, his ambassadors and visiting dignitaries that he was not a ruthless killer. He sought to convey some sense of depth, of promotion of fine art to those around him – even if it was a carefully fabricated façade. The rows of art that her mother had guided her by still stuck out in her memory. They were faded in some places, and others had been damaged by a fire, evident around the edges of the canvases that were in the process of being repaired. The wife of Gregoray Walther indulged her youngest child as she stared up at the bright colors and the ones that had once been vivid. Perhaps that was the beginning of the young girl’s fascination with light and shadow, with art that she would never be able to enjoy.
Until now.
Clover hesitated before ascending the steps behind her companion, staring up at the columns. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here with him. But, oh, how she wanted to walk the halls of the museum, appreciate the art in a way that she hadn’t quite managed as a child. Excitement bloomed in her chest, sending a new spark of electricity along her veins. Quinn had brought her here, alone, so that a lowly seamstress could have a taste of the elite – so that she could revel in the beauty of artists far more talented than herself.
The scene set before her was stunning and she imagined what it might be light in the late evening light, dressed in a gown of her own creation on Quinnley Belvedere’s arm. The grandiosity of the display drew her into a fantasy that surrounded her. Without realizing it, the seamstress handed over her coat to her companion, turning away from him to catch glimmer of a golden frame in the next room. So much excitement coursed through her, nearly vibrating, that she didn’t even notice his exceptional attire now that it was readily visible to her. Back to him, she wondered where to start and if this might all be a dream – another figment of her imagination that she concocted in hopes of seeing the handsome general again. Perhaps, he had merely meant to take her quickly through, before returning to Avondale. Surely, they could not wander about on their own…
His words sent a shiver speeding down her spine. Clover had dared to hope, had dared to dream the moment they entered, that she might have a chance to see the drawings, sketches, paintings that filled two of the books that Aaron had procured for her. The thought she might be able to stand before the large paintings, from eras partially lost to history, and just soak them in…
Blue eyes sparked with anticipation as her gaze moved from over the tables to the artwork that lied beyond. The elaborate table settings were bound to impress the invited guests but all the current guest could look forward to was the art. The gallery was hers. Clover felt his breath rush down her neck and savored the sensation before she reached back for him. Her hand found his, twining her slender fingers between his calloused ones. The seamstress pulled him after her, meandering through the tables to reach the first of the paintings.
The first one that they came upon, she released his hand and wrapped her arms around herself, attempting to hold in the excitement. It was one that she did not recognize from her limited art texts. No plaque hung beside it, its name and artist lost to a world that had died out before the Cold. Yellow paint splashed across blur in a vivid and violent display, on which a myriad of colors was cast to resemble fighting cocks, their beaks nearly touching. The cockfight initially expressed an intense ferocity of impending battle, but underneath – watching them carefully – it was almost like a pair of lovers – a reunion. Clover smiled before walking slowly down the long hallway. Lights illuminated the paintings she passed, taking each one in with a renewed vigor, as though she were starving, and each frame was a new flavorful bite of food.
Clover was so enthralled that she did not really notice him following a few paces behind her as the wandered around the museum. They passed multiple pieces of impressionism, of which appealed to her more than they had in a book. A stunning bridge, reminding her of the small one above the pond in the garden at Wymberly. It was cast in green with beautiful water lilies scattered beneath. Fingers longed to reach out and feel the texture of the paint beneath the pads of her thumbs. Every piece of more remarkable and thrilling than the last. Feet carried her to round the corner before she halted suddenly. She turned her eyes to the door – a storeroom it appeared. It was cracked open, from one of the servants that had likely left it during set-up. Hopeful gray eyes sparked with streaks of blue as that gaze shifted to the general behind her. His nod, complete with an amused smirk, sent a thrill coursing through her veins.
One hand pushed the door open wider to see a series of painting stacked together. They were discarded and a little dusty, clearly kept in some notion that they may be useful at some point – but that time had never come. Gingerly, the spy leafed through them until one of them caught her eye – one that she had never seen before but immediately spoke to her. It resonated deep inside of her. The ones in front of it were moved aside so that light from the hall could filter in. Undoubtedly, it was a renaissance era piece and time forgot that it was named Judith Beheading Holofernes. The characters were so lifelike, so vivid. A blonde warm, hair touched with red, stood strongly to the right. Flanked by an elderly maid, the woman was sliding a curved blade through the neck of a bearded man. Her hand held his hair, holding his head back with a grip that displayed the muscles of her arm. Blood spurted across white sheets, sparking memories of a dream she had possessed since she was a child. So many times, she had imagined sliding a knife across her father’s throat. Retribution for the murder of her mother –the abuse they suffered for years at his hand. Gaze turned stormy as she took in the man’s surprise and agony. It was so vibrant, so real, and she inhaled slowly through her nose as the emotions it brought to life inside of her. The burn of tears stung her eyes, as something about the blonde reminded her of her mother, of a life taken that was not her father’s. Not even one fell as she swallowed them down. Clover was unsure how much time passed as she stood staring at it before reason settled around her and she placed the other ones back in front.
The pair exited the storage room and the exhilaration returned as quickly as it had been taken from her by the memory of the High Commander. Clover meandered down the next hallway, before she paused and turned back to her shadow. Silver eyes searched his caramel brown gaze and his face that held an expression that she couldn’t quite place her finger on.
“Show me your favorite.” She requested suddenly, taking a step back towards him. Clover felt the heat radiating off him as she wondered how many events he had been to in this museum. How many times had he taken the artwork for granted? How many times had he snuck a woman into that very storage room? Clover grinned as she quirked up a brow.
Quinn had been in the Walther gallery often enough that whatever novelty it might’ve once possessed had long since faded, until it was just another venue in support of the high commander’s many political agendas. He no longer noticed the art in the background; the paintings on the periphery were simply fixtures in a room meant for entertainment, blotches of shape and color that may as well have been wallpaper for all the heed he paid them. The general was never there for the purpose of admiring the collection, after all. Like the gallery itself, there was always an ulterior motive.
As a boy, too old to stay home with the governess and too young yet for the Academy, he had often accompanied General Marius to functions hosted between these walls. He remembered feeling alienated then, struggling to understand the adults’ conversations, feeling too short and too young and wholly out of place despite the intensity of his desire to be one of them. When the talk got too dense or the tang of liquor became too thick a perfume in the air, Quinn had slipped away, meandering the rooms, sometimes with Maria, sometimes by himself. He’d admired the art then…or at least looked at it, even if his pre-teen self hadn’t quite appreciated what he saw. It was a way to pass the time, and to play at being one of the important men in attendance.
At Chloe’s side, however, the general experienced the collection through her fresh eyes. Satisfaction buzzed through him as she took his hand and squeezed, her excitement already palpable even though they had yet to venture beyond the rotunda. He smiled to himself and trailed after her, clasping his hands behind his back when she relinquished her grasp and stepped before the first large painting. Honey eyes glittering, he watched from a few paces away as she positioned herself directly before the canvas. Her observant eyes roved over the surface, taking in every detail, every brushstroke; she stepped farther back and then close up again, only jumping to the next piece when her survey was complete.
The seamstress’ appreciation was contagious; he found himself studying compositions he’d barely noticed before simply because she paid them heed now, doing his best to see what she detected in them that was not immediately apparent to his untrained eye. Quinn was a keenly observant man, but he had never learned to detect meanings and patterns in artwork like this; his talent lied in examining real life scenarios in three dimensions, at reading people and behaviors rather than lines and shading. Still, despite Chloe’s enthusiasm—or perhaps because of it—his gaze strayed to her as often as it did to the pieces she studied. Warmth and gratification bloomed in his chest at the awe in her expression and the soft gasps of wonder; he trailed after her like a silent shadow, happy to give her the space to revel in the collection, but just as content to observe and absorb her infectious energy.
They didn’t need to speak, not even when the seamstress stumbled upon the half-open door to the storage room in the west wing. A smirk lit up his features as if to say, I should have known you’d want to see every inch of this place, and he followed her inside. He hovered near the door as she explored the stored pieces, only able to make out the left half of the painting she seemed most transfixed by—the bare torso of a man, blood spurting from his neck as a silver blade sliced the flesh, the subject’s mouth frozen mid-scream. Quinn’s brows shot up. But if the seamstress would have turned to regard him in that moment, she would have seen that his gaze was amused, not alarmed. Had it been anyone else in Chloe’s place, he might’ve been surprised by the choice, or even concerned that she would find it upsetting. But Chloe wasn’t just any woman. She’d seen Quinn himself covered in very real blood and had not cowered. She knew he’d executed the rebels in Earl’s Crossing with his own blade, not unlike the manner depicted in oil on the expansive canvas, which was nearly as tall as her as she stood before it.
He remained statue-still and silent until the unnamed painting’s spell broke its hold on her, then held the door as she resurfaced into the golden light of the corridor. They were halfway down the hall when she abruptly whirled, mirth shining bright in her blue-gray eyes.
A crooked grin tilted his lips at the playfulness in her expression. “And what value might a soldier’s opinion hold against an artist’s?” the general queried, taking a step toward her and further closing the distance between them. The gallery was already warm—the radiators had been running a full day already, slowly bringing up the temperature in preparation for its guests—but the heat he felt from Chloe was distinct and electric. Before he could stop himself, he reached up to an escaped strand of her dark hair, twirling it gently around a curved finger. “But if you insist…” He trailed his touch featherlight down the length of her arm until their hands met, and he snaked his fingers between hers. “It’s right this way.”
He led her a handful of rooms down, the second from the last gallery on the right. An eclectic mix of two-dimensional work hung suspended on silver cables from a picture rail around the perimeter of the room, but Quinn brought Chloe before a stepped plaster pedestal near the center of the space. Upon it was a brass sculpture, abstract but decidedly anthropomorphic, posed on two legs as if frozen mid-stride.
As with the rest of the collection, it was unlabeled, its creator and title lost to time. It was more tarnished than he remembered, but the undulating metal figure was as captivating to him now as it had been when he’d first set eyes on it as a boy. The vague suggestion of a human form was comprised of juxtaposing round and sharp edges, with twisting planes that resembled muscle and bone in an oddly threatening sort of way, as though it couldn’t decide whether it was forming or disintegrating. He would never pretend to understand it intellectually, but the fact that it was a sculpture occupying space in three dimensions made a specific kind of sense to him more so than any of the flat pieces hanging on the walls. With its braced stance and the elegant curves that suggested movement and power, the piece evoked a bodily kinesthesia that was easy for the honed warrior that was Quinn Belvedere to relate to.
“I’ve spent a decent amount of time in these galleries throughout my life,” he said after several moments of silence, releasing Chloe’s hand to stride to the opposite side of the sculpture. “Most guests spend their time on the perimeter, and they walk past the sculptures without seeing them, even if they’re right in the middle of their path. I never understood why or how.” He met Chloe’s gaze across one of the legs, gold meeting silver. “They were always the most interesting to me.”
Quinn spent a moment longer tracing its dynamic lines with his eyes before he addressed his guest again, his expression contemplative. “What do you think?” he asked. “What draws you to a piece, Miss Paice, and why might you disregard one in favor of another?” The general stepped around nearer to her, where a large painting of deep blue hues provided a lush, hazy backdrop. Electricity thrummed in the air between them. “What’s more important,” he wondered, dropping his voice, “the meaning the artist intended, or the one the onlooker takes away?”
Clover was oblivious to his careful observation of her reactions to the artwork before her. For once, the spy completely relaxed her guard and reveled in an experience she never truly dreamed that she would have. Surrounded by the sheer talent of artists long dead, a sense of calm slipped over her like a blanket. She picked apart the brushstrokes and the sweeps of color. The careful placement of shadow and streams of light. She learned and critiqued and appreciated every single one, even when they didn’t quite speak to her style of art. The seamstress appreciated the human form, the movement in limbs and use of color in contrast with plain backgrounds. However, she had never dabbled in impressionist art herself - limited by the tools available to her. Perhaps, if she managed to sell another Maria-level dress then she might indulge in some paints.
“You are generous to call me an artist, Quinnley.” She was careful to avoid the name she muttered in the night. Something about the intimacy of Quinn would send her mind to places that it shouldn’t go. Yet, he seemed to already take her there, trailing his finger down her arm before taking her hand. Heat blazed up her arm, making a straight path to the pit of her stomach. Clover took some of the art in as he led her along to statues and sculptures. The pedestal in front of which he stopped did not surprise her, once she had a moment to examine it fully. The powerful stride of the figure, an amalgamation of human movement cast in brass. Someone kept it well tended, making the motion of the piece all the more alluring. The woman’s mind wondered to what the figure strode toward with such interest - surely the artist could not have imagined the hell this world would become. But perhaps he had, perhaps he sought to show humanity racing towards their own demise.
The thought made her lip curl as she turned to him, meeting his molten gaze. Suddenly, the gallery around them grew hazy and she focused on the human artwork before her - the man sculpted from marble and brought to life like an Adonis of old. Clover gave him a slow once over as he rounded close to her again. The warmth of his body was devastatingly distracting until he spoke to her again. “A philosophizing warrior.” A lascivious smile danced across her lips with her teasing words. “You never fail to surprise me, General, just when I think that I have you figured out.” The memory of his confession their last night in bed, after an explosive evening she would never forget, resurfaced in her mind. A need to press herself to him nearly overwhelmed her, a deep longing to feel him moving against her.
“Isn’t that the beauty of art though?” She whispered, as though someone might stumble upon them in the empty museum. Hypnotic golden eyes drew her in, a slow step to close more of the distance separating them. Clover inhaled his scent, the fresh scent of his fresh afternoon shower and aftershave. She licked her lips, leaving them damp and glistening. Being here, in this wholly unique place with him…a peaceful feeling rushed across her that was as comforting as it was terrifying.
“It doesn’t really matter. Neither is wrong. Neither is right. Whatever the artist intended dies with them and whatever the onlooker surmises is their own. Both the artist and the critic draw something from the piece, something that stays with them if it resonates deeply enough.” She turned from him then, breaking the spell that he was weaving around her. Blue eyes glimmered at the piece behind them. The deep navy, the color of midnight, spoke to her, so surrounded by a beautiful gradient of blues. It was often how she felt, this darkness in a pretty casing. The blues, mixed so artfully together stirred a memory she had forgotten…suppressed?
A beautiful pale blue piece with soft pastel pink clouds. Wymberly. It had hung in her bedroom, hand selected by her mother. It was an impressionist piece - hanging above her twin bed. It surprised her that such an abstract one before her would stir her recollections. Yes, the mental image of her childhood bedroom flooded back, nearly dragging her under with its forceful current. An ethereal bridge spanned the sea, promising to carry her to a magical land beyond the compound, to a place where her mother’s skin wouldn’t bruise and her brother would always laugh. Clover hadn’t thought of that bridge, that imaginary place in the sky, since Rose had begun her training. Fairytales were for children and the disillusioned wealthy - not for rebels, not for spies.
Clover wandered through the room, trying to shake the hold that childhood memory had on her. It took a few moments of examining diverse pieces before she shed it like a second skin. It wouldn’t do to dwell. They were both dead. Entering the final room, she paused at the threshold. The spy turned back towards her companion, wondering if the space between them would be maintained. Cold hands brushed against her velvet pants, before slipping into their pockets. “How many women have you brought to the museum?” The question escaped with an amused tilt to her mouth and her head cocked to the side, dark strands brushing her cheek as they had escaped their confines. The implied question hovered beneath words - how many lovers did you devote this time to?
It wasn’t jealousy or malice that brokered the question. No, she needed to know if he bestowed these sorts of gifts with all his affairs. Because if he didn’t…if he didn’t, then this outing was far more dangerous than she had imagined it would be. Not merely for his more obvious interest in her happiness, but because it made her happy. It made her exhilaratingly happy, to be here, with him, alone. To share this with him, without someone who cared about and remembered her interests. Who inquired and asked and longed to know. The sense of danger prickled her neck and yet she craved it. She wanted it.
Alone. Here. With him.
Chloe’s eyes looked more blue than silver against the velvet navy of the painting behind her, and as she spoke they flashed with a passion and wisdom that belied her youth. Her words were a whisper, as if they were not the only two souls in the entire museum. A shiver raced down Quinn’s spine. The softness of her response made the room feel small and intimate, compressing its broad walls and lowering its vaulted ceilings. He took another step closer to her on instinct, reeled in by the caress of her voice.
“So it’s all at odds, then,” the general commented, his baritone a low hum. “If all that matters to the artist is what they put in to their work, and all that matters to the viewer is what they take away…it seems like a recipe for crossed wires. Why send a message you’re sure will be mistranslated? Why display a piece at all?” He pursed his lips, following her gaze to the dark blue abstract painting on the wall nearest them. She turned toward it then, angling away from him, and for a moment he thought she would reply to his (frankly uneducated) musings. But the breath she took was simply a sigh, and he was met instead with a calm silence, punctuated only by the distant whistle and creak of a steam radiator in the next room.
The seamstress stepped to the neighboring work in the quiet, and he trailed after her leisurely to allow her the space to observe. Watching her again, something was different about the way she inspected the next few paintings—it was as though she looked more through them than at them, and Quinn realized she likely hadn’t even heard or registered what he’d said a few moments ago. Her sudden preoccupation made him curious even as it was laced with a simultaneous pang of concern. But no sooner had he recognized her state than she seemed to snap out of it again, rounding on him as they made their way into the final gallery room of the wing.
Her question caught him off guard, and his lips curled into a suggestive smirk. He stepped up to her and leaned forward enough that she had to angle her chin upward to maintain their eye contact. “How many women?” he drawled, his shoulders shaking gently with a chuckle. “Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Who can keep track?”
He grinned as he took a few steps into the gallery, putting distance between them again, then paused. The painting to his right was small in scale compared to many of the oversized works scattered throughout the gallery, but its modest size did not make it any less impactful. A brow arched high on the general’s forehead as he hovered before its smooth canvas. A man and a woman embraced, locked forever in a kiss, but that wasn’t what made it different or remarkable. No, these subjects’ heads were fully hooded in white cloth, concealing their identities—from the viewer, yes, but also from each other—which struck a strangely resonant chord within Quinn that he couldn’t explain right away. Was it about fear? Or lies? Or perhaps insecurity, and the inability of the couple to doff their public façades in one another’s presence. Veils or shrouds, maybe it didn’t matter; they could just as easily have been the hoods they used in the bowels of the Mother’s Lament, or on the firing squad line.
The general’s glance strayed to Chloe, whose face was soft but unreadable as her gaze flicked from the painting to him and back. Already they had seen more of one another without their proverbial masks than the unfortunate figures in the painting could ever claim. A wave of strange uneasiness washed through him like the ripple of a raindrop on a lake before a deluge…not unpleasant, but nevertheless disruptive. Once again he sensed the bond they’d forged in Earl’s Crossing stretch taut, the tension settling deep in his gut. It felt like the anticipation before those rare summer storms, knowing it would be equal parts beautiful, powerful, and destructive when at last the thunder broke. Quinn looked at the painting again as if it might help him to decipher the electric restlessness under his skin, but the blinded couple simply embraced one another, sightless and unmoving, unaware of his (or even each other’s) disquietude.
“It takes a very particular type of person to appreciate this place, whose eyes light up instead of glass over when they step through the doors,” he said at last, closing their distance. “And in my experience, that’s a rare breed.” He gave in to her magnetic pull and snaked his arms around her waist. Electricity crackled to life between them, the shockwave kicking his pulse into a rapid cadence. He held her against him, eyes narrowing as he studied her expression. Now it was Quinn’s turn to whisper. “So the real answer, Miss Paice, is just the one. But a whole fucking museum’s worth of one.”
Clover used every fiber of self control to not arch into him. Chin tilted and she felt his warm breath rush across her face, leaving a trail of gooseflesh along her neck and beneath the long sleeves of her shirt as it traveled downward. The response made her grin and her tense muscles uncoiled. It was in jest but part of it must be true - take a woman to the museum, to the opera - feign interest to get laid and leave it at that. It wasn’t just all for her, this interest, this display. Quinn wanted something from her in exchange and that made the outing easier for the seamstress to swallow. Fuck, thank god. The revelation pushed down the flicker of brief disappointment that there had been others because it was far more convenient, it was far better that he use such tactics on his conquests. She was nothing special.
Stormy eyes followed him, confident in their relationship once more, as he paused before a painting she could not quite see. For a long moment she watched him, instead of taking the additional steps to bring the artwork into view. The stillness that settled over him brought with it a tension she had felt before. Clover took two steps closer and cast her gaze between the painting and her companion. The art was a punch to her gut the moment she took it in. Years of training allowed her to keep her expression carefully unreadable but a torrent of emotions flooded through her. It had the same intense flood that the one from the storage room did. She searched all its facets with knowing eyes.
The shrouds they wore - a portent of impending death, she wondered absently- kept the lovers’ faces hidden from each other. In much the same fashion that she kept her identity a secret from the man beside her. Despite their intimacies, he would never truly see her for all that she was - leader, rebel. A chill washed over her like a cold winter shower and she felt the uneasiness attempt to creep back in - despite his reassurance that there had been hundreds of women before her. Searching eyes roved over the scene and Clover did not like the way it made her feel, not knowing his next words would make a wholly new unwanted emotion settled over her.
The spy turned towards him as he closed their distance. Heat radiated off of him despite the warmth of the room. Arm snaked around her with a reassuring pressure that she hadn’t yet realized she was missing. Clover sank into him, melting against his body and the familiarity of it soothed the anxiety that was twisting itself around her like her family’s sigil. Desire sought to replace the unease before he finished speaking and everything ground to a halt in her mind. Just one. Just one. Just her. He had done all of this, risked a reprimand and the ire of the High Commander, for her. Surprise flicked across her face as she look at him. Eyes swirled with a hurricane of emotions, twining between grays and blues as she held his golden gaze.
The comfort she took in being one of many women shattered like glass and the feeling she feared most slipped through her veins. Pleasure. She was pleased, she had wanted to be the only one. She wanted this to be theirs and theirs alone and it frightened her to know it was true, that there was something more developing between them than a convenient fuck. So many protests rose in her mind and she knew, she knew in her bones that she should push him away. It was time to end it because with his admission they had both crossed into dangerous territory. She needed to shake herself of this desire, this need to decipher him and be devoured by him. A myriad of witty words died on her tongue as she brought her mouth to his. Clover kissed him until her lungs burned for air and her hands had found their way between his sweater and his shirt. She kissed him until fire burned through her blood and her mind was free of its emotional turmoil.
Clover drew back with a ragged breath, but only enough to breathe. “Why just one, Quinn?” Their swollen slips brushed as she spoke. What made this - her - special? What made her blood sing in his presence and electricity race beneath her skin? What made him revel in her darkness, instead of cower from it? She should have asked him if he planned to fuck her yet or not. She should have laughed and twisted from his arms to finish her tour of the museum. She should have stopped while she was ahead but she didn’t want to. She wanted to be precisely here and nowhere else. Clover leaned back slightly to search his face.
A hand escaped from beneath his sweater and moved up his chest to rest, gently, against his neck. Fingers brushed against the curls in their perfectly untidy mess. She stared at his face, searching it and finding him there. The mask he wore, like the veils in the painting, had lifted and she felt that surge inside of her at finding that kindred spirit. Her own fell away, leaving her bare before him with the remnants of her true happiness at being brought to the museum lingering on her face. The pain from some of the paintings, the joy from others all danced across her features to culminate with a wicked little grin that didn’t quite reach her questioning eyes.
Perhaps it was the influence of the painting before which they stood, but for the second time that evening, it occurred to him that they could have been anyone. Quinn, finely dressed though he was, was not in uniform and clad in green. And Chloe, although in finely crafted garments of her own making, had been whisked away wearing her workday attire. They could have been any couple enjoying a stolen moment in a deserted gallery—no infamous family names, no ranks, no differences in station. Veils of a different sort over their faces, only it was the outside world alone who saw the mask.
A startled look flitted across her face like a flash of lightning at his confession that she had been the only woman he’d ever brought to the gallery. He arched a brow in mild amusement, a little surprised at her surprise. But he couldn’t read the other expressions that churned in her stormy gaze—was it discomfort? Resentment? Appreciation? As if reading his thoughts, she answered his uncertainty with a bruising kiss that he returned with sudden desperate, greedy abandon. His callused hands wandered from the top of her back to the curve of her backside, where his touch ascended again and slipped beneath the hem of her shirt to find the warm skin of her waist. His galloping pulse skipped a beat.
There was something different in this kiss. It was deep, and it was voracious, and it stoked the searing flames of his desire as high as the brush of her lips always managed to do. But the seamstress and the general weren’t in the shadowy confines of a locked bedroom. They weren’t ripping off one another’s clothing (despite their hungry, wandering hands). It wasn’t simply a roaring prelude to an earth-shattering fuck, not this time. It was familiarity, it was gratitude, it was…comfort. Unapologetic. Natural. The world seemed to spin faster around them at the same time that everything became perfectly still, like something was settling into place. This was what he wanted. This was where he’d longed to be every minute he’d wasted in the beds of other women.
Quinn drew a heady breath when they pulled apart, his golden eyes molten with desire and more. The faintest hint of a smirk alighted on the seamstress’ lips, although it didn’t quite touch her silver-blue eyes. Her hand against his neck was surprisingly tender, and he pressed into it as the heat of their exhales mingled. His pulse drummed steadily against her fingertips. “Because you are unlike any other,” he heard himself say, the words tumbling out in a husky murmur before he could compose them. “Because I wanted to.” A pause, gaze sliding from her eyes to her swollen mouth. “Because I promised to figure you out,” he continued, leaning closer until their lips brushed as he spoke, “and I’ve only just gotten started.” He closed the gap then and kissed her slowly, almost teasingly, until the distant peal of a clocktower caused him to surface for another breath.
As the bell sang its twelve chimes in slow succession, Quinn studied her, struck suddenly by the openness of her expression…and his own, in turn. The general’s stare intensified. “I told my driver to expect us at midnight,” he said at last. Disappointment settled in his gut at the prospect of their evening ending, of parting ways again, and he dropped his arms to his sides to take both her hands in his. He squeezed her slender fingers with perhaps a little more force than necessary, as if physically holding onto her might prolong their time together. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t take your time in wandering back.”
His words made her heart soar and she tried to catch it before it had gone too far. Yet it flew beyond the grasp of her reason with each syllable that filled the scant space between them. And his kiss was devastating, as she twisted her hands into the fabric of his shirt. Clover craved more of him in a way she hadn’t experienced before. Usually it was a flurry of clothing, a frantic ache she had to satisfy. Now it was a lingering desire to feel close to him. To a person that almost saw her for what she was and wanted her anyways. Someone who longed to make her smile with small acts of rebellion against strict Northam society.
And just like a fairytale, the clock struck midnight and shattered their little bubble. Clover slid her hands free from between the articles of clothing he wore. She searched his face and wondered if he saw her disappointment at the end of their adventure together. “I think you know by now that I enjoy taking my time.” A wicked little grin curled her mouth once more and this time it gleamed in her stormy eyes. She pressed her lips to his in a fleeting brush that barely satisfied all the emotions churning inside of her. The seamstress relinquished her hold on one of his hands. She wound a meandering path back to the entrance, pausing to take in different works and sometimes to just glance back at him over her shoulder.
Their arrival to the door is unceremonious. She donned her outerwear when he handed it to her before putting his own back on. They entered the carriage and assumed the same seats that they had before, with Clover sliding close to him. Their legs pressed together and she savored the warmth of his body against hers. Dark eyes smoldered dangerously as she met his gaze, holding it steady as she wondered how she had ended up here. How had she ended up escorted on a private tour of the museum by the rising star of Northam, the most eligible bachelor in the entire country? How had she, a spy for the rebellion, become so entangled with her enemy? She studied him intently as the carriage moved along in the dead of night, escorting them to her shoppe.
Clover worried over what she was feeling now, over what his words now seemed to mean to her. How had she let it progress this far? How had she let herself fall so hopelessly into his orbit? Studying his brown eyes, she didn’t push down the cauldron of feelings that bubbled inside of her. She pieces through them as she studied him and knew that this had to end here, soon. They could not go on like this, not with who she was and who he would undoubtedly become. Already she had heard the rumors of the Executioner garnering more of the High Commander’s favor. The whispers circled that without a clear heir, Quinnley Belvedere looked the best for the position. The succession would be assured, with someone as ruthless and cunning as the man across from her. Fear whipped through her at the thought that she may have to kill him, or have him killed. After all, the Rebellion couldn’t survive if he took over - there was only so much time, so much effort that it’s people had left to give.
Shaking the thought, the warmth of the museum came back to her and banished the dark thoughts when the carriage came to a sudden stop. The street was quite and dimly lit beyond the closed carriage curtains. Clover leaned back but made no move to exit and the driver did not come to open the door. A slight amused smile crossed her features, knowing that his driver must be well-versed in what he might interrupt should he open the door.
“So are you going to come inside?” She asked, raising her eyebrows slightly. After all her mind had just mulled over, she threw it into a roaring fire of desire. The flames consumed her worry and hesitation, leaving an ache low in her stomach. She wanted him in a way she hadn’t before. She wanted to be wrapped in his arms again - head on his chest - as they discussed art until they fell asleep. “Or are you going to run off again?”
They wound their way through the remainder of the gallery at a leisurely pace. Quinn trailed after her from a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back. But despite his reassurances that his driver would wait, that the seamstress could take her time, the deadline of their impending departure loomed like winter storm clouds on the horizon. He inwardly cursed the tolling bell’s announcement of midnight, irritated that its chime had broken their reverie. Until that point, time hadn’t really existed. It was just the two of them in the empty museum, the only two people in the world; there were no duties or due dates, no obligations, no expectations.
But the real world never waited for anyone, not even a highly-favored brigadier general. They arrived back to the rotunda all too soon and donned their coats, bracing for the wintry chill that greeted them beyond the limestone walls. Quinn turned off the lights and carefully locked each of the mechanisms on the door, and together they descended the snow-dusted staircase to the waiting carriage below. Inside, they settled together like puzzle pieces; Chloe’s knees brushed his as he slid in opposite her, and he moved his legs closer, ensuring as much physical contact as possible. Despite the layers they wore, and despite the relatively chaste nature of their touching, heat wicked up Quinn’s skin to settle deep in his core—a searing warmth, one that scalded not just with desire, but with something else. Something unidentifiable.
He met her gaze, dark and silvery in the shadows, and held it steadily as they rumbled back toward the seamstress’ shoppe. Who are you, Chloe Paice? the general thought, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally as he studied her. He’d promised to figure her out, yet he felt no closer now than he had in Earl’s Crossing. But how could he be expected to understand the enigmatic seamstress when he couldn’t even parse what was happening with himself? That peculiar sensation of restlessness hadn’t let him go since their time together in the mountains. Sure, he’d distracted himself—with work and with other women—but to no avail. Sitting across from her now after their spontaneous reunion, it was even more obvious that the feeling was connected to Chloe. And bafflingly, she seemed to amplify and soothe it at once.
They came to a gentle stop outside the seamstress’ shoppe. Quinn said nothing for a long moment, thoughts whirling like the snowflakes on the breeze. Chloe spoke first.
“As much as that would please me—and I have no doubt that it would,” he began, voice low and sultry as his eyes gleamed with want in the dim light, “I believe I’ve stolen enough of your time tonight.” Before he could stop himself, he reached forward, clasping her hands in his own. He pulled her towards him until their faces were just inches apart. “But I look forward to making it up to you,” came his murmur as he angled his chin and tightened their distance. Their lips brushed, featherlight. “Again.” He punctuated his statement with a kiss, hungry and wanting. Fingers moving on their own accord tangled in the back of her hair, the bun releasing its tenuous hold on her tresses and allowing the dark strands to tumble free.
When the need for air finally forced them apart, Quinn had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from escalating their encounter. He opened the door abruptly, a shock of wintry air doing little to combat the heat that had ignited beneath his skin, and escorted her the handful of steps to the shoppe’s front door while the driver pretended not to see them. “Good night, Miss Paice. I’ll be thinking of you,” he said with perfect, gentlemanly politeness. But the smile he offered her was positively devilish. “Until next time.”
Before he could change his mind and follow her inside—and oh Christ, how he wanted to—he returned to the carriage and signaled the driver to depart. Alone in the confines of the cab, he heaved an exasperated sigh. What had he gotten himself into? And what was even more confounding, he felt somehow right in his decision not to follow Chloe inside. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her—if the last few months had taught him anything, it was that he never didn’t want her—but something felt different about this night. He hadn’t taken her to the museum so she would fuck him. He’d wanted her to see the art not because he was after some kind of carnal reward, but because he knew she’d appreciate the galleries as an artist herself. And it had been within his power to do just that. So why wouldn’t he share it with perhaps one of the few women in Thebes who could get something out of it?
Shit.
So it wasn’t just about the sex anymore. But one thing he did know, with absolute certainty, was that Chloe Paice was a tide he was foolish to fight against. Quinn was caught in her riptide, treading water while her current whisked him away from the beach, and he could no longer see the lights of the shoreline across the waves. But in spite of this hold she had over him, her depths—dark and fathomless though they were—called to him with a far stronger voice than the security of land. Because the darkness there found an echo in his own. The whisper of danger, the murmurations of demons hidden away in the shadows, it all spoke to him on a level so primal and intimate that it seemed to come from somewhere within himself rather than without.
A strange disorientation swirled behind his brow, deep in his skull, as the carriage returned to Avondale. Once again, that feeling of being off-balance struck him like a blow. He settled back in his seat with his arms crossed defensively across his chest, staring into the empty space across from him where Chloe had sat just minutes ago. What had she done to him? Or, perhaps more to the point, how had he allowed her to burrow so far under his skin? She was like a drug. He’d had his taste of her—a wicked grin tugged at his lips at the thought—but like any addictive substance, ever since that first high, he’d wanted, needed, to experience that rush again. The ecstasy of the pleasures she wrought. Her fearlessness despite his rank and station. The heat of her boldness that had drawn him in from the very start.
Impassioned images flashed through his mind—of satin flesh and heady moans and unadulterated pleasure. But still, the evening’s new realization that it wasn’t just sex he craved was bewildering. Stubbornly, he tamped the notion down and shifted his gaze petulantly out the carriage window, watching as the approaching glow of the Belvedere manor twinkled behind the swirling snow.
The driver pulled to the side of the house, and Quinn didn’t wait for the man to open the door before he burst from the confines of the carriage, suddenly claustrophobic. It was just past two in the morning by his watch, but he was wide awake. The warmth of the interior when he went inside was almost too hot, and he shrugged off his coat in the entryway before any of the overnight staff greeted him. He retreated to his bedroom and gazed out the half-frosted windows. Fluffy snowflakes had transitioned to a fine, shimmering dust as the clouds glided west, and he watched as it slowly came to a stop, leaving a layer of glitter on the lawn in its wake.
A flare of orange light glinting in the window glass as a piece of kindling snapped in the fireplace. Quinn took that as his cue to close the curtains, and with a sigh he began to prepare for bed. And even as he lay there awake in the dark, he couldn’t help but feel like when he inevitably woke up in the morning, it would be to an altogether different dawn.
The pleasure he alluded to was one that she had already begun to explore inside her mind. It was foolish to invite him inside, but the seamstress couldn’t help herself - especially after the gift he had just given her. Clover did not feel as though she had to reward him in any way, to give a gift because she received one. No - she wanted to show her gratitude to him in a way that she knew would convey the true appreciation that she had for their museum excursion. Thoughts scattered as he refused her with a brush of his lips. The young woman pushed down the disappointment that welled up and instead kissed him back.
Heat coursed through her when he released her hair and she hoped, briefly, that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Unfortunately, Clover was not so lucky. The cold winter air helped banish the desire burning inside of her and she entered her shoppe with the devilish smile held in her mind. Bastard. She thought, smiling to herself. The spy was surprising energetic, given the hour. She longed to sketch what she had seen, to commit some of the art to paper on her own within the leather confines of the book the general had given her. If she had been the type, Clover might have spun around on her toes, smiling to herself after such an evening. She might have imagined herself with the man’s last name and what their children might look like.
But she was a rebel and there was no room for such frivolities – on extravagant, private museum tours with a handsome man following her around.
Clover settled down at her workbench, with coppery thread selected for embroidering a military jacket. A smile played her lips as she worked, the branches of a tree ascending the sleeves. There would be a silver snake twining with the copper once she completed it. She had already hemmed the sleeve to the appropriate length and established the right position for the buttons. She often finished each step bilaterally, but tonight she was eager to embroider and would focus on one arm at a time. She kept loping the beautiful thread over and over and over again. The spy kept smiling as she worked, mind wandering to more pleasant matters. Often having to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like a lovesick fool. What was Quinn doing to her?
Somewhere, sometime amongst the threads and the daydreams (midnight fantasies?), Clover fell asleep. She awoke to Dennis opening the door. The seamstress lifted her head, thread sticking to her cheek. She pulled it away and rubbed at her face, giving an annoyed noise at the intrusion.
“Late night?” Dennis inquired, limping over to her, and depositing fresh biscuits which immediately smelled like cinnamon and apples.
“Very. Trying to finish Captain Angiers jacket and I think it bested me.” Rubbing at her eyes again, Clover unwrapped the biscuit and began tearing pieces apart. The flavor exploded and she was so, so glad for the meal if only to keep herself from cursing when she realized that she had wiped off the chalk marks on the hem for the left sleeve. It kept her from releasing every single curse that she knew. A groan was released through a mouthful of food, and she brought the fabric to her eyes to see what was clearly not there. Fucking Fucking Fucking Fuck. Well, this was going to go very poorly today. She should have known better than to indulge in personal affairs when there was work to be done. Dennis sensed her distress and looked over the piece before her.
“The work is brilliant,” he murmured, fingering the fabric, and running his thumb across the snake in silver.
“Brilliant but unfinished.” She conceded, finishing the biscuit, and wiping her hands on her pants to clean them. She scrubbed them firmly on a towel behind her to make sure all residue was removed before she tossed the unhemmed, incomplete arm towards her protégé.
“When’s it due?”
“Today.”
“Hmmm.” The hum consisted of the boy’s unspoken concern.
“Well, the event is in 4 days, so I could finish it tonight and have it over to him, but he will be terribly displeased. But I must check his measurements again. Terrible mistake.”
“It won’t be that bad. You’ll finish on time.” He attempted to boost her confidence.
Dennis failed in his attempt, and the knot of worry wound itself all the tighter inside of her throughout the day. Clover packaged up the perfectly made pants, made sure the plain white shirt was pressed and pristinely folded. However, she gentle folded the jacket, knowing that it was horribly unfinished. After completing her appointments for the day, the young woman wrapped the completed items in her usual thick parchment, tying it with a golden ribbon edged in navy. For the jacket, she wrapped it but did not tie it, as she would be required to bring it home once more to complete the embroidery and adjustment of the sleeve and buttons.
The entire walk to the Captain’s home – it was in the merchant district as he was no so wealthy or important as a certain general – she chastised herself for the foolishness that she had engaged in the night prior. It was sheer folly that she had agreed to go to the museum with Quinnley Belvedere. It had put her behind on her work, it had put her position at risk and it certainly did nothing but fan the flames of the errant fire that burned inside of her for him.
A comely maid escorted the seamstress to the Captain’s quarters. Intelligent stormy eyes flicked to the maid’s wrist and noticed the pale brown splotches encircled there. It was a bruise that had nearly healed – nearly. Clover set her jaw momentarily, before Chloe’s better judgement crept in. Hair was purposely unkempt, strands framing and blocking her face. Outfitted in pale and unflattering shades of brown and cream, the woman held no appeal to man of her customers in this state. She made certain to be an unattractive as possible – bent, cowering…it still did not deter them all.
The captain came in loudly discussing matters with his attendant, beginning to undress without any instruction from the seamstress standing quietly in the corner. Clover set to work quickly as they spoke, confirming the perfect taper of the pants that he had slipped on. She made certain to retrieve one of the belts from the man’s wardrobe and slid it through the loops. Most of her patrons appreciated when she selected their outfit entirely – from head to toe.
The conversation died and the attendant left on some command that was not pertinent to Clover’s task – both as a rebel and as a seamstress. However, the man’s face changed when the saw the unfinished sleeve.
“It is incomplete.” It was statement and not an incorrect one. He immediately began to disrobe. He worked with that strict military precision. The jacket was laid out carefully, then the shirt and finally the pants with the belt beside it all.
“The markings I made appeared to have you sleeves at different lengths,” she lied, “and I remembered very vividly that your statue and form were quite symmetrical – leading me to believe I had made an error.” Perhaps a compliment would help, she thought – willing to trying.
It did not.
Clover could have ducked but Chloe didn’t have that king of extensive training and reflexes. The movement would have drawn too much attention, would have made him question her even further. His hand made firm, brutal contact with the side of her face. She heard a crack at the moment of impact and managed to think it was the sound of skin against skin sounding like a thunderclap. But perhaps it was the joints in her neck, cracking viciously and angrily. Head whipped to the other side and stars danced across her vision. Bright, sparking flicks of light against black. It would have been beautiful if the pain behind the strike didn’t bloom inside her mouth again along the side of her face. Before she had time to right herself, the opposite hand performed the same motion, catching her lower lip between her own teeth as she sought to take a staggering breath. A coppery tang exploded across her tongue and lips. From experience, the seamstress knew there would be another blow. It connected swiftly with her gut and brought her to her knees on the old and faded carpet of the captain’s quarters. Trying to reach out with her hands to support herself, she was yanked upward suddenly. Rough hands, adorned with the ring that split her lip, jerked her head back.
“Peasant filth. If you ever fail me again…”
“Of course not, captain.” She muttered in a shaking voice and not entirely without a bit of true fear. There was a plethora of courses the rest of this appointment could take, and she worried for them all - except the one that occurred. A loud rap on the door and a man entered without being beckoned. Chloe kept her eyes downcast as her head was released immediately. She purposefully pretended to look for a fallen needle. It wouldn’t do for servants of any kind to gossip about her. Gossip was attention and attention was dangerous. Bringing a trembling finger being the fall of dark hair, she brushed at her lip that was already beginning to swell. Blood stained her finger, and she wiped it on her brown skirt to hide it. With the captain distracted by matters of business, the seamstress slowly got to her feet and gathered her belongings. The man appeared to be completely disinterested in her. The captain was deep in conversation, and she showed herself out, without a carriage waiting for her. Bastard. Fucking Northam bastard.
The trek back to the shoppe was laborious and painful. On multiple occasions she had to stop to catch her breath. Once, she slipped her hand beneath her jacket to palpate the area and knew it would bruise deeply and that there was likely a cracked rib. The cold air chilled her lips and licking them did nothing but worsen the discomfort. Just when the rebel feared she could walk no more, her street came into view and she sighed in relief. Clover left a trail of items in her wake from the shoppe door to the edge of her bed. A smear of mud on her stoop but she ignored it and its meaning – mostly. With what little strength she had, the seamstress clothed the mannequin in the window in a purple gown. She saw his summons but could not presently attend. The walk would be the death of her, if she had to make it.
The wounded woman crawled into the sheets of her bed, knowing that they would stain with her blood, and curled around herself like a child. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she could not find a position that would permit her peace. Her ribs were broken on the right side, cheek bruised on the left and her lip split on the right. The muscles of her neck protested after having been so forcefully pulled back. Just when she thought she’d leap from the window to make it stop, the pain finally overcome it all and the seamstress slid into sleep.
Two days passed, one with the shoppe closed so she could finish the fucker’s suit and the other to make up for the appointments she had rescheduled. Dennis hand delivered the cursed suit in time for the captain’s event. The next day she rose, stiffly, and kept a few appointments. Chloe made polite excuses that she had fallen down the stairs, carrying fabric. No one probed the excuse, despite the fact that the bruises were remarkably hand-shaped. The pain sometimes made it hard to remember the joy of the museum - the colors, the art, the beauty - and the feel of his arms, holding her. Each minute that passed, she was glad that he was not here. Quinnley Belvedere and his irresistible pull were dangerous, terribly perilous for the spy. She needed him to have grown tired of her. She needed him to stay away for the both of them because she feared she was not strong enough to do it herself.
Fuck it.
She would have to end it if he sought to continue it. She would need to. She couldn’t end up in situations like this one, battered and weak – unable to complete the duties that befitted the leader to the Rebellion. Dennis, who had clearly been giving her some of his food when he brought it from his mother, had stepped up in the past two days and was the only reason that she had some revenue coming in – especially since the captain had sent a missive with his displeasure.
For full payment, products should be remitted in the timeline described.
The payment was only a third of what they had agreed upon. It barely paid for the supplies and certainly did not cover her time. It certainly would not cover any poultices that an injured woman might procure – even though Clover would not spend her money on such frivolities. Her body would heal itself.
“Do you need anything else? Can I help you with anything?” Dennis asked, seeming to stand taller than he had before her injuries. This was, after all, the first time that he had truly seen some of the displeasure of a patron displayed on his mentor. Normally, the higher-ranking officials strategically placed their abuse where the seamstress could easily hide it beneath skirts and sleeves and hair. Captain Angiers was not so prudent.
Clover slid from her stool more abruptly than intended and inhaled sharply. That only increased the pain in her ribs, a large bruise curling around her body from her bellybutton up to just below her breast. The bruises on her face were deep now, purple and angry. Her split lip was finally able to tolerate salt but protested any movement of her lips upward.
“No, thank you, Dennis. Your work on Jessica Placart’s handkerchief was exceptional. Your embroidery has improved immensely.”
The mentee blushed, still somewhat boyish in his mannerism. “Thank you.”
“Go on now, I am sure there’s someone at the small market night that is waiting for you.” She smiled, knowing that the teen had a young woman he was interested in. The boy shook his head but disappeared through the door. Market Night happened once every other month – a lift on the curfew that most citizens of Northam were required to obey. (This clearly did not extend to the brothels, card houses and events that the higher echelons of Northam enjoyed). She did not move to lock the door behind him when he left. No one else would be visiting her, with the revelries of the market so soon at hand. That is why she was surprised, having bent down beneath her counter, to hear the bell at the door. Tucking dark hair behind her ear, Clover stood and inhaled in surprise, despite herself – causing her to attempt to suppress a wince.
Quinn woke the next morning just as the first blush of dawn dappled the lingering clouds.
Sunrise came late this time of year, but he had still only been asleep for a handful of hours. He’d barely blinked the sleep from his eyes and already he knew he was in for an exhausting day.
His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. They would be entertaining the visiting ambassadors today, with the high commander putting on his best show for Northam’s distinguished guests—tours of the sparkling Wymberly grounds, a brief parade through polished Compound, and a casual jaunt through Thebes’ most distinguished old neighborhoods. Culminating, of course, in an evening of drinks and culture in the Walther art gallery.
Something twisted in his gut like a pulled muscle at the thought of the museum. Returning there, especially without Chloe, would be a wholly different experience now that she’d opened his eyes to the collection’s artistic merits, and tainted its halls with her presence. In the handful of hours they’d spent there together, it had cemented itself in his mind as belonging to them; it seemed wrong, somehow, to have to go back to what it was before. Because now it was more than just a venue. It was a place of real reverence, of history, and even privilege. Even with all the tables draped in pristine white cloth, even with the arrangements of greenery in crystal vases, even when the throngs of people began to meander its rooms with gin-flushed faces and hors d’oeuvres, it would still be a sanctuary he’d strolled through at midnight with a woman who understood.
Understood him.
He grunted to himself and rubbed his eyes until colored static speckled his vision. A few hours of restless slumber had evidently not been enough to quell the attachment he felt to the seamstress, and he couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t have woken up alone if he’d accepted Chloe’s offer to follow her inside her shoppe last night. But in the blooming light of day, his feelings didn’t seem quite so dramatic. So what if they had become more than just two people who were great in bed together? Unlikely though it was, there were no laws prohibiting friendship between a general and a civilian of trade. Unusual, sure. But as Chloe herself well knew, Quinn Belvedere was a man who liked to push boundaries, and frankly he didn’t care what anyone else might think. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-ranking militiaman frequented the bedchambers of a woman below his station.
A pang of excitement fluttered in his gut. He couldn’t think of any reason why they couldn’t simply carry on.
Feeling a little more settled, he threw the covers back and rose to his feet with a shuddering stretch. Late night or no, he had a full day ahead of him. Long, but casual; entertaining important visitors was nothing new for the general. The real hard work—the political talks and negotiations—would begin tomorrow with the governor from the Carib Territories, Northam’s multi-island annex in the warmer seas to their south, as well as an ambassador from Andalusia.
It was Quinn’s understanding that Andalusia was interested in negotiating trade for sugarcane grown on the islands, one of the few places left in the world with a suitable climate to cultivate the crop en masse. It was an innocuous enough objective for the two foreign parties, but Quinn knew the High Commander was, as ever, plotting to win a game the other participants weren’t even aware they were playing. The Carib Territories could not bargain with a foreign power without Northam, their sovereign force. And any deal the territories struck with Andalusia would come with an added bonus for Northam’s cargo ships: a guarantee of smooth passage to the Mediterranean Sea through the Strait, which Andalusia kept tightly controlled. An undisputed boon for commerce…and, perhaps more pointedly, for munitions trade and military might.
A huge potential gain was riding on the coming week’s performance. For today, at least, all he had to do was charm Northam’s guests.
And he’d never had trouble with that.
—————
The event at the Walther museum was a triumph—a masterclass in charm and luxury, in demonstrating power and influence by show of prosperity rather than force. The high commander was in top form, clearly reveling in the opportunity to flaunt generosity and charm after so long a social drought. And Quinn, whose violent performance in Earl’s Crossing was now common knowledge, had earned a heightened status of celebrity amongst the elite guests. The sidelong glances and blatant looks of caution and reverence were not so different to the ones given to the high commander himself. It was a whole new type of attention, and one Quinn found himself soaking up like he might the rays of golden sunshine on a warm summer’s afternoon.
The general hadn’t been the only one to notice the public’s shift in attitude, either. High Commander Walther, hazel eyes glittering in the lamplight, sidled up to Quinn with a knowing smirk tilting his lips. “You are proud of yourself,” the man murmured during a rare moment the two were unbothered by chatty guests. It wasn’t a question. Despite himself, Quinn’s mouth gave in to a smile. “You’ve earned their admiration, Quinnley,” the high commander continued silkily. “Such a pity your father isn’t here to witness your triumph. I’m certain Marius would have been proud.”
Quinn took a sip of his drink as he inwardly bristled, his good mood suddenly tainted by his dead father’s name on the high commander’s tongue. A flood of mixed emotions rushed through him at once, and he almost laughed. But the expression of casual confidence he’d been wearing all night did not falter. “Thank you, sir,” he said instead, dipping his chin just slightly with a deference he didn’t actually feel.
“I knew him well, and for many years,” the high commander went on. His gaze, which had previously been scanning the flushed faces of his buzzing guests, shifted suddenly to meet Quinn’s. “I suppose I shall just have to be proud in his place. Well done, Quinnley.” The dictator reached up and clapped Quinn on the shoulder, a gesture that was disturbingly paternalistic, before stepping away to converse with the Andalusian ambassador and his wife.
Quinn rolled his shoulders back to shake away the sensation of the high commander’s touch. Proud in his place. His drink tasted bitter now, and he wanted to laugh again. He didn’t, of course; he dissolved back into the crowd, all charming smiles and self-assuredness, and tried his best to shake away the phantom of his father’s memory.
—————
As it turned out, they hadn’t required a full week of negotiation meetings to reach an agreement. The governor of the Carib Territories and the Andalusian ambassador shook hands just three days later, sealing a deal that met both parties’ expectations…and satisfied High Commander Walther most of all.
“Set up a luncheon with the Terrils for next week,” the high commander instructed one of his lackeys, a tall but wide-eyed recent graduate of the Academy who had been blessed—or perhaps cursed—with a position of internship to manage the man’s schedules at Compound. He turned to Quinn and General Mandeville, who hovered together near the conference hall doors as the others filed out. “I should like the two of you to attend,” he said, his beaming smile darkening a little.
Quinn recognized the raw ambition in the man’s look, predatory and dangerous. This was a major windfall for the regime. They’d gained far more than just a healthy income from exporting their sugarcane—they’d essentially just won exclusive rights to use the Strait to the Mediterranean, where other nations would be prohibitively taxed or outright denied passage. Which meant that regardless of other commercial goods, they could keep open a steady stream of munitions and military supplies coming in and going out, from as far as their ships could reach around the globe—because access to the Mediterranean meant access to the Meridian Channel through Sahafrica, a shortcut to the Eastern Continents.
It was, frankly, strategic genius.
They left Compound early that evening and headed straight for a celebratory dinner that the High Commander had manage to arrange on incredibly short notice. They all parted ways for the night with full bellies and a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction, including Quinn, who felt (rightfully) that he’d played a significant role in their successes. Another personal victory.
He returned to Avondale, both relieved and disappointed to be alone, and sipped at a glass of dessert wine before the fire in his study. He’d shed his formal military blues in favor of a pair of deep charcoal lounge pants, over which was tied an exquisite housecoat of warm black fleece with rich burgundy lapels that cut like twin blades down his torso. Loosened by wine and emboldened by achievement, his thoughts strayed—not for the first time that day—to Chloe Paice. He imagined her face in the flames, the flash of her eyes and the sharp line of her jaw, and wondered if she’d be impressed. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt a genuine yearning to share all his good news with someone who might…might what? he asked himself, scoffing a little into his glass of sherry.
Someone who might care.
It was a foolish and juvenile thought, and he knew it as soon as the notion occurred. There were plenty of people who cared. An entire regime and its powerful leader, in fact. Quinn had never been one to need validation; it was more that he wanted someone to be interested.
And he wanted that person to be Chloe. But, of course, he couldn’t tell her any of it. His rank (and favor with the high commander) often granted him access to highly classified military information that he could never share with any subordinate, much less a civilian woman. A grunt of frustration reverberated low in his chest. Bond or friendship or whatever it was they shared, he could never recount such classified things with her. And where, he wondered, was the line anyway, even if the rules said he could? Just because she hadn’t shown fear of him thus far wasn’t a guarantee that she wouldn’t.
His monsters may have found a playmate, but they still had fangs and claws.
Weariness crept up on him like a shadow, and he finished his sherry with a sigh. As soon as the ambassadors made their departure later that week, he decided, he would go see Chloe again. Because even if he couldn’t divulge everything he might want to, she was still the balm to an ache he hadn’t realized was plaguing him.
—————
That now-familiar ache in his gut managed to deepen the closer Quinn got to Chloe’s shoppe. The horse beneath him, one of his favorite mares, was a blaze of dappled silver against the snow as he traversed the road into Thebes and made his way to the Avenue.
The street was more or less deserted. It was getting late, and most of the businesses along the thoroughfare had long since shuttered to attend the neighborhood’s famed Market Night. But the glow of the seamstress’ storefront beckoned in the darkness like a beacon ahead, and Quinn nudged his horse to an urgent trot until he stopped in the swath of golden light. He tied the steed to the hitching post and stepped inside, the gentle tinkle of a bell announcing his arrival to a silent room.
The general was in uniform again this time, but he wore the regalia casually; the high collar was unfastened at the neck, and he’d rolled up his navy sleeves such that the white cuffs of his undershirt were visible at his wrists when he removed his gloves. His hair was casually disheveled from the wind of his ride, a few wild waves tumbling forward to brush against his brow. A soldier off-duty, who hadn’t bothered to waste the time coiffing before the mirror—and yet still he made quite the dashing portrait, wearing dishevelment like couture. He stood with his usual easy confidence, hands clasped behind his back just inside the door, and surveyed the empty shoppe interior.
But it wasn’t empty. He stepped up, catching sight of dark hair crouched behind the counter, a smile already lighting up his face before the seamstress even rose.
A smile that quickly fell when Chloe stood.
Concern struck him like a gale of icy wind, and his whole body went rigid. The soft yet striking face that looked back at him with surprise was marred with deep, violent bruises that mottled her cheekbones and bloomed around her eye. The split in her lip was a harsh burgundy slash across the pink of her too-swollen mouth, and the hesitant way in which she straightened her back suggested more pain that wasn’t so easily seen.
In the blink of an eye, the general was on the other side of the counter. “Tell me what happened,” he charged, the evenness of his tone belied by the flicker of conflicting emotion in his brown eyes. He tucked a curved finger beneath her chin, gently tilting her face upward and toward the light. Up close, her injuries looked even more severe. Worry warred with a sudden spike of fury as he met her steely-blue gaze. “Where else are you hurt?”
Quinn was a soldier; he knew how to identify patterns of injury from all manner of sources. And this…he knew what this was. He also knew better than to think someone bold enough to leave a visible mark would have left it at that. His gaze swept from her battered face to her feet and back again in assessment, searing anger heating his blood and gleaming dangerously in his eyes. He reached out again, tracing a featherlight finger down the length of her arm. But an electric tension had seized him, his whole body buzzing with wrath barely contained.
He moved in close, close enough to see the storm churning in the depths of her stare, to breathe in the spiced perfume of her hair, to feel the heat radiating from her skin. And when he spoke this time, he made no attempt to leash the monster he was, the monster she'd seen. The three simple words were a feral, urgent growl.
“Who did this?”
Clover took him in, drinking in the sight of him as thought she was not battered and bruised, but rather parched and in need of relief. The pain dwindled in her ribs and a comforting heat blossomed inside of her as she took him in. The casual way he wore his uniform betrayed how long he had donned it, demonstrated the way he had been brought up in a strict military family. He wore it like a second skin and despite the fact that she loathed everything about her father’s regime – she felt a thrill at seeing him in it. Quinnley Belvedere would look good in anything – and nothing.
The general was more than observant. He was a man familiar with the wounds she had sustained, and she tried to hide her face from him – knowing that the gesture was futile. His body brought with it a slight chill, the cold still clinging to him after his ride to her door. Clover said nothing as he tilted her chin upwards and let his gleaming gaze survey her wounded flesh. It was pointless to attempt to hide it from him now and yet, she longed to recoil into herself. For some inane reason, the rebel felt embarrassment coursing through her. He thought her weak now, unable to defend herself and the monster she kept hidden roared against that. The only thing she could do, was stand straight before him and meet his eyes boldly.
The emotion in his gaze was not pity. It was worry. He surveyed her further and she was thankful that he didn’t brush his fingers along her side. That brush was perhaps the worst of them all. The skin had been abraded, leaving a rash over the black of the bruise that covered her pale abdomen. As he stepped closer, the seamstress maintained her ground. Emotions swirled in her hurricane eyes – dark blues of pain, white hot fury at the idea he’d think her weak, and the soft pale gray of wanting to find solace in his arms.
The emotion was jarring then, that she wanted to bury herself in him and hide. Clover had never shied from anything that benefited the rebellion. This was her life’s mission and there was only bravery in the face of what would ultimately end in her death at a young age. However, something about his concern and his presence was suddenly made her want to collapse into him and let fall the façade of the strong woman. She was, there was no doubt, but she desperately wanted to finally – for once – let someone take care of her. And the only person she wanted to do that was Quinnley Belvedere.
A deep rumble passed between them as he held her gaze. The threat in his voice made her tremble, not for herself but for what it implied. Tell me their name and I will rid their world of them. His darkness called to hers with the sweetest of endearments, the most beautiful promise. The demon she kept caged inside of her pressed on its confines, bringing the captain’s name of her tongue. Yet, the seamstress held back. She didn’t need the general fighting her battles for her. And she certainly did not need the most eligible bachelor in Northam bringing her to any sort of attention with his retribution. The familiar lie of falling down the stairs came to her tongue next, but he was not stupid. He saw the print of Captain Angiers’ hand across her face, the lip that had split beneath his ring.
“No one you need to concern yourself with.” The words were intended to be strong, powerful – a statement to end the discussion. Instead, it came softly. She raised her hand to his arm that touched her chin so gently. She placed it around his forearm, partially grazing the skin of his wrist. “I do not need you to fight my battles for me, general.” She breathed. So close, she could smell the lingering vetiver scent of his soap – his cologne. Clover longed to feel his lips on hers, to have his arms wrap around her and cradle her until all the pain melted. Every bit of resolve she had just been considering before his arrival melted away.
A part of her reveled in the death that burned hot in his eyes, drawing forth the part of her own monster that had imagined separating Captain Angiers from his manhood before his head from his body. Chloe – unfortunately – was not permitted such things and Clover could not have such attention brought upon her, despite her taste for his blood to spill. Gray eyes flicked over his face. “Quinn…”
His name on Chloe’s tongue was hardly more than a breath, but the tone in which she’d uttered it startled him just as much as the sight of her battered face. It was a plea, or a warning—soft, but insistent. To call him off. To stop the barrage of questions that verged on spilling from his mouth. To guide him back through the haze of the violence she could plainly see in his eyes. Her hand reached up for his forearm, and when her fingers grazed the bare flesh of his wrist, he thought surely she could feel the thrum of wrath that danced like electricity beneath his skin. It was as though she could read his thoughts. What he wanted to do was tear out of the shoppe and find the scum who had done this to her, to twist a blade in his gut and see which would take him first, exsanguination or the winter night.
For a moment, a fleeting second, he considered it. He was a man of action, after all. But there were too many bastards in Thebes to know who might have been the one to lay a hand on the seamstress. Without her offering up a name, it would be a fool’s errand even for a bloodhound like Quinn Belvedere. He drew in a deep, slow breath and lowered his arm, hands clenching into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax. “Very well,” he conceded at last, his gaze softening a little as he took in her wounded appearance. He swallowed. Forcing his darkness back into its cage was a battle in and of itself, but he tried, for the seamstress’ sake, to tamp his anger down.
He had no doubt Chloe was capable of fighting her own battles. But beyond the obvious seduction of violence and revenge, Quinn suddenly realized that part of his ire—however irrational—was that he hadn’t been there to stop it or prevent it. That the world and its cruelties, from which he had been mostly exempt as a high-born military man, was an inescapable reality for those with less-privileged bloodlines. Growing up with a sister had kept his eyes open to many challenges Northam women faced, but he also recognized that Maria’s experience was a lot different from Chloe’s. Short of the general following the seamstress around like a personal bodyguard, he felt powerless to protect her, and that only added fuel to his fire. The potential for abuse was something she would fight for the rest of her life. And hadn’t he already seen evidence of that, spelled out in hand-shaped bruises on her arm in Earl’s Crossing?
White hot rage shot through him again like a bolt of lightning. Quinn would find Chloe’s attacker, and he would make him pay. At the very least, it would mean one less shithead in Thebes painting bruises on defenseless women.
The general cleared his throat, finding it a little easier to breathe now that he had vowed to himself to find revenge—delaying his fury rather than futilely trying to be rid of it. But with the blaze of his anger relegated to embers, his concern rose to the surface and settled heavy in his chest as he searched Chloe’s gaze.
Without saying a word, he stepped back around the counter and clicked the lock on the shoppe door, glancing back to Chloe with a look caught somewhere between worry and determination. “Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured as he slid the additional deadbolt in place. In any other circumstance, those words might have ignited their desire, and they might not have made it upstairs before they’d shed their clothing and given in to passion right there on the table. But with the apprehension in Quinn’s golden eyes, and the swirl of pain and emotion in Chloe’s, there was no mistaking his meaning. And no arguing with him.
He followed the seamstress to the second floor flat and escorted her to the rumpled bed in the corner. With a furrowed brow he watched how she carried herself as she moved, noting the change in her gait, the way she kept her back straight, the change in the angle of her shoulders—the same small tells he’d learned to read in wounded soldiers. “Tell me what you need,” he implored. He glanced around the small space before his gaze settled intensely on the seamstress. The bruises gave her sharp face a hollow appearance in the low light, like shadows across bone, and his throat tightened once more with indignation. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it. I’ll do it.”
Clover could see the war of emotions in his eyes, that streak of violence that refused to be permanently quelled. She waited for him to acquiesce and brows furrowed when he moved to the door. The click of the locks smoothed the wrinkles creasing her forehead. Without much further thought to the fabric left on the counter, draped slightly over her open ledger, the seamstress moved stiffly up the stairs to her loft, unlocked the door and permitted him entrance. If it was any other time, she might have been somewhat embarrassed to allow him to see her meager possessions. Instead, she just wanted to sit down and take a big breath. She could only do one of those things at the moment.
She leaned against the small wall that led into the small offshoot that contained her bed. She longed to sit on the mattress but hesitated as he took in her living space. With his discovery of her injuries, she no longer felt the need to hide and proceeded to delicately wrap her slender fingers around her middle to apply a gentle pressure along her ribs. The bruise was tender but the pressure helped her ribs as she took a slow, agonizing breath. It would take weeks before she would feel normal again, but hopefully only two before it wouldn’t be so painful to just exist. The concern etched across his face would have made her smile amusedly at him under other circumstances. Instead, the only manner of deflection she had at the moment was to tease him - halfhearted though it was.
“I need quite a few things.” She murmured, raising one eyebrow suggestively. It was on the side that Captain Angiers hadn’t cracked her cheek and the eye wasn’t bruised there. Clover let one side of her mouth tick up but was careful to avoid the split in her lip. With careful purpose, she moved to sit down on the edge of her twin-sized bed. It creaked beneath her just as a black shape emerged from beneath the bed, having sought refuge there when Quinn first spoke after entering the loft. The feline cast a wary, very annoyed glance, at the man standing in the other area of her home. Normally, the cat would purr and chatter at her mother but today she was silent and prowling, almost protectively across Clover’s lap.
The beast’s arrival interrupted what she was prepared to say and instead she lifted her hand and scratched along the black fur. “This is Kara.” As if on command, a meow was emitted before the cat stalked over to hesitantly to sniff at the generals boots. “She’s not overly fond of my gentleman suitors.” Clover explained when Kara weaved through his feet without touching them, sniffing and examining as she went. Forgetting, momentarily, she shifted her weight and fought to prevent a sharp inhale against the pain - breathing made it so much worse.
“Back to your offer,” the seamstress began, “I’d settle for you brushing my hair.” She gave a very fleeting exhale of a laugh. “I can’t raise my arm high enough to brush it on one side and poor Dennis was so embarrassed yesterday that I didn’t have the heart to ask him about it today.” She cast her eyes over to the counter where a very old horsehair brush rested. The wood in the handle was cracking and she had clearly attempted to repair it with some form of wood adhesive. The small chair by the window, next to her little table caught a bit of the fading light and illuminated the open page of her sketchbook on which was the scene below them on the street. A man held a carriage door open for his female companion, drawn very precisely on the parchment. It was as if she had watched their museum excursion from above.
“And then perhaps cutting my a slice of that bread over there.” She tilted her chin towards a further spot on the counter. “And we’ll make a servant out of you yet with all the work I could give you.” Again, the side of her mouth crept up where normally she would have smiled and laughed.
A fluid shadow crept from beneath the seamstress’ bed. A pair of wide yellow eyes regarded him with suspicion from its protective position across Chloe’s legs, its long tail flicking with agitation as Quinn looked on with surprise. “Nice to meet you, Kara,” he said, looking down as the cat wove careful figure-eights around his ankles. She sniffed at his boots, whiskers twitching, and he remained statue-still, partially because he didn’t want to frighten the creature and partially because he didn’t know how else to react. “I remember seeing you in your mother’s drawings,” he remarked to the feline, recalling Chloe’s graphite renderings from the first time he’d thumbed through her sketchbook…preceding the electric first night they’d spent together. “I hope we can reach some kind of understanding, at least.”
The cat ignored him, choosing to focus on the silver aglets crimped at the ends of his leather laces. He glanced up to the seamstress, who was watching the interaction with amusement, but he saw pain flicker across her expression as she shifted positions. Rage flashed in his gaze all over again, but he kept it in check. Surprise replaced its fiery gleam instead when she voiced her request. He felt suddenly and inexplicably awkward—like he took up too much space in the seamstress’ modest quarters—and it was a sensation to which he was wholly unaccustomed. Quinn Belvedere was never awkward. He was exact. Purposeful. Confident. Yet faced with the prospect of brushing Chloe’s hair, the mighty Northam general felt strangely…humbled.
He moved to where she gestured and retrieved the brush, but her open sketchbook—the fine one he’d commissioned for her, he noted with satisfaction—caught his eye in the sliver of lamplight that spilled through a gap in the curtains. He couldn’t resist stepping closer. A small chuckle rumbled in his chest as he took in the scene on the page. Us, Quinn thought, the single word igniting a pleasant warmth behind his ribs. The composition was as expertly done as the others she’d shared with him all that time ago, with deep velvet shadows and sweeping gradients of texture and value. He looked to Chloe, one brow arched, a knowing smile on his lips. “Such hopeless sketches,” he said, although the intensity of his tone suggested it was anything but. The fact that she’d considered the moment memorable enough—meaningful enough—to devote a page of her book left him feeling quite satisfied with himself. “I’m glad you’re following my careful instructions.”
Quinn’s smile broadened as he crossed the room, and he bent down before her until their faces were level. “A servant, you say?” he whispered haughtily, tilting his chin. A slow inhale brought the familiar perfume of spice and citrus that he savored, and his golden eyes glinted with something like mischief, but softer. “What is a general but a servant of Northam?” With the utmost control, he brushed his lips featherlight against hers—so delicate it was barely a kiss—and then he was standing again, unbuttoning his navy uniform jacket and shrugging it from his shoulders. He draped it over the end of the bed and lowered himself next to her on the mattress, setting the brush down next to her and reaching down to unlace his boots. The cat watched from a distance, wide gaze fixed predatorily on the moving laces.
“Don’t move,” he instructed Chloe in a murmur that might have been sexy in another context, in an instance when the world hadn’t left her bruised and battered. He swung his legs up on the bed and tucked his feet beneath him, positioning himself directly behind her. To anyone else, the gentleness with which he reached up to touch her hair might have been at odds with his muscled physique and reputation as a fighter. But Quinn Belvedere knew it wasn’t simply strength that made a warrior; it was control, it was precision. His fingers combed through the dark tresses, gathering the strands that had tumbled over her shoulders and bringing them all to the back.
Warm callused fingertips grazed the nape of her neck and lingered a beat longer than necessary, tracing over the peaks of her spine. It was fortunate she couldn’t see his face, which bore a hybrid expression of sympathy, affection, and boyish trepidation. They had seen every inch of one another, knew the intricacies of one another’s bodies and how to make the other writhe in ecstasy, yet the simple act of brushing Chloe’s hair now was a new kind of intimacy that prompted his stomach to flutter. The general picked up the brush. The instrument felt small in his palm, and its age was clear; the handle was rough with splinters and hardened glue, and its bristles were thin. Still, he brought it up to perform his task. He started at the mildly tangled ends as he’d seen his sister Maria do a thousand times, working through the little snarls before moving upward.
“You have beautiful hair,” the general murmured in her ear, leaning in close as he ran the brush unimpeded down the full length of the detangled waves. He set the brush down and used his fingers again, savoring the feel of the silken strands as he crafted a loose, slightly uneven, but acceptable plait. He held the braid over her shoulder for her to take, but not before pressing a fleeting kiss to her neck. “I can only assume a seamstress of your caliber would have something suitable to secure this with,” he jested, a bright smirk lighting his features as he eased off the mattress and rose to his feet to fetch her requested bread.
He handed her a plate with two slices, his smirk turning to a sheepish smile. “Maria taught me to braid hair when we were kids. Turns out it comes in handy with rope and leather, too,” he said. His demeanor shifted then, concern resurfacing to darken his gaze. “Now, are you going to tell me where else you’re hurt?” he prompted. His brows arched, his attention shifting pointedly to her torso and back again, having seen how she tried not to move or twist her upper body. “I still want to know what happened.” His voice was thick but restrained. “Did he kick you too?”
“She’s much more difficult to please than I am.” Clover thought back to the way he flipped through her sketchbook before drawing her the night that they first met. A warmth that wasn’t fully of desire slid through her veins and she closed her eyes momentarily as if to better discern the source of the sensation. It lingered after the heat of the memory slipped away, the residue of an unnamed emotion. “But she quite enjoys leftover fish, if there ever happen to be any scrapes from Avondale.” The corner of her mouth kicked up as he settled in front of her. The thought of hopeless sketches twisted that unfamiliar feeling inside of her, which she attempted to stamp down unsuccessfully. The featherlight brush of his lips sent a shiver down her spine before she released a soft laugh. “I don’t think that’s a common saying concerning the military, general.” Eyes twinkled blue with amusement.
The feel of his fingers gathering her hair together was a type of comfort she hadn’t experienced since Rose’s death. The original shoppe’s owner had been an exacting woman but she had also been kind. When a stomach flu plagued Clover, the woman held back her hair and whispered softly to her. Quinn’s work was precise if a little tentative. She felt the weight of her messy locks lift as he slowly worked his way upwards. The seamstress knew that if given the opportunity to close her eyes, she might fall asleep right then and there. The soft whisper in her ear made her smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Thankfully, he could not see the expression. She wondered, immediately, if he would like her hair if it was it’s natural color…
Clover forbade the thought from going any further. She had not seen her natural blonde hair in… nearly fifteen years. It was distinctly like her mothers and Rose insisted she dye it once she began to resemble the High Commander’s dead wife. With her good hand, the spy took the plait and stood to retrieve a velvet ribbon - made from the scrapes of Penelope Declare’s winter gown two years prior. She wrapped it around her hair and secured it as best as she could. “You did a marvelous job. My jealousy is pleased to know that Maria taught you this skill and not some other lover.” Clover tried to remain light because if it grew more intimate…if that budding emotion strengthened….
Hesitant hands took the bread and held the plate between them. She looked at it- a few days old and probably close to molding but still edible. Gaze grew stormy, dark and distant while her mind carried her to the blows the other man had made against her. She knew, without looking, the darkness at the corner of his eyes. Uncertainty slipped into her mind, but she wondered - or hoped- that he would leave it alone if only she showed him the extent of it. It was a fool’s hope, but it was…it would be nice to show someone, to share her pain with someone. Clover turned, at her hips and not her waist, to set the plate with the untouched bread on the corner of her bed.
Slowly, the wounded seamstress released the buttons of her shirt with her good hand. It was frustratingly slow before she came upon the last one and tugged it out of her bottoms. She let it hang open, revealing the darkness hiding beneath just slightly. Clover made no move to extricate herself from the garment. “Who said it was a he?” She gave him a bit of a grin and the tactic to gather information - though it was a fair assessment. Men tended towards this type of violence more than her female clients - though she had been struck by a woman more times than she could count on both hands. “This is the only other place….” The fingers of her hand in the opposite side hovered over the visible part of the bruise but didn’t touch the mottled skin.
“But I can handle myself, Quinn, even if I struggle to brush my own hair at the moment.” The firmness of her voice brokered no argument and she didn’t want to dwell on the man with the remake suit. She just wanted Quinn and quiet and comfort. She wanted to be weak for just a brief breath. Blue eyes flicked across his face as he took her in before she turned away to retrieve a piece of the bread he had brought her. She picked it to pieces and ate a little, careful to avoid her split lip and to chew slowly. It clearly pained her in the muscles on both sides to move in that manner. The stale bread would have been much better fresh, soft and warm. Rebels write not afforded such luxuries.
“Now what did you come all the way here for, general?”
Time seemed to still as their gazes locked, gold and silver in the low light. Though the bread plate still hovered between them for the moment, Quinn could feel the warmth of her proximity like the steady heat of a fire. It was a different sort of heat than the blaze of desire he’d come to associate with being near Chloe; this was like a beacon of comfort in the cold, flames on a hearth as winter’s frigid breath howled beyond the walls. The muscle in his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth together. He fought the urge to reach out to her, not yet knowing the extent of her injuries, and he feared that her wordlessness at his question meant she would refuse to respond. He wasn’t sure he could bear the thought of her keeping it all bottled up, tucked behind a mask that didn’t quite conceal the pain in her eyes…
But then she twisted stiffly and deposited the plate on the corner of the bed. The general kept his face carefully schooled as Chloe reached up to the buttons on her shirt, as though any movement or reaction might make her change her mind, like a startled deer fleeing into the safety of the shadows. In any other circumstance, he would have gladly helped her undress; in fact, he might have delighted in the sound of the buttons skittering across the floor as he ripped them from their threads. Instead, he watched motionless as she painstakingly released the fasteners with her good hand.
She tugged the hem from her waistband, exposing a sliver of her battered torso to the cool air. The gentle heat he felt just moments ago exploded in a searing flash, but it was fury, not lust, that burned anew beneath his skin. He could see that it was not just shadows that darkened her flesh. Slowly, the steadiness of his hands belying the tumult of rage toiling within, he pulled open the unfastened shirt to reveal the extent of the assault. Anger sparked like lightning in his gaze as he took in the expansive bruising along her ribcage; purples and blues ravaged her skin, as deep and violent as the marks on her face.
Not even her small, teasing grin could crack the seriousness in Quinn’s expression as he followed her fingers to the tender spot she indicated on her opposite side. He withdrew his touch from her shirt, the material fluttering closed. As if sensing exactly what vengeful thoughts were flitting through his mind, she reasserted herself, tone firm. I can handle myself, Quinn. He swallowed, wishing he could believe her. She would have been a lot more convincing if her body wasn’t painted with bruises. If she didn’t fight a wince at every movement. You might be able to handle yourself, he desperately wanted to say, to shout, but you don’t have to. Not anymore. But he knew that she would never reveal her attacker’s name, whether it was due to her stubborn pride, or a real fear of what Quinn might do to the perpetrator. He would have to get it some other way…
With a slow, controlled exhale, the general tucked away those thoughts for later. There was nothing he could do until he had a name, and right now, Chloe was his priority. Most of the darkness faded slightly from his gaze, and he reached out to the panels of her open shirt again, tracing the seams with his callused fingertips. He hadn’t uttered a word as she’d revealed her injuries, and when he finally broke his silence, his voice was a murmur. “Do you have something you can change into that doesn’t require the effort of buttons?” he asked gently. “A dressing gown?”
He watched as the seamstress carefully chewed and swallowed the bread. For all his efforts to harness the monster that dwelled within, it had gotten its taste of freedom that night already and scented the promise of blood. A vicious thought crashed through his mind as Chloe struggled to eat: I will fucking kill you, whoever you are, and I will enjoy watching the light fade out of your eyes.
Quinn forced his fists to unclench at his sides. Thankfully, her next question gave him something else to focus on. “I came here for you,” the general responded simply, as though he couldn’t believe she would ask something so obvious. “Because I wanted to see you.” He studied her a moment longer from his current distance, then moved closer, one slow stride at a time. She was near enough to kiss now if he were to incline his head, but he kept himself still. “Because I missed you,” he continued quietly, reaching up with his fingertips to tuck a strand of hair he’d missed behind her ear. His touch traced a jagged line down the braid draped over her shoulder. “You know, I’m usually the one doing the tangling,” Quinn teased, fingering the velvet ribbon as though he might pull it free and undo his hard work. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable,” he said. A more relaxed smile had finally appeared on his lips, and it sharpened into a smirk. “And then you’re going to let me take you to bed.”
