[astro] It's a very dangerous and lonely thing, to be a spy [18+]

There was a fiery flash in his eyes that momentarily made her forget the depth of her pain. The monster inside of him flared to life and she knew his thoughts turned murderous. And suddenly she released a breathy exhale that longed to be a laugh. “Yes, I have something without buttons.” Silver eyes glittered, amused at his concern for her clothing choices. Buttons, despite her current strained efforts, were easier than pulling a sweater over her head – but nothing was particularly comfortable short of the worn robe that she wore around her loft after hours. It hung on the knob outside of her tiny armoire.  As he examined her, she disliked that he thought her weak.

The demon inside her bristled at the idea that he might pity her. It roared against the thought of him seeing her as anything other than completely strong and capable – because she was. Clover was powerful, intelligent, forceful. But Chloe Paice was meek, soft, and gentle in all the ways that best provided a mask for her true self. Despite that anger seething beneath her skin from the caged beast, Chloe merely gave him and soft smile and did not address the emotions that flickered across his gaze. He could never know her, not truly, not really.

Clover finished her bread as he responded, feeling the warmth slide over her flesh at his words, quieting her inner monster. It was an eerie sensation, to be so immediately comforted, bolstered by the words of a man she was not meant to be with right now. The general missed her just as much as she had pined for him, as she had nursed her wounds. She had wished, silently in a forbidden part of her mind, that he might come and hold her. And some twisted fairy godmother had granted her request.

“Mmm,” she hummed against the words. He often left her hair a wickedly, tangled mess of knots and strands from his hands twisting in them. Memory flashed of him taking a fistful of her hair and turning her head to the side so he could taste the skin along the length of her neck. Heat burned low in her stomach then. Bastard. Taunting her when nothing could be done. A smirk matched his at his words and she rolled them slightly. “Don’t you know it is devilish to dangle such delights in front of a woman incapable of such activities?” Clover would give nearly anything to be well right now, to be capable of throwing herself into his arms and wrapping her limber legs around his waist as he leaned her down over the bed behind them.

Hurricane gaze flicked to the faded maroon robe on the armoire a few feet from her bed. She cocked an eyebrow and gestured to it, before slowly peeling she shirt down her arms. She pushed it down and let it flutter to the floor. The soft bralette beneath was nothing like she had worn for him before. It was clearly a stretchy fabric that permitted her to put it on with one hand. It rested above the bruises, barely grazing the top of the mottled damage to her skin.  As he retrieved the garment from his offered hand, she slid it on and tied the sash before released and stepping out of her pants. The nights had gotten cold and without the comfort of extensive electricity, her loft was quite frigid. She left her socks on and moved to put the empty plate back on her little kitchen island.

“You seemed so…” she hesitated, searching for the right word to use to describe his arrival, “almost boyish, when you got here.” She waved an absent hand as she moved back to him slowly. The seamstress closed the distance between them, looking up into his golden gaze. “I am sorry if my…appearance ruined a good mood. I take it your museum gala went well.” She smiled as much as she could without wincing, letting her eyes flicker back and force as she examined the brown and amber swirling together in his. “Tell me about it.” Tred carefully, Clover. “Were they all as fascinated with the art as I was or are they so accustomed to such luxuries that it was merely a pleasant background to them? Did some noble lady steal you away into that back room?” She knew it was possible – it had been for her, a foolish attempt to rid herself of the constant ache for him. She had thrown herself at other men, other bodies to try and scratch that insatiable itch he left in his wake.

Quinn kept his attention trained on the seamstress as she donned her robe, his appraising gaze once more roving over the mottled purple that stained her ribs. This was far from how he had expected his evening with Chloe to go, and certainly not the circumstances under which he would have liked to see her undress.

But he also knew, with a feeling that had rooted itself deep in his gut, that he didn’t want to be anywhere else. And that he wished he’d been free to come sooner, such that he might have helped and comforted her in the immediate aftermath of the attack. It hadn’t been his job to protect her—Chloe didn’t want that anyway—yet he still felt as though he should have been there to prevent the violence. To defend her. To shield her from a world in which he was complicit.

A pang of guilt, or something akin to it, rushed through him like a gale, singeing his stewing anger with the sour burn of frustration. It wasn’t Quinn’s fault that Northam was cruel. It also wasn’t the first time the rising-star general found himself thoroughly disenchanted with its treatment of civilians. Chloe had even made that point weeks ago when they’d curled together in the plush darkness of Earl’s Crossing. She’d nursed the grip-shaped bruises on her forearm and told him in no uncertain terms that such casual violence was a fact of life in her world. Still, even in spite of his growing sympathies, the bitter sting of responsibility Quinn felt now had everything to do with who society had victimized this time. Would he have reacted the same if it had been anyone else?

It rattled him with how easy it was to admit the answer was no. He wasn’t some heartless prick without sympathies—despite the implications of his new bloody nickname—but neither could he claim to feel the same consuming fury about anyone other than Chloe Paice. Well, he thought, imagining his fist striking the jaw of a faceless perpetrator, maybe I can fix that. One fucking bastard at a time.

“I can still take you to bed, you know,” the general chimed, his serious expression softening. “Maybe just a little more…innocently. This time,” he added, mirth shining in his gaze at the implication of future entanglement. He met Chloe’s stare as she turned, his pulse skipping a beat as she slowly strode toward him. Her expression was impossible to read—far from blank, but still indecipherable, as though all her pain and pride had melded together in strict defiance of what had happened. Her perseverance and pride in the face of her assault came as no real surprise; in fact, beneath the simmering fury in his blood, he was deeply impressed. Despite himself, a corner of his mouth quirked upward. He’d always known the seamstress was more than she seemed. The grace she displayed now was precisely in line with the woman he was getting to know…the woman he’d vowed to figure out.

She would have made a fantastic soldier, if circumstances had been different.

“Boyish? Me?” he echoed with mock offense, arching a mirthful brow. He locked his fingers at the small of the seamstress’ back and pulled her tight against him. His amber gaze roamed her face, but there was no trace of pity in his expression. “Never apologize for your battle scars,” Quinn said at last, the intensity of his murmur matched by the look in his eyes. The memory of her fingers tracing his own collection of scars sent a shiver down his spine, which led him to notice the faint tremble of her lean frame in his arms. “Come on. Come here,” he instructed, taking a step backwards toward the bed.

The mattress creaked beneath the weight of his body as he slid to rest his back against the wall. Gently, he pulled her to him, letting her nestle her less-bruised side against him as he snaked his arm featherlight around her shoulders. It was a strange parallel to the position they’d found themselves in at the Earl’s Crossing house, tucked against one another in the chilly night…only this time it wasn’t Quinn who was wounded. He reached down when she was settled and pulled up the blankets.

“The gala was indeed a success,” he finally said in response to her question about the museum fête. It felt good to tell her that, just as he’d imagined it might. “More so than any of us anticipated. Everyone seemed starved for a bit of political chess and top-shelf booze, and I don’t think a single person took note of the art beyond absorbing it as a background display of Northam’s prosperity. Which was, of course, the point,” he added, a hint of disappointment lacing his tone. “The ambassadors might have been pleased with the international pieces, if they’d bothered to tear their eyes away from our esteemed High Commander.” He snorted, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And me, after Earl’s Crossing.” A sigh. “Then again, if they hadn’t been so starstruck, our trade negotiations might not have gone so smoothly this week.”

A smile pulled at his lips that broadened to a smirk at her comment about the back room, and he pressed his cheek lightly against her hair. “The only woman, noble or otherwise, I would even consider taking in that back room is you, Miss Paice. And I think that was your devious plan all along.” A confident and suggestive hum rumbled low in his chest. “How does it feel to have tainted the entirety of the High Commander’s museum and quite possibly ruined it for me forever? With no consideration for all the poor society women I’ll have to turn down...”

“Innocent has never quite been my style, general.” She breathed, amused by the glimmer in his eyes. Clover would have laughed if she knew he thought she might be a good soldier candidate. The poor man had no idea that she would always have made a terrible solider. The last living Walther heir was born to lead, like her father, though she was loathe to admit such a thing – especially to herself. The feel of her body pressing against his, gently brushing against the bruises. It was so featherlight that she was able to suppress the need to wince away from the contact – instead, she leaned into it. Any contact with him was far superior to a moment without.

The seamstress just wanted to dissolve into his arms, to escape the pain of her earthly form and the pain that lingering in her limbs. Their gazes locked and she the familiar heat bubble low inside of her. Their minds traveled along the same path, twining around each other without being able to make any action of the thoughts. If she pushed up on her toes, their lips would brush, and her lip would split. Toes flexed against the warmth of her socks against the cold wooden floor. Unfortunately for her, the rug did not extend this far, and the floor was often frozen. The recognition of her pain and the subsequent movement towards the mattress made her heart flutter oddly against her chest.

Easily, Clover slid up against him. Even through their clothing, she could feel the heat of him as if against her skin. Gray-blue eyes flickered up at him, searching his features slowly. Had the seamstress taken some of the drugs that Aaron had supplied her with on a previous outing, she might have wondered if this moment was even real. She contemplated how in this world she had managed to situate herself in such a circumstance. Lying in her own bed, completely without intent to bed the person beside her, who happened to be the most eligible man in all of Northam – and a favorite of the High Commander.

Rather than dwell on the absurdity of her present situation, the seamstress melted against him and felt the comforting vibration of his words beneath her cheek. “Mmm, disappointing that such artwork isn’t available to those who might truly enjoy it for what it is and not the political standing it conveys.” Clover admitted, speaking in a round-about manner of her father’s continued success at separating the elites from those he deemed lesser.  Closing her eyes and sighing, as though trying to remember all he had told her. “Ambassadors from where again? Do they not have such art where they come from?” An innocent enough question, from someone that would truly have no concept of the grander world beyond Thebes and where the next wool shipment would come from. Now, for silks and furs and cottons, the spy knew more of the countries in the world than others but even so…the knowledge she should possess would have to be limited.

“I must admit…I take great pleasure if ruining you for other women. And ruining other women’s chances of bedding you.” She laughed, smiling against his chest until her lip split again, but she didn’t mind. Only a drop or two of blood seeped through the scab, it was beginning to heal. “Though, I know that it hasn’t stopped you from trying. To rid yourself of me.” Perhaps it was the pain, making her so bold. Perhaps this was just who Clover truly was. “To free yourself of that constant ache beneath your skin, the need to feel me against you.” Leg bent slightly and slid over his, savoring the warmth, the contact. The woman was teasing her general, while also admitting that he was an itch she had been unable to scratch herself – no matter how many men she had utilized in her attempt.

She waited a moment, before touching back on something he had said prior to admitting her conquest of the museum. “I’ve heard he is quite the imposing figure. I’ve seen him from afar. ” She responded, before opening her eyes and craning up to meet his own. She had seen him up close to. She had held his large hand as a child. She had listened as he regaled Remy with tales of war that she could not quite grasp at the time. “I had heard…” The admission came out softly, barely a breath against his neck. “The Executioner.” Clover could not truly search him face from her current position. “Do you...mind that they call you that? That everyone is either terrified of you or drawn to you…or both?”

The flat’s cold air was further chilled by momentary silence as the seamstress and the general settled in together. Quinn waited for Chloe to ease her battered body down before he wrapped his arm gingerly around her, mindful of her injuries. She looked up at him, cheek against his shoulder, her blue-gray eyes a deep silver in the low light. There was something in her gaze that prompted his heart to skip a beat. Like she couldn’t quite believe he was there, like he might blink away at any moment to leave her alone in her bed. Despite himself, a corner of his mouth curled upward in a soft smile. He drummed his fingertips lightly on her arm before cradling his palm against her bicep—I’m here, his touch said, and I’m not going anywhere.

She tucked into his chest, legs tangling against his beneath the covers. The warmth of her permeated the layers of clothing that separated their skin, igniting a kernel of heat deep in Quinn’s core. Contentedness draped over him like a blanket. It was more than just desire that flared to life; he was happy just to be near her, with no expectation of sex. And more, he was pleased by her curiosity. Flattered, even. “It was the ambassador from Andalusia and his wife,” he said in response to her question. “And the governor of the Carib Territories. It’s been a long time since the weather has cooperated long enough for any international visits.” He blinked, tracing the murky shadows of the ceiling beams with his gaze. “The Walther collection of art is considered one of the finest and most eclectic in the world. There’s a reason why the high commander uses it how he does. And why it works so well.”

A mischievous smirk lit his expression at Chloe’s quip about other women. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the matching smile on her own lips as she goaded him. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You talk as if you haven’t been trying to get me out of your head,” he replied, his voice unintentionally husky with the weight of familiar need, even as he tauntingly deflected her accusation. He pulled her in a little more tightly with the arm around her shoulders, then reached up with his opposite hand to run a hooked finger down the length of her cheek. “But you can’t put a flame back into the match, Miss Paice,” he went on in a heady whisper, tracing the sharp cut of her jaw with his thumb. “My touch can’t be un-felt. Ecstasy can’t be erased. The body always remembers.” He pressed his face against her hair, breathing in the spiced perfume with a slow, controlled inhale. Heat warmed his skin. “Mine certainly does.”

The general’s own admission of the hold she had on him, and he didn’t care if she knew. She surely already did, and he was confident he was not the only one suffering from this particular affliction. Still, it thrilled him to hear her confirm it. If only he could show her just how much…

But the conversation took an abrupt turn as the seamstress inquired about his new nickname. The Executioner of Earl’s Crossing. The part of him who knew how to play politics answered automatically, before the weight of her question settled in his chest. “What they call me doesn’t change who I am,” he said, a diplomatic non-answer. Silence flooded his pause, the sprawling shadows of her small flat seeming to blacken as his mood turned serious. Chloe was the only person besides perhaps his sister to whom he might confide his true feelings on the matter. And those feelings were complex and layered, flitting like fanged bats through the storm of his thoughts—teeth flashing, leathery wings outstretched, claws drawn.

When he spoke again, his voice was filled with the same primal darkness that she might have seen in his eyes, had she not been tucked against his chest. “The name doesn’t change what I did,” he murmured simply. “But it’s more complicated than just a name. Because I did execute those men, those rebels.” There was neither remorse nor pride in his voice. It was a simple statement of fact. “But the name doesn’t tell anyone that I also gave the traitors a choice.” The general drew a long breath, almost contemplative. “It was a generous offer, more than they would have gotten from anyone else.”

He ran his tongue over his lips, feeling the phantom scab from his old split lip, which had been the gift from one of the men he’d slain in the square. “I won’t say it was mercy. They wouldn’t see it that way. Their families wouldn’t. But I spared them the Mother’s Lament, where they would have begged for death until their throats were shredded.” Quinn’s voice dropped. “Where’s the pet name for that, I wonder?” From somewhere deep behind his ribs, that same battle-hungry demon stirred again, tugging at the leash with which he’d bound it when he resigned to investigate the seamstress’ attacker at a later date. “Do they call me the Executioner to separate the monster from the man?” he mused, sardonic. “Or to unite them?”

Quinn shook his head, his chin gently brushing the seamstress’ hair. “People are always looking for somewhere to place their awe. The next person to fawn over or talk about or win over to elevate their own status. My name’s been in their mouths a long time before they ever gave me a nickname, for any one of an endless list of reasons…my father, my sister, my bachelorhood…” A small, mirthless chuckle. “But now, they whisper it like a curse. They watch me not because I’m some darling of Thebes, but because they know I’m dangerous. They flinch. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy seeing them afraid.”

He sighed and looked down to find Chloe’s eyes on him. “How does it feel to know you’ve shared a bed with one of Northam’s most dangerous men?” he asked, only partially in jest. Humor didn’t quite touch the shadows that had darkened his gold gaze. “That you’re lying in the arms of the Executioner of Earl’s Crossing?”

Clover would have laughed, if the threat of the pain in her ribs hadn’t been so great. Instead she let out a breathy exhale at his accusation. They knew they were ruined for everyone else, at least for now. They had not gotten their fill. They were not sated. There was so much left to explore - from skin to the darkness that could be coaxed forth. The seamstress savored the feel of his finger along her jaw, a shiver winding its way down her spine despite the warmth of his body against hers. Then she went very still as he began to express his thoughts on his new, unofficial title. She didn’t quite hold her breath, but it was very soft, very shallow.

The first words were diplomatic, words he might give another soldier, an acquaintance. But wasn’t she more than that? Wasn’t there this tenuous connection between them that deserved more of an answer after what they had experienced together? And so she waited. The spy did not dare break the silence than curled around them. Spycraft demanded patience. And this was all it was now - subterfuge. Surely, it was nothing more than that. And as certainly as the sun rises, so too did the general begin speaking again. Clover exhaled as he did and settled against him further.  Those men. He saw them as men, the individuals of a wayward rebellion that had not yet garnered her support, acquired her guidance. Something flickered inside of her, like the last spark of a dying fire yearning to burn brightly once more. His next words sent her reeling, off-balance.

The Executioner of Earl’s Crossing was a general without remorse, without humanity. He ended life as easily as he downed a glass of Château Deneuvre with his dinner. The hissed whispers amongst the common folk with a quivering fear on their voices and the hatred with which it was spat amongst the Rebellion. Yet, here, in the confines of her flat, he seemed no more than a man presented with a terrible choice and made what he could of it given the difficult circumstances. She had never heard of such a choice being offered before, not like this. Often military men would offer women who had slighted them certain…exchanges, but nothing so bold as a reprieve from the Mother’s Lament.  And despite everything in their world that pitted Clover against Northam’s golden general, she understood him better now. She felt the depth of his offer, the tinge of remorse that coupled with the excitement of the new title. She knew what it was like to make the hard choice - to sacrifice some for the good of the collective, to order death. And she appreciated the

The Mother’s Lament was perhaps the thing the rebel feared most in this world. Death was easy - dying, especially young, was a given in her line of work. But the dungeons of Wymberly, the torture houses of the High Commander were a fate far worse than death at the enemies hands. Only once had someone ever survived it, and it didn’t last long. They threw themselves from the Almad Bridge into the freezing waters below only two days later. She remember hearing Rose whisper about it with a younger Aaron.

“We’ve discussed monsters before, haven’t we?” Clover breathed the words against his chest, closing her eyes as if it would stop the stirrings of wayward emotions inside of her. His questions settled onto her with the weight of a lead blanket. She knew how a woman might respond, should respond - to coddle, to ease, to distract. Men of his stature found comfort in that - it was why her brothels were some of the most lucrative places for information. Yet, Quinnley Belvedere could have sought out one of the high end houses tonight for that. He could have dissolved himself in flesh and liquor. Instead, he had settled into her bed with no hope of either. “And have I ever flinched from you?” She had feigned a faint, of course, but that could easily be written off as exhaustion at her treatment by another’s hands. She had never withdrawn from him, not when he was covered in other mens’ blood and not when he earned his new moniker.

On another night, she might have propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him, drowned herself in his golden gaze. She would have kissed him, slowly, drawn her body over his. The feel of him beneath her would have intensified her desire for him as his calloused hand ran up her back. Now, she laid herself back down against him, very still. A fear not of the Mother’s Lament slid serpentine through her. Questions hung on her lips, but she would release them later. Instead she whispered against him.

“There’s that odd allure to danger, the one some people feel drawn to.” The one she possessed. You had to be a little mad to run a rebellion operation after all. “The one some people feel like they can discover what lies beneath of it.” But sometimes there was nothing beneath, just others alongside. “And then there’s a complexity that few people will bother to find.” Clover moved her fingers along the buttons of his shirt, just admiring the stitching absently. Such were a seamstress’ hands - rarely idle. “I think to many - most even - you may be the most dangerous man in Northam. And that’s enough for them - whether flinching or falling into it.” He wasn’t that to her. Though their trust was danger enough, the singular danger to her belonged to one man. The High Commander - her own father. “To me, you are perhaps the most complex.” Without a doubt he was. He was clever, handsome, brilliant and all that ran alongside emotions fueled by a dark energy she had begun to discover was laced with flecks of golden light - a humanity long suppressed. That - truly - frightened her. Because it made that odd beat of her heart - the flutter she sought to ignore every time she saw him.

“And I am rather fond of lying in your arms, general.” Clover admitted, smiling slightly. “Without and with my clothing on it seems.” A soft tease to cover the magnitude of the words they had shared. “Will you stay?” She murmured into the night around them as the black beast eyed them both from the rickety chair propped near the window. “For just a while? Before you’re off to do more dangerous deeds? I suspect I’ll wake to find you gone - as has been your habit of late.” The warmth from his body and the safety of his arm against her back drew her deeper towards the bliss of sleep. “Just flip the latch on the shoppe door. I’d had to have to bill you for stolen wares. Especially after the blow to your financials from your sister’s wedding gown. Heard the seamstress that made it charged nearly an arm and a leg.” One side of her mouth curled gently.

There was something about the winter dark—the embrace of shadow, the familiar bite of chilly air—and the grounding presence of Chloe against him that beckoned forth the parts of Quinn he was accustomed to tucking carefully away.

For a man who knew how to keep secrets almost too well, the prospect of giving voice to his inner thoughts was nearly as unsettling as it was thrilling. The strange intoxication of letting down the mask should have been enough to make him wary, but the feeling now was not as foreign as it had once been. It was a sense of freedom he hadn’t realized he craved until the frigid night the unlikely pair had spent together in the drafty old house in Earl’s Crossing, where exhaustion had coaxed words from each of their lips that neither had ever admitted to another. Words as sacred as confessions, black and forbidden.

And hadn’t that been the most alluring element of all? How easy it had been to reference that darkness within, to realize that his admissions resonated deeply, albeit unexpectedly, with another person. Quinn had built his high-stakes life right alongside the walls that guarded him from it, and until he’d met the enigmatic seamstress, he’d been happy to keep to himself locked up behind the bricks and stone. But Chloe was acquainted with a part of him few others had ever gotten to know, and it wasn’t just sex that had beckoned his demons and lured them to the surface. The echo of her like-shadowed soul called back to him like a wolf’s cry piercing the night.

She had truly never flinched, not once. Not even when she’d witnessed the aftermath of the rebels’ refusal of his deal—the stark white snow blazing red in the Earl’s Crossing square, the carmine spatters that had painted Quinn’s face, patches of wet blood that had stained the fearsome general’s navy uniform black. Chloe didn’t need a moniker to tell her he was a dangerous man. He didn’t have to pretend that he felt anything more or less than the reality, which was dark and complicated and euphoric all at once. And what was more, she was telling him in no uncertain terms that she enjoyed lying next to him, encircled by his arms, in spite of—and maybe even because of—all of it.

Will you stay? The kernel of heat in his belly flared to life with something more than just desire, and he pulled her to him as tightly as he dared, given her injuries. He ran his fingertips gently along her upper arm. “I am quite well-versed in security. I would hate for the Belvedere coffers to suffer any more than they already have,” the general murmured against her tresses, lips curling into a smile as he pressed a soft kiss to her hair. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as I can, Chloe.” Her name came out as a whisper, reverent and delicate.

They lapsed into silence, night encircling them like a shield. Quinn listened as the seamstress’ breaths became rhythmic and deep, and he reached down to pull the blankets up higher around her shoulders. He allowed his own eyelids to flutter closed, but he did not sleep; his mind whirred in the quiet, too furious at Chloe’s state of injury and incensed by the prospect of revenge only he could deliver. The seamstress had insisted she could fight her own battles, but the frank truth was that her name and status and rank did not carry the same weight as Brigadier General Quinnley Belvedere’s. He had both the physical power and military authority to do what he wanted, and that included doling out punishments to ill-behaved soldiers of lower rank…or any civilian.

A soft shake of the mattress prompted him to crack open his eyes, and he peered through the shadows to see Kara the cat standing cautiously at the foot of the bed, staring at him. The feline watched him for a moment before slowly draping herself over Chloe’s ankles, tucking her front paws beneath her fluffy chest and settling in to join her mother in slumber. Her dark fur practically disappeared into the blanket in perfect nocturnal camouflage.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he could no longer sit still. They had shifted positions, Kara included, and Chloe now slept on her back, angled away from Quinn. He eased the covers back and slipped out of bed with surprising grace, considering his unfamiliarity with the environment and the size of him in the small room.

Sweeping up his boots and uniform coat, he quietly descended the stairs to the shoppe on the first floor, where the air was even colder than the flat above. The only light in the dark space came from the gap in the curtains drawn across the front windows; the Avenue street lamps were kept on until dawn for the bi-monthly Market Night, for the benefit of market merchants returning late with their unsold wares. He took a seat at the stool behind the counter to lace up his boots, where a wedge of golden light spilled across the room…and illuminated a thick ledger, splayed open, its ecru pages partially obscured by a swath of dark fabric.

Chloe had not been forthcoming about her attacker, but Quinn had suspected the man had been a client; it made the most sense, given the nature of her profession. But he’d had no way to confirm his theory until now.

The general finished lacing his boots and shrugged on his jacket, then folded aside the fabric covering the right side of the book. His shadowed gaze swept over the records with practiced ease—he was no stranger to a well-kept ledger—and quickly located the entries with dates from the past week. Chloe was as meticulous with her record-keeping as she was with her sewing craft, but nothing stood out to him…until he went to turn the page. Tucked partially beneath the material he’d initially brushed aside was a loose slip of paper, folded in thirds, bright bleached white against the utilitarian ivory of the ledger.

Quinn’s pulse thundered in his ears at what greeted him on the loose missive. For full payment, products should be remitted in the timeline described. There was no signature, but the small emblem in the corner—a circular badge belonging to the Northam militia, printed in navy—marked it plainly as the standard-issue stationery used by officers at Compound.

Had Chloe missed a deadline? That seemed out of character. He returned to the list of customers from the past week and discovered two possible connections—families he knew had rank high enough to have been issued that particular type of stationery. The first entry was Lady Mitzy Moran, who was the wife of Captain Salazar Moran, but Quinn knew Salazar was unlikely to have been the one to harm Chloe; the man was pushing eighty, frail as a nestling, and had already been long-retired when Marius Belvedere was still alive. No, not the Morans. But the other…

Angiers. Captain Calvin Angiers. A man who had used his parents’ mercantile wealth to bribe his way to a passing grade at the Academy, and who, against all odds, had achieved the rank of captain not through military prowess but by coordinating the delivery of dried fruit rations for cross-country winter expeditions (that he, naturally, did not participate in). Angiers was a disgrace to captainhood—it made Quinn furious to think the man had the same rank as fearless leaders like Smith, Langston, and Otto from the Ace squadron—and now, it seemed, the crooked poseur had managed to sink even lower: grabbing at power the only way he knew how, abusing those he deemed beneath his station. That pathetic motherfucker.

Anticipatory energy skittered through him like sheet lightning across a charged summer sky.

His blood raced hot through his veins, and it took everything within him not to race off right then and there. But the time wasn’t right. The Night Market would be disbanding, clogging the streets leading to the Merchant District where the Angiers residence was located, and Quinn had already left his horse tethered outside long enough. Tomorrow, he vowed as he slipped out the door, flipping the latch behind him as instructed. The blast of cold air on his flushed face sobered him somewhat, and he schooled his fury…for now. He mounted his horse, looking up at Chloe’s dark window above before he departed. Tomorrow that fucker will pay for what he did to you.

And I’ll enjoy every second of it.

————

Moonlight drenched his silhouette in pale blue as his silver mare thundered up the deserted street. The Merchant District was an old part of the city with wide brick boulevards and old well-to-do manors, home to a smattering of successful merchant clans (as its name implied) and many mid-to-upper ranking militia families. The homes were built close together on narrow plots, and their glowing facades blurred together as Quinn galloped past.

The Angiers residence was one of the last on a cul-de-sac, its red brick walls rising three stories above the drifted snow in the small front yard. Quinn tied up his horse and marched up the limestone stairs, slamming the brass door knocker against its plate thrice—like three gunshots pealing in the night. A maid pulled open the door, peering meekly through the crack. She recoiled almost immediately at the sight of the uniformed man on the doorstep.

He composed his face and smiled, clearing his throat politely. “Good evening,” he greeted, the fire in his eyes the only giveaway of the fury blazing behind his gentlemanly mask. “Is the Captain in? Please let him know General Belvedere would like to speak with him…urgently.”

The maid opened the door wider, the sleeve of her dress riding up her forearm to reveal the hand-shaped shadow of a healing bruise. “If you’d like to wait in the foyer—”

“No. Thank you. It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Quinn said, authority creeping into his voice. “I’ll speak to him out here. It won’t take long.”

She bowed her head and retreated into the house. The general waited, centering himself with deep breaths that manifested in silvery clouds before him in the cold air, but his pulse was a war drum in his chest, its thumping cadence the prelude to violence. This wasn’t the same feeling that overtook him before a battle. This was different. This was personal.

The door clicked back open several minutes later, and a middle-aged man of medium stature appeared at the threshold.

At the sight of him, white hot rage blazed through Quinn’s bloodstream with such force it took all his training and willpower to keep his composure. “Captain Angiers.” He kept his expression carefully blank—all business. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with you, if you’ll join me.”

“General Belvedere!” the man greeted in recognition, sporting a reverent grin. “An unexpected surprise, to be sure. An honor. One moment.” The captain was clearly pleased to have been called upon at his personal residence by someone as important as the High Commander’s right-hand general. He disappeared back inside and returned with a coat draped over his shoulders.

He followed Quinn down the stoop to the narrow alley on the side of the modest manor, out of sight. “Now, General,” the captain addressed. “To what do I owe the honor—”

Quick as a striking viper, Quinn’s hand wrapped itself around the captain’s ruddy throat and squeezed.

The captain’s breath wheezed out in shock, and whatever futile words had been forming on his tongue were crushed to silence by Quinn’s vice-like grip. Without relinquishing his hold, the general shoved the lower-ranking man backwards into the wall until his head cracked against the brick.

Angiers struggled, his fingers grappling uselessly at Quinn’s sleeve as he fought for a breath…a breath that the man would only take if Quinn allowed it.

If Quinn allowed him to live.

A dark, exhilarating rush of power flooded his body. The general’s amber eyes were shadowed with fury, but his face was otherwise expressionless as panicked redness bloomed across Angiers’ cheeks. He could feel the trembling of muscles desperate for oxygen as he held position, sense the fight slowly leeching out of the offender’s flailing limbs.

It was almost too easy.

As abruptly as he’d lashed out, Quinn let go. The captain slid down the wall before falling to his knees on the gravel, prostrate before Quinn’s boots as though bowed in worship. His entire frame spasmed as he gagged between desperate rasping inhales. Pathetic.

The general allowed the man to catch his breath a moment longer before hauling him back to his feet, burying his fists in the lapels of Angiers’ coat and slamming him once more against the stone.

“A man of good military rank ought to be a pillar of respect and decency. To set an example for the law-abiding citizens of Thebes.” Quinn’s voice was velvet, a dangerous and steady baritone just inches from the captain’s blotchy face. “Wouldn’t you agree?” He tightened his grip.

Angiers struggled to speak. “G-g-general, I d-don’t know—”

Quinn’s closed fist collided with the man’s cheek like a stone, a plume of spittle and blood following in its wake to stipple the brick and coat the general’s knuckles. “And a captain, however undeserving he may be of his title, should try his damnedest to represent his militia in the finest of light to his civilians. Hmm?”

“Y-yes, but—”

The general relinquished his hold and let the man drop awkwardly to his heels, then struck him in the gut with a jab of an elbow. The captain doubled over, and Quinn’s knee promptly connected with Angiers’ cheek. He plummeted to the ground with a retch.

The general rolled the man roughly to his back with a shove from his boot. He dropped to a crouch with the predatory grace of a feline, jaw tense. 

The expression Quinn wore was half-mad—his teeth clenched and bared, his eyes a fevered gold. He pressed his knee into the captain’s shoulder, pinning the scumbag to the gravel as he loomed over him. Crimson blood coated Angiers’ lower face like paint, bizarrely calling to mind a jagged technicolor portrait he’d seen with Chloe in the Walther gallery.

Already, the man’s left eye was swelling shut. Quinn drew back his fist and struck to the right, snapping Angiers’ head violently to the side. A squelching whimper bubbled from his mouth.

“Don’t bother trying to speak,” hissed Quinn, driving his weight harder into the captain’s shoulder. The metallic tang of fresh blood greeted his nostrils as he leaned over Angiers, almost sweet in the frigid air. He wrapped his hand around Angiers’ throat again, pressing his fingertips against the frantic pulses on either side of the neck just enough to make the man gurgle on his own fluids. Deep, ugly bruises would stain the vile man’s neck in the shape of the general’s grip—a violent, albeit temporary brand that would conspicuously mark Captain Angiers for weeks, long after the cuts on his lip scabbed over and the swelling in his face went down. It would be so effortless just to end you instead, he thought silkily, a shiver of power lighting up his nerves. Just a little bit tighter, a little bit more pressure…

God, how he wanted to; how satisfying it would be to feel the heartbeat slow to a halt beneath his fingertips. And he could get away with it—he was Quinn fucking Belvedere, and no one would question his judgment, not even the high commander. But if it ever got back to Chloe and implicated her in the murder of a military officer…that wasn’t something he was willing to risk. 

“The seamstress you saw fit to abuse is a civilian in my family’s employ,” he growled, his voice a terrifying rasp. “Lay a finger on her or any civilian woman again and you will learn firsthand why they call me the Executioner. Are we clear, Captain?” 

He spat the rank like an insult. Angiers, to his credit, managed to perform a semblance of a nod—or perhaps it was simply a spasm of pain. Quinn lifted his knee and hand away from the man simultaneously, but before he rose to his feet, the shine of a ring on the captain’s finger caught his attention.

Angiers, barely conscious, groaned weakly as Quinn grabbed his wrist. “I don’t imagine you’ll forget my orders,” he drawled, slipping off the silver band from the man’s middle finger, “but if you do…know that I will find out.”

He snapped the finger as if it were a twig.

“Have a pleasant evening, Captain Angiers,” he called as he walked away, leaving the battered man to stain the gravel in the alley, his muffled moans their own kind of distant melody.

Quinn returned to the front door, knocking just twice this time. The same meek maid peered back at him in confusion. “You may want to send someone out to check on the captain in a few minutes,” he advised with a pleasant smile that was perhaps a little too wide. “It’s getting cold tonight.”

“Sir?”

“That’s all. Oh, and…” The woman paused, looking frightened. She flinched when he extended his arm, but he gestured to his own wrist, indicating that he’d seen the purple marks marring her forearm. “He won’t be doing that to you anymore,” he told her politely, as though reporting the weather. Her gaze latched onto the obviously bloody knuckles he hadn’t bothered to hide, then looked up at him in bewilderment. “Good night, miss.”

He grinned to himself as he walked back to his mare, fingering the ring in his uniform pocket.

A good night indeed.

————

It was just shy of midnight when Quinn crested the hill behind Avondale. He’d taken the winding path through the woods on the north side, allowing himself to indulge in the snow-muffled quietude as his adrenaline slowly ebbed. Satisfaction thrummed in his veins, his fury at last sated—a beast quelled after a hearty meal.

He dropped off his mare with the stableboy and entered the house through the back door, where he was greeted almost immediately by the silver-haired butler Thomas. He registered no surprise at the dried blood flaking from Quinn’s hands. “The package you requested has been assembled and awaits your inspection in your study,” the stalwart man said, taking the general’s gloves and jacket.

“Very good. Thank you, Thomas. That will be all for tonight.”

Quinn found the small box on his desk as promised. A small fire blazed valiantly on the hearth, taking the edge off the chill in the room. But the general’s blood was still heated from his confrontation with Angiers, and he unbuttoned his white shirt with one hand while the other explored the contents of the package. The items he had requested earlier that day were all in order—an assortment of salves and poultices in copper tins, and a fine boar-bristle hairbrush with a sleek mahogany handle.

He sat down and composed a message.

When Chloe received the package the next morning, she would find an envelope—her full name penned in slanted script on the outside—containing a certain captain’s silver ring and an unsigned note with a single line in black ink:

When a man walks the edge of madness, sooner or later he’s bound to stumble across the line.

The room was colder than usual, Clover noted without opening her eyes. She was alone, except for the purring mass that weighed down her feet.  Momentarily, the spy wondered if she had dreamed the entire evening - the soft caress of his lips against her hair and his arm cradling her close to his warm body. Everything was stiff, she realized when she finally moved to the protest of Kara. And despite it, she smiled against the healing split in her lip. A siren went off inside of her, signaling her to recognize the danger she was getting herself deeper and deeper into.

She pointedly ignored it. 

The warmth of his body seemingly had buried itself deep inside of her, a kernel of soft heat right beneath her lowest ribs. As if it was physical, the seamstress placed her hand there, feeling the side with the ribs that fortunately weren’t broken. Hair popped over her shoulder in its braid as she leaned forward over the side of her bed slightly. It caught her attention and a redness dappled across her cheeks. Kara broke her thoughts abruptly with a stretch and demonic noise of irritation.

“Yes, yes.” Clover said, pushing herself upward with only a minimal wince of discomfort. She shuffled a bit before walking and then fed some dried food to her demanding roommate. Eyes flicked to the window of her loft. Light beamed through, dancing amongst the light clouds and brightening a surprising blue sky. Something about it felt optimistic, warming and that made a flutter in her chest. Tearing her eyes away, she set about dressing herself extremely slowly. She pulled on britches the pulled closed instead of buttons. After finagling herself into a bandeau and a loose shirt, she left her braid as it was now - slightly disheveled but presentable.

The spy opened the shoppe and moved to assess her schedule for the day. As she moved her hand over the book, she froze. The date was not where she left it. Even if things appeared disorganized at any moment, Clover always knew precisely where she had left everything. It was one of the most crucial parts of spycraft - know if anything had been tampered with. She’s flicked her eyes over the scene, hand hovering midair, and she found her folded note from Captain Angiers. The rushing of her heart pounded in her ears, deafening her momentarily to Dennis’ arrival. He had snooped through her things. The ledger was not as she had left it and she certainly had not left the rage-inducing note where anyone might have seen it. She had tucked it away. Even as her irritation blossomed, so too did a small part of her mind whisper. What a wicked thing.

With the military parchment tucked deep within the bound appointment book, Clover focused on her tasks for the day. She managed to accomplish quite a number of her tasks, despite the sustained injuries – as though something had bolstered her spirits enough to compensate for the physical ailments. Enough so that she was able to maneuver through the streets of Thebes towards the bar where Aaron had been impatiently waiting for her, no doubt. A whiskey in her hand before a crackling fire, Clover settled into her chair and allowed her head to fall back against the worn fabric.

“Nice gift.” Aaron finally said, leaning against his desk and holding his glass lightly with her hands.

Clover brushed her finger against her blackened eye, the bruise beginning to yellow at the edges. “A bonus for a job well done.” She retorted, bringing the glass to her lips, and taking a long, slow sip. She appreciated the burn and subsequent warmth that spread across her stomach. If given the chance, she might have dissolved into the entire bottle. Aaron grunted and began to fill her in on minutia of the Resistance. She commented here and there, delegating and providing insight.

“And I take it you don’t have anything for us?” He asked. “Those injuries wouldn’t have been helpful.”

Clover smirked and narrowed her eyes at him. “When have I ever let broken ribs and a bruised face stop me from doing my job?” Aaron barked laughter and gestured for her to continue. “He held an event for visiting dignitaries.” She did not like to refer to the bastard by High Commander and certainly not as her father. “It was the ambassador from Andalusia and his wife, as well as the governor of the Carib Territories.” Aaron stiffened. “I know, I had thought we made some headway with them the last time. I fear he has more influence than we had hoped. The negotiations went smoothly, I learned.” They both frowned into the amber liquid in their glasses. Clover’s eyes flicked to the fire and her gaze grew distant. “We need someone with sway in his Circle.” She gnawed at the inside of her cheek.

“We’re not discussing it again, Clover.” Aaron scolded, setting his glass down beside his thigh definitively.

“It is always an option we will have to consider. Who better to do it than his long-lost daughter?”

“He’s never let you into negotiations. You’d never have a seat at the table.” Aaron stood and made her meet his eyes. “You are not his son.”

“Trust me,” Clover scowled and resisted the urge to throw the glass into the fireplace, “I often wish I had been born with a cock. Though I’m glad I’m not ruled by such a singular organ.” She smiled then and he snorted in response. If she had been a son, if she was the Walther heir…she could infiltrate his Circle, she could kill him, she could ascend to High Commander and do away will all the…

Sighing, she rubbed her face and handed him her glass with her other hand. No point in hoping and wishing and imagining a different outcome. “Send Andres to the Carib ambassador again. He has…a way with her that I think could help us. We can’t afford for their ties with Northam to grow too strong. We need what they provide us and if he manages to place a stranglehold on our imports, it could prove extremely costly.”

“Alright,” the affirmation came with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She admired, absently, the gray speckled through his beard. She remembered him when he had been younger. When he had followed Rose to the ends of the earth, because he loved her so deeply. It was the painfully unrequited love that Clover had only heard about. Such frivolities were beneath her, forbidden to her. She raised her hand and touched his cheek gently. “Stay out of trouble.” Clover scoffed.

“You know me better than that.”

---

Morning came with all the bright light of sunshine on a thin layer of glimmering snow, where Clover shielded her eyes, and she opened up the shoppe’s door whilst simultaneously flipping the sign to open. Dennis was helping his mother and sibling today, so she was blissfully on her own. The spy greatly appreciated her protégé and the assistance he was able to provide, but sometimes she just wanted to relish the quiet of her space – to work in solitude when no patrons were present.

With the end of a social season, Chloe Paice would have nearly two weeks with limited appointments and plenty of time to stockpile the usual assortment of accessories that people would come to purchase. She would embroider Northam’s crest on handkerchiefs and socks. She would add lace trim around ribbons to be given at the winter solstice fairs and parties. A lover’s ribbon tied around a man’s wrist to signify intent. Women would begin coming in for their dress designs in two weeks – to make certain they had proper new gowns for the solstice balls.

So when the bell chimed at the door, Clover looked up with surprise to see a face she recognized. It was one of the men in the employ of General Quinnley Belvedere, dressed fashionably for a servant and a carriage waiting just beyond the now-closed door. “Can I help you?” She asked, rounding the counter.

“Yes, Miss. Are you Miss Chloe Paice.”

“I am.”

“I have a delivery for you, Miss. From General Belvedere.” He gestured forward with his hands that held a large wooden box. It appeared laden with several goods and even from a few feet away, she spied Quinn’s penmanship.

“How kind.” She took the container in her hands and the weight caught her off-guard. Quick stormy eyes flickered over the contents. Salves, poultices, and serums from some shoppes that she had never even dared to enter as she knew that price tag associated with them. And a brush. A fine brush that would have cost her the entire pay from one dress. She resisted the urge to begin inspecting everything with the man standing in front of her. “Does the general expect a response?” She smiled and knew she made the boy uneasy.

“Whatever you desire, Miss.” He finally expressed as she set the box on the counter and moved to retrieve a large scrap of parchment from an old client sketch. She brought forth her pencil and began to work diligently from memory. With careful fingers, she folded it and tied it with a ribbon.

“For the general, with my gratitude.” Chloe gave a slight blush as she handed over the note. He took it carefully and gave her a slight incline of his head with a soft murmur ‘m’am’ before departing.

Alone once more, the seamstress withdrew contents of the box and examined them. These were far beyond anything she’d have been able to purchase. She hesitated, wondering if she should return them. But they would help hide the marks, dull any scars. And they would feel so fucking good. Finally, she turned her attention to the envelope. Savoring the sight of her name in his flowing script, she turned it over and realized something weighty resided inside. Tearing it, she turned it so the ring clinked on the counter and bounced a bit before she stopped it. She examined it carefully and noticed a small spattering of blood inside the band and then the insignia. Angiers. Angiers. Angiers. It was his ring. The ring that had split her lip.

The beating of her heart simultaneously stopped and sped up. Finger fumbled with the envelope to draw forth the words he had written. Bright eyes read them repeatedly and each time her smile grew. They were monsters, the pair of them. She relished it, as she imagined how Quinn had extracted the ring from the fucking barbarian’s finger. Clover took the ring in her hand and clenched her fingers closed around it. It felt cool in her palm, like justice…like vengeance. She moved to retrieve a double stitched ribbon, long enough to be tied and hidden beneath any shirt she wore. The ring slid easily along its length before she tied it around her neck. The cold metal rested beneath her breasts, right against the beating of her heart – the same one that sped up when he would whisper into her hair.

As she smiled, savoring the places her mind slid to, she suddenly wished she had read the note before she had sent back her own. Though, she knew he would approve of it. She wondered how long it would take him to come back to her upon receiving it. That hastily drawn sketch on the scrap she had tied with a ribbon. It was his bed and a hasty silhouette of her body on it – as he might have seen her that first time, when he sketched her.

Always to the edge of ruin.

—-

The waiting was excruciating, she realized, after a week without a visit from the general. Brows furrowed as she looked through items in the back storage room of the shoppe. Perhaps her note hadn’t been clear. But how on earth could it have misconstrued? Irritation crept in as she rummaged through items that had been returned or repurposed. Clover attempted to focus on the work she had to do over the last eight days but still found her heartbeat momentarily accelerating every time the door opened. The bell had become a torturing sound, the promise of something that was never fulfilled. The seamstress oscillated between annoyance, worry and attempted disinterest.

The salves and tonics had worked miracles. Clover’s eye had healed, though she knew she would develop a very thin silvery scar on her lip in the future. Her ribs still ached and her movements were limited but the visible signs had nearly erased. She thought of him each time she utilized them and that had no made his a sense any easier.

Now, however, she needed to dress herself somewhat higher than her station. Intelligence had come through from one of the girls at Catherine’s that was urgent but the courtesan could not get away. Apparently there were a number of wealthy patrons due in that evening for something or another. Rarely did Clover have to take on such retrieval herself but Heidi was away in the south and it couldn’t be helped. The spy slipped on a beautifully tailored pair of deep emerald trousers that cinched high on her waist. She paired it with a mock turtle neck in midnight black. She slipped on the nicest pair of black boots she owned, thankful that the pants flared slightly and covered the fraying laces. A warm, wool jacket shielded her from the cold and she stepped out into the night and made the shorter walk to the high-end brothel.

The resistance leader made certain to bring her satchel with her, along with the newest negligee that she had fashioned for her informant. It was an easy enough cover and one that no one would really second guess. It would be a quick visit to her stateroom, an exchange and a hasty departure. Catherine’s was bright lit and multiple patrons meandered outside, moving from bars to brothels to smoking clubs along the only street permitted such nightlife in Northam. Clover nodded to the doorman, who knew her well enough to allow her entrance without introduction. Long hair caught in her jacket as she removed it and handed it to the woman by the door. Jackets had to be checked if they weren’t military issue. Fortunately, she kept a loose grip on her satchel without protest from the workers.

Stormy eyes stayed focused on the floor. She was a lower station after all - it would not do to draw the wrong kind of attention. Most didn’t notice her on these rare visit. Occasionally a drunk man might mistake her for one of the singers or servers - though she was much more modestly dressed. Maneuvering through the huddles of men, laughter and the tang of booze, Clover neared the stairs that would lead her to Veronica’s room when a tinkling laugh caught her attention, especially as it was followed by a murmur nearer to her when others looked that way. “The Executioner.”

Quinn.

Clover knew she shouldn’t look. She was working. She wasn’t supposed to be here. A invisible tether drew her attention across the space, crossing over heads and shoulder of other men to find him standing there like a beacon. A stunningly beautiful blonde had her hand on his arm. Heart hammered against her rib cage as she tried to tear her gaze away. One of his Alphas was behind him, though Clover had never been introduced to him. The bartended slid two bourbons across the counter to the pair. The blonde took it in her delicate fingers and held it up to him, pausing it above her breasts. Clever strategy to capture his gaze on her assets. Quinn. The ring neatly between her breasts suddenly felt like a bean, searing her skin. He looked well…almost buoyant. Just like she had seen him briefly in her shoppe before he had registered her injuries. She needed to leave before he saw her. She needed to go and get the tether held her, transfixed.

It had been a week of long, grueling days at Compound. Quinn had slept in his own bed only two of the previous six nights; the other four were spent huddled over the conference table, with a scant few hours of rest in the officers’ layover rooms between urgent meetings. They were still on the offensive after Quinn’s wild success in Earl’s Crossing, but trying to nail down a prolonged plan of action when they still had no clear picture of Clover was only sparking arguments and exasperation amongst the regime’s top ranks. Everyone had a different idea of how to proceed.

The only thing they could all agree on was that they had to take their next step soon, to ride the momentum of the rebel slaughter in the mountains before the spark of fear turned to ash. So far, no one had convinced High Commander Walther of anything but their ability to argue. Quinn, despite the role he’d played at Earl’s Crossing, was not officially a designated member of the strategists’ committee, and had kept his mouth firmly shut throughout most of their lengthy sessions, answering questions only when directed to him. He continued his silent approach even now, as Captain Trellody was making a case for moving more troops to the mountains. The high commander—who had, to the man’s credit, attended more than half of these insufferable meetings—kept his hazel gaze on Quinn as the captain spoke.

“Trellody,” the Walther man interrupted, halting the captain mid-syllable. “That will be all.”

“Sir?” the captain replied, faltering.

“I don’t think anyone here is disputing the idea of increasing our presence at the Earl’s Crossing site.” Walther waved a hand. “Gentlemen, you are hereby dismissed for the afternoon.” His eyes swiveled once more to Quinn, whose face was unreadable as ever. “Leave us.”

Quinn settled back in his chair as the committee filed out, waiting for the door to latch before he spoke. “Forgive me, High Commander, but you’ve never struck me as the kind of man to suffer fools…”

The high commander laughed, genuine amusement lighting his face. “I do not, as a rule,” he confirmed, lips curved in a mischievous grin. “They each have their merits. They are intelligent men.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t keep them around otherwise. But put them together…” Quinn trailed off, brows arched high.

“When your tires are on ice, it doesn’t matter how powerful the engine is or how fast the wheels spin,” the high commander said sagely. “The vehicle goes nowhere.”

Quinn hummed his agreement.

“You’ve been awfully pensive this week, Quinnley, but I know you better than to mistake your silence for a lack of something to contribute. What’s in your head, Belvedere?”

The general wanted to chuckle, but instead he sighed. “They might be smart, sir, but none of these advisors were there.” His voice was confident but low, and he shook his head to himself. “The rebellion is just a concept to them. They don’t…understand.”

The officers had all seen their fair share of battle and bloodshed, but they hadn’t seen how the remote rebels’ eyes had burned with hatred when they looked at him. They hadn’t watched how they fought with every ounce of strength they could muster, how they braved the fight with cobbled weapons, rags on their back, and no training but a lifetime of desperation. Loathing burned in their hearts. They hadn’t stood a chance against the might of Quinn’s squadrons, and yet they ran into the clash already having accepted their brutal deaths. This was more than just managing Northam’s population and enforcing laws at remote outposts. This was fierce, unadulterated opposition, from people with nothing left to lose.

The high commander waited for Quinn to continue.

“It’s like trying to pin down mist by shooting it with an arrow,” the general finally went on. “Clover is too nebulous right now. All this talk of random interviews, or sending our own spies into the fray…those are fine ideas, but we still don’t know how he operates, or how wide his network is. It’s wasted effort. The traitors at Earl’s Crossing had never even heard the name ‘Clover’…they weren’t even connected, and that was by far the largest and most organized rebel attack we’ve witnessed in recent years. We’re dealing with two separate parallel, but unrelated, issues.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That it’s a mistake to do too much too soon. If we want to strike while this particular iron is hot, then we should implement what we’ve already discussed. We need to eliminate the Chambrook village immediately.” Quinn said it matter-of-factly, as though advising his servants what to make for dinner. “The cadet that Colonel Franklin and I had the opportunity to interrogate hailed from that settlement, and he claimed the elders were involved. With Chambrook wiped off the map, and most of Earl’s Crossing’s population dead, the region will be sufficiently humbled. I suspect that would tamp down any plans for retaliation, at least for the foreseeable future. They wouldn’t have the numbers anyway.”

The Walther man ran a hand through his coiffed hair contemplatively, streaks of silver catching the light.

“It will get us no closer to Clover,” Quinn admitted. “It’s not a manhunt or an infiltration or whatever other overly-complicated scheme these advisors seem so determined to cook up. But in my opinion? It’s our only logical option that won’t waste resources and show our hand prematurely. Take care of the problem of the rogue rebels first, then address our investigation into Clover. It’s a mistake to try killing two birds with one stone in this case.”

The high commander’s thoughtful look softened deceptively. The predator lurking just beneath the man’s schooled exterior was far more dangerous than his visage would ever let on. But the general wasn’t fooled; it was one of many reasons how a man so brutal could come across so charming. Quinn had admired that, once. Strove to be just like him. Now, he simply knew it was a warning.

And rightfully so, because the smile that slowly spread across the leader’s face was bright with cruel satisfaction. “You’ve accomplished what my committee could not. You’ve convinced me,” he declared. “And you’re right. Holding off on dealing with Chambrook was an oversight, and we’ve let it sit too long.”

Quinn quirked a brow before he could stop himself. The high commander rarely, if ever, admitted to a mistake, and when he did, there was always a reason for it. But the only explanation Quinn could find was one that made his gut clench with conflicting emotions—that Gregoray Walther was bringing Quinn farther under his wing, deeper into his confidence. An honor, to be sure, and something his younger self would have given anything for. But now that his ambitions were becoming a reality seemingly all at once, he couldn’t shake the sting of disenchantment that had sunk its claws into him after his parents’ deaths. He should have been rejoicing. Instead, he felt only a hollow sense of duty, bred into him like a habit.

“Make it happen,” the high commander said. “Finish what you started in the mountains. I’ll deal with the committee.” His grin was dangerous. “Well done, Quinnley. I knew I picked the right man for the job.”

————

The next day was a whirlwind.

Action was a balm for the burn of his disillusionment, and Quinn had spent the morning putting together two small but lethal squadrons to send to the unsuspecting village of Chambrook. They were to meet up at the Earl’s Crossing training camp, check in with Colonel Franklin, and rendezvous with a handful of men stationed there before setting out to the remote settlement. Quinn was confident that this was the right call and that he’d assigned the right men to carry out his orders. Executioner, he thought to himself wryly as he left the comms tower at Compound. He might not have been wielding the weapons this time, but they were his orders all the same. Fitting.

“Living up to what they call you, Belvedere!” called a voice down the corridor. “They’re making a fucking legend out of you.”

Quinn shook his head but couldn’t quite fight back a smile as he greeted his longtime comrade Ace Captain Langston. “That victory was as much yours as it was mine,” he said diplomatically.

“Not what I’ve heard,” Langston replied with a wink. “You pulled a couple of my men for a black mission to finish the job, eh?”

“I sent the order five minutes ago. I shouldn’t be surprised you were already notified.”

“Pratchett and Gale are superb choices,” confirmed the captain, with more than a little rightful pride. “I look forward to the reports, General. Will I be seeing you tonight at Catherine’s?”

Fuck. He’d forgotten all about that.

It must have shown in his face, because Langston laughed. “Unfortunately for you, Belvedere, I think Antonio would notice if the infamous Executioner wasn’t at his stag party. You might be more of a draw than the whores, actually, given your celebrity status.”

Quinn snorted. “Yes, I’ll see you at Catherine’s, then,” he conceded with disdain he didn’t bother trying to hide.

He had just enough time to return to Avondale to freshen up before he would be due at the brothel. Catherine’s was a well-known and oft-frequented establishment amongst the upper ranks of militia men, and it made perfect sense that a man the likes of Roger Antonio would arrange his bachelor party there. Antonio was a ruthless soldier, newly-appointed colonel, and no stranger to Thebes’ pleasure houses. Quinn didn’t know him particularly well, but he had served alongside him as an officer on more than one out-state deployment. Langston was probably right, though. It was the Executioner who had been invited, not Quinn.

The general ran damp fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the disheveled locks, but they fell in dark, messy waves over his forehead despite his best efforts. His jaw sported three days’ worth of scruff that would have added to his casual appearance if his perfectly pressed military blues hadn’t automatically sharpened his look. But in spite of his desire to skip the soiree, his accomplishments of the day had left him feeling more energized than drained. Maybe a celebration, whatever its venue, was what he needed.

Emerging from the bathroom, Quinn paused at his nightstand, where his fingers moved on their own volition to a folded scrap of parchment. The silky ribbon that had secured it fluttered to the floor, but he didn’t bother picking it up; his attention was captured, as it had been each night he’d managed to get away from Compound that week, by the gestural sketch depicted in graphite on the wrinkled paper in his hand. He’d already memorized every flowing line, every scratch of shadow that comprised the hasty portrait, but his gaze roved over it again hungrily, as though he might be able to summon the seamstress’ touch from the page just from how greedily he devoured it.

Familiar heat coiled within him. Wicked, he thought, smirking at the page. Thoughts of his seamstress had gotten him through the week, simultaneously hastening and slowing the passage of time. He had taken Chloe’s drawing as a sign of approval in response to the package he’d sent her after he’d put Angiers in his place, her own little gift to him. He gnawed at his lip as his mind strayed to what their next encounter might look like, and the thousands of equally wicked ways he wanted to show his appreciation. But another part of him, the softer, tender part, wondered at the same time if her bruises had faded, if her ribs had ceased their ache. He may have been on the verge of strangling the life from the bastard captain, but vengeance, however sweet and violent, wouldn’t have helped the seamstress heal any faster.

He folded the sketch and returned it to the nightstand, the grayscale rendering renewed in his mind, and he fought a crooked smile as he made his way downstairs. A carriage waited for him beneath the porte-cochere. A strange wave of energy rippled through him as he climbed inside, prompted by lascivious thoughts of Chloe amplified by the successes of the day. Yes…maybe an evening of drinks and casual gambling was just what he needed.

Well…what he needed was Chloe. In his bed. But since he couldn’t have that just yet, this would have to do.

Catherine’s was illuminated like a beacon in the winter dark, sparkling even amongst the other brightly-lit buildings on the block. Quinn had never been a frequenter of brothels; when he wanted sex, he’d never had to search long for an eager participant, and never had his encounters involved money changing hands. That said, Catherine’s was one of the more respectable of such establishments in Thebes, and its high-end reputation showed in the decor that greeted him as he entered.

He’d been to Catherine’s on several occasions for parties thrown by fellow officers, but it seemed the business had outdone themselves since his last visit. The carpet beneath his boots was plush and new, and the seating area was illuminated by a chandelier that dripped with crystals. An expansive liquor selection glittered behind the bar, and the handful of gambling tables—a few designated for poker, some for blackjack—were crowded with men in military blues and provocatively dressed women.

Quinn could feel the sidelong glances on him as he maneuvered through the crowd to the bar. He didn’t see Colonel Antonio anywhere—probably tied up in a private room already, literally—but there were plenty of faces he recognized from Compound, all of whom glanced at him with the same reverence that was becoming familiar. The only one whose demeanor hadn’t changed was Langston, who sidled up to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You made it!” he exclaimed, his words already slurring. Quinn grinned. The captain deserved a night of fun and debauchery, and it seemed the man was taking full advantage. A brunette woman clad in a thin, scandalously flesh-colored dress clung to his arm. They disappeared back to one of the blackjack tables, where a chorus of cheers cut through the chatter.

As usual, the general wasn’t alone for long. He ordered a sidecar—“Make that two,” a woman’s voice said, her alto a sultry purr so close to his ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath.

Quinn turned to face the woman. Her blonde hair was twisted onto the crown of her head, but a few curled strands fell in lazy ringlets to her bare shoulders, which she had angled towards him, her chest just a hair’s breadth from brushing his arm. She was tall. His gaze swept over her; a heart-shaped strapless neckline emphasized her breasts, and the gold satin that cascaded over her hips left little to the imagination.

The bartender placed one finished drink in front of them, which Quinn slid over to the woman first. She arched a thin brow and smiled. “A general and a gentleman?” she said, her voice lilting up as though in disbelief.

“When I want to be,” he replied, wrapping his hand around his own glass and raising it to clang gently against hers. “And to whom am I toasting?”

“Why, Colonel Antonio’s impending marriage, of course,” she retorted, bringing the drink to her painted lips. His brown eyes locked with her blue over the rim, and he laughed at the impish look in her expression. “You can call me Hera.”

“Like the ancient Grecian goddess?”

“The same.”

Quinn swirled the liquid in his glass. Hera was undeniably beautiful, but there was something missing; she was a little too put together, a little too curated. Nothing like the enigmatic seamstress who had taken residence in his every idle thought, who managed to surprise him with every glance, every sway, every flicker of the light. He took another drink, eyes sweeping over the crowd of blue-clad men and dolled-up women...

And promptly locked gazes with the very set of silver eyes he’d just been imagining.

Chloe.

He clamped his throat closed before he could choke and casually swallowed, lowering his glass slowly to the bar. Hera, unaware of the white hot bolt of lightning that had just struck him through the chest and rooted him to the floor, draped a slender hand over his forearm and leaned in close.

The bustling crowd seemed to freeze around them. The singers’ croons faded to a distant, muffled melody as though the ensemble had been relocated to the adjacent room. Quinn, operating on autopilot, smiled at something Hera murmured in his ear, but his eyes and attention did not waver from the seamstress, who had clearly seen him before he’d spotted her. His pulse thundered against his breastbone, and his tunnel vision narrowed further the longer he looked.

Fire licked up the ladder of his ribs until he the heat threatened to overtake him. The general extricated himself from Hera’s draping grasp—much to her dismay, although he didn’t even notice her shocked expression—and slipped through the throng as though it were slow-moving water. Though the invisible tether between them tugged him unrelentingly forth, he lost sight of Chloe in the milieu, and he wondered briefly if she’d slipped away to avoid him. Her expression across the room had been startled, but otherwise unreadable. Not exactly an invitation.

He didn’t care.

Quinn halted near a pillar draped in scarlet velvet, once again scanning the crowd. There. She’d moved back a little, out of the stream of people entering and exiting, and didn’t seem to have caught sight of him again.

“Miss Paice,” the general greeted quietly, stepping up behind her. His hair tumbled over his forehead, and he pushed it back in a suave, confident gesture that was reinforced by the delighted, if bemused, smirk he wore on his face. His breath hitched inexplicably when she whirled to face him. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’re following a certain general,” he drawled with a chuckle. “Thankfully, the general doesn’t seem to mind. Despite the security risk.” He dropped his voice low, his tone caught somewhere between concern and suspicion. “What are you doing here, Chloe?”

Electricity raced through her, lighting each and every nerve inside of her the moment his molten gaze found hers. Clover should have already walked away. She shouldn’t have lingered but she couldn’t help herself. Why was she so drawn to him when they had only been apart for a week? The sex was good - no, honestly, phenomenal - but it was just sex. It was just sex. The way she stood rooted on the spot, frozen by the glimmer of surprise in his features when he recognized her, sent a warning through her. It was enough to draw her from her statuesque stance.

Clover slipped away further into the opulent space just after seeing a grin flick across his lips when the harlot at his side whispered in his ear. A flicker of jealousy slithered through her as she blended into the crowd. She couldn’t stop imagining the woman’s painted lips so close to his ear, the same as hers had been. She wondered what was whispered that drew that smirk to his lips. Had they plans to escape upstairs later on? Had she been the reason that Quinn hadn’t bothered to visit Chloe since she sent him the hastily drawn note?

But his presence here complicated things and she hesitated to proceed with the purpose of her visit. The lingerie was neatly folded inside of her satchel and the information would remain undeceived. It was inexcusable and Aaron’s operation would be stunted. The spy stood, hidden amongst the crowd and debated her next steps. She tarried long enough that she didn’t sense movement behind her. Instead, warm breath rushed across her ear as the sound of Quinn’s voice met her ears.

Clover whirled around to face him, staring up at his striking features. He had more facial hair than he had before. Immediately, she wondered how it would feel against the inside of her thigh. Fuck. And his hair was beautifully disheveled, falling back against his forehead despite his attempts to tame it. Fuck. And that wicked smirk playing his lips. Fuck. Stormy eyes met his and she felt breath catch in her throat. Her heart rate accelerated at their proximity. She could feel the heat of his body but it wasn’t enough.

Taking a step forward, the seamstress tilted her head up towards him, keeping one hand on her satchel. She did not miss the suspicious tone of his voice and raised one eyebrow as she cocked her head, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. “I could ask you the same thing, general.” She pointedly flicked her eyes over his shoulder to where Hera was placing a partially finished glass back on the bar. Disappointment was momentarily present in the set of the courtesan’s shoulders before she straightened and sought out her next mark. The whisper of Clover’s voice into the space between was heady.

“Some of us have to work.” She responded, lifting up her satchel slightly. It was important that any flicker of suspicion was squashed. There were two ways to proceed and the most effective would be to play along, to seduce him in a zone of comfort. But part of Clover was irritated that he hadn’t made an attempt to visit. That she had been alone. That he rendered a man brutalized and then vanished. Perhaps, she had been jealous. “And my clientele isn’t solely the elite of Northam.” A hurricane brewed in her eyes as she flicked them down over his body and then back up to his eyes. “So don’t let me keep you from a rousing evening of debauchery.”  Clover’s tone bordered on scathing.

Chloe’s exasperation caught Quinn off-guard. The pointed flick of her gaze toward where he’d just been posted with the blonde harlot at the bar prompted a quirked brow, curiosity written plainly on his face as he studied the seamstress’ expression. Chloe’s look was carefully schooled, as ever, but the storm in her gray-blue eyes churned with what he could only label as irritation. In the time he’d known her, he couldn’t recall witnessing that particular look. The nearest thing had been on Maria’s wedding day, when he’d pulled her aside and closed them both in the shadows of the upstairs storage room at Avondale. But even then, that had been more akin to indignation, and it had rapidly spiraled from the heat of anger to the scorch of desire. This was something else altogether.

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

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

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

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

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

The smirk always managed to elicit a myriad of conflicting emotions inside of her. She simultaneously longed to draw his bottom lip between her teeth and punch him directly in the face. He knew what he had done, his failure to respond to her note had left her feeling…no. She was fine. A momentarily lapse at the sight of that harlot fawning over him. And then here he was, smiling at her evident displeasure. Something shifted on his features though and she watched the brown of his eyes darken with realization, swirling against the gold that lingered there. Clover searched his face, looking it over carefully in their close proximity. The stubble on his cheeks looked like it was just beginning to take on the softness of a beard. Fingers twitched at her side as she restrained from running her hand along the side of his face. The faint scent of vertiver, with an undertone of nutmeg, began to waft over her and reminded her of how strong the smell was when his teeth grazed her neck, when his lips brushed her ear. Unwelcomed heat began to burn low inside of her.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

Quinn watched some of the tension melt from the swirl of anger in her gaze—a glimpse of calm blue seas in a silvery storm—and once again felt the warmth of satisfaction wash over him like a gentle tide. His posture was casual but confident as he pulled farther back, and his mouth curved into a devilish smile that he didn’t bother to dampen despite the sensation of so many gazes upon them. Let them watch. Let them wonder. Let them try to reconcile the stories of the violent, raging Executioner with the charming, charismatic Quinn Belvedere.

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

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

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

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

While Clover and Quinn’s interactions had been primarily physical in nature, she had begun to notice the little flicks of emotion that he kept largely concealed by a well-practiced mask. The surprise at her lack of acceptance of the attention was evident. It slid away when he gave her a softened smile, the kind she wondered if anyone else ever really saw. The thought released a rush of warmth unrelated to her desire.

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry. I –“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he say who it was?”

“No, unfortunately it’s hush hush.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quinn’s gaze darkened with hunger as he watched Chloe disappear into the shifting crowd. He remained rooted in place until he could no longer see her head of dark hair amongst the guests, his mind so far from Catherine’s opulent parlor that he almost didn’t notice a young man in military blues sidling up to him on the right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The contact sent a visible shiver down her spine, alighting each nerve as it went. Sparks danced in her vision, which she attributed to the electricity that always darted between her and the general. Again. Again. Again. There are so many things she’d like for him to do repetitively, the seamstress mused as she slid onto the plush carriage bench. The audible click of the door sent another excited shiver dancing down her back. She felt the heat of him, the nearness and anticipation wrapped its fingers around her throat and her mouth nearly went dry.

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

And still.

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

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

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

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