Quinn hunted her. He was looking for her. Each spy that he found, each time he consigned someone to the Mother’s Lament, he was truly hunting for her. He wanted to root her out, arrest her, display her before the elite and then torture every secret from her through pain. And then, after hours of not sleeping, she began to laugh at the sheer irony of how hard he sought her and how close he was. She laughed and laughed until at some point the laughter dissolved into sobs and tears finally wet her cheeks.

Now, she had to figure out a path forward. Because, she could end this for them. She could get unfettered access to the one being groomed to take Gregory Remington Walther’s place - to fill the void that her brother had left behind when he died. Clover stood, clenching the soft fabric of her gray skirts in her sweating palms. She oscillated between despair and resolution, heartbreak and determination. Rose had all but beat emotions from her - to put the cause above literally every other human need, especially personal affairs. Those were not a luxury the youngest Walther could ever afford.

Yet, she had found herself longing for it. She had found herself dreaming of togetherness and a life at Avondale with the general, as foolhardy of a notion as that was. Quinnley Belvedere had found a part of Clover that she hadn’t known had still existed. Fuck him. Fuck him.

He was a cog in this oppressive wheel, desiring nothing more than to maintain this regime and see all those that opposed it squashed beneath his boot. He saw the military as superior, as the bloodlines favored by the High Commander as more desirable than her own (or at least her perceived bloodline).

But was that true? He had never treated her as lesser. He had never thought she deserved specific treatment due to her position. Was it only because she fucked him? No. She had seen it, heard it when she had spied amongst the servants at Maria’s wedding. She had thought he was a good man - a monster but a good man. Clover of all people was well aware of how difficult it was to keep that dichotomy inside oneself.

How was she even hesitating? She knew what she needed to do. She knew what she should do. And the mere thought of thinking it made her ill. Her heart squeezed each time she imagined doing anything but wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with a terrifying ferocity.

The Resistance leader continued to argue with herself for another three hours before she heard the shoppe door open and Dennis limp inside.  She brushed along her face, twisted back her hair and straightened her clothes. Descending the steps, she called out to him before retrieving the cloak that she had been working on before Quinn’s arrival the previous evening.

The work served to be a delightful distraction throughout the day until just before closing when two notes arrived. One from Elora and one was Gloria Ramirez. She furrowed her brow. She had never been asked to craft a gown for a Ramirez. They notoriously preferred Kendall Richards across the city. They were both requesting her services - rush services for the following day. She scribbled out responses and sent Dennis out to deliver them.

———— ————

Elora arrived precisely on time with a request for Clover to refashion an old gown to fit this vision she had. It was a beautiful black and gold piece for some event that Lawrence had not gone into detail about. The Terril delivered some news, in the privacy of the back room, and fortunately it was good news considering what had transpired recently for the seamstress. She in return divulged what she had learned from the Belvedere residence regarding Resistance supporters. Elora never questioned how Clover obtained her information and their meeting was cut short with the early arrival of Gloria.

“Lady Ramirez,” Clover said, greeting the stunning woman with a smile and a deep incline of her head. “You honor me with the request to visit my shoppe.”

The woman looked down at Clover and her plain gray attire with a bit of disdain before eyes lit upon Elora. Her demeanor shifted entirely. She greeted someone of her station with enthusiasm, not bothering to respond to the seamstress directly. As Elora and Gloria exchanged pleasantries, Gloria’s companion (a maid perhaps?) began to detail what the woman was looking for and the timeline. She wanted the dress in five days and no later - for an event that was going to make quite the splash.

Gloria Ramirez was a stunning woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Chloe. She had bright red hair that spilled in thick curls down her back, half pinned up to draw them back to reveal a face blessed by whatever gods ruled this miserable earth. Her eyes were a deep brown, set to contrast starkly against her ivory skin and the lightest dapple of freckles across high cheeks and a thin, perfect nose.

Elora departed and finally the woman turned her attention to the shoppe owner. “I assume Gerty has filled you in on my needs.” A statement, not a question. Chloe dipped her head.

“Of course, miss. The timeline is tight and I -“

“Money is no object for this. I seek to draw the eye of someone who the investment will surely be worth the reward.”

“Of course, miss.” Chloe repeated and led Gloria to the private room, Gerty following closely behind. Chloe set about taking Gloria’s measurements and recording everything that she needed. As she did so, Gloria prattled on with Gerty as though Chloe did not even exist.

“And we will pair the dress with the emerald. Mother said she would let me borrow it. And my hair…” Chloe tuned out the detail talk until her attention was drawn abruptly back moments later. “His promotion would be a big step up for us. And he is rumored to be quite the beast in bed. I could positively make far worse matches. Everything must be perfect to draw Belvedere’s eye.”

Chloe’s fingers faltered on her sketch when she heard his name. This gown. This dress was for Quinn’s promotion. It was to draw him to Gloria Ramirez in hopes of making a marriage match. Something that the High Commander would undoubtedly be pushing towards the new Major General. An heir needed an heir after all. And what better blood to mix his with than Gloria Ramirez. Chloe swallowed harshly.

The remainder of the appointment passed in a blur of choosing a fabric and a cut and setting an obscene price. Gloria did not even blink at it.

———— ————

Multiple times over the next four days, Clover wanted to burn this dress in the hearth. Because it was positively perfect. It was one of the finest gowns she’d ever made, second only to Maria’s wedding dress. And Gloria was almost a perfect duplicate for Clover’s own form - even if she was a touch shorter than the seamstress. Briefly, the rebel thought of trying it on and what Quinn would say to see it on her. And when the thought would slide into her mind, she’d hiss in annoyance that she was still thinking of him this way. That she still saw him as her Quinn. As hers. And not as the Executioner. Not as her father’s chosen.

For if her father had chosen him, then he had to be positively awful to the core. Didn’t he?

The dress was packaged beautifully and sent to be delivered by hand by Dennis the morning of the event. The response card was a surprise, with words of praise for the finest dress the Ramirez girl had ever seen.

Clover tossed the card in the small fireplace in her loft and watched it be quickly consumed by the flames. It was late, having worked to finish the cloak downstairs in the shoppe. She stretched her aching muscles, stripping out of the brown dress and sliding into a pair of soft cotton pants and a thick sweater that hung loosely over a tight fitting blue shirt. She pulled stockings up to her knees before positioning the pants back on top. It was a freezing night. And there was something comforting about the attire  

The rebel leader settled down into her chair, turning the oil lamp down slightly as she prepared to sketch. What, she didn’t know. But something. Anything. To get her mind off of Quinn Belvedere. She had decided the prior evening that she was not going to kill him. She couldn’t. She knew it. She was in love with him, completely and utterly.  It didn’t matter what logic demanded. She wouldn’t kill him but neither would she stay the order of Aaron gave it once he heard who had been promoted.

As her mind whirred still, her fingers moved on their own volition. As she pondered the war torn landscape of her heart, her hands were drawing out a scene that was all too familiar. Quinnley. Covered in blood. Surprise on his face at seeing her. Recognition. And one thing she wished had been there - love. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He has scoffed at a future together. Scoffed, like she was actually beneath him. Yet, she dreamed it to life. The Executioner of her heart, it seemed.

She heard a knock on the door, a firm rap and she furrowed her brow. It was the front door and not the back. Official shoppe business, not spy craft. Clover descended the stairs, holding her sketchbook in her hands. She placed it on the counter as she moved across the first floor. Graphite stained fingers turned the lock and then the handle. Of all the people at her door she had considered, Major General Quinnley Belvedere was not one of them.

She could not hide the sharp inhale breath. “Quinn.” The following exhalation was his name with the mixture of all the emotions he had created inside of her over the last months. Clover searched his face, not moving from the doorway. Cold air bit at her cheeks and fingers but she stayed rooted to the spot. Blue eyes went stormy as she took him in. He was impeccably dressed, though even in her shock she noted small changes to the attire that would have enhanced his fantastic physique. Gaze found his amber eyes once more, noted the slight haziness to them. He was drunk. He was showing up at her door, the evening of his promotion announcement, drunk.

“What are you doing here?”

The state of the establishment beyond the door was not much more luxurious than its weathered exterior suggested. Quinn had been here before; it occupied a strange intersection between the upper and lower classes, catering to neither. It was the kind of place that asked no questions and made no assumptions. He unbuttoned his black coat and slid onto a barstool. He would surely be recognized, but the unspoken code of conduct here would protect him from being approached. Except, of course, by the bartender, who took his order and delivered his drink with nothing more than a curt nod.

He brought his glass to his lips. Whiskey. Not his drink of choice, but the burn felt fitting this night.

Quinn was admittedly not well-versed in rejection, romantic or sexual or otherwise, but he could accept it with valid reasoning. The only problem was that he knew she wanted him. So why, then, break things off just when things were getting good…getting better than good?

For fuck’s sake.

What was wrong with him? There had never been pretense between them. She was a great lay, but she wasn’t his only great lay. He could have his pick of women, or men, or anyone in between; he was not humble enough to deny his charisma and allure. So what was it about Chloe Paice that was making him absolutely, truly, deeply fucking crazy?

He was supposed to be celebrating. He, Quinnley Belvedere, son of the late and infamous Marius, had been hand-selected by High Commander Walther for a title and a post he’d been dreaming of since he was a boy. He’d personally led a squadron of soldiers to quash a rebellion in the mountains. Hell, he’d even been outsmarting Clover of late, picking off his rural operatives like a sharpshooter. But pride had been replaced with confusion and, with the alcohol warming his blood, a deepening tide of irritation. Chloe had the right to end things, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. In fact, he fucking hated it.

The bartender poured him another without saying a word.

Quinn returned to Avondale an hour later, leaving his horse to the stablehand and trudging to his bedroom. A hot shower banished the lingering chill from his muscles but did little for his mood, so he took a seat next to the flickering fire and went through the basket of mail that the staff had left on his desk.

Amongst seemingly endless missives on militia stationery, a wholly different envelope—with handwriting he recognized immediately—was caught between notes from the previous day’s delivery. His pulse picked up as he eased open the adhesive and unfolded the paper inside. She didn’t need to sign it; he would have recognized her sketching style anywhere. A soft smile erupted unbidden as he studied the lines and shading—not lewdly, despite the subject matter—but fondly, admiringly. He ran his thumb along the border of the paper, where a trail of her graphite fingerprints lined the edge. Those hands of hers that were so nimble, so skilled. So impressive. How small they always felt in his own hands.

That odd ache that had become familiar over the recent weeks twisted deeper in his gut, cutting like a knife. This wasn’t right. Surely they could still enjoy one another’s company. Why did his title, or her occupation, matter for a good fuck?

Not even with the alcohol could Quinn admit to himself that what he claimed this wasn’t was actually exactly what he wanted. A life. One where he could come home from Compound to find her waiting for him. To have her on his arm at social functions, the pair of them dressed to the nines. To feel her next to him in his bed every night, not just for the sex, but for the company. The conversation. The comforting presence and the reassuring touches.

But she was right, and he would have to get used to it. The general had no interest in someone who had no interest in him.

He just had to convince himself of that.

————

The ballroom at Wymberly was impressive even during the long stretches when it went unused. Northam hosted countless events throughout the year at various venues throughout Thebes, but very few were large or formal enough to warrant the use of the high commander’s personal ballroom. When its heavy curtains were drawn and electric lights doused, its high tin-tiled ceiling and grand curved staircase loaned it the feel of a cavern, or even a cathedral…sacrosanct, as if the dust that coated its floors and banisters were holy somehow. A gray skin preserving the memories of its most recent hurrah, until the servants came to clean the slate, preparing it for its next occasion.

It was certainly not the first formal to-do Quinn had graced at the Wymberly estate; it wasn’t the first time he’d descended the sweep of plush carpeted steps or stepped onto the fine marble floors. But the spectacle that greeted him when he appeared at the top of the staircase outdid any other event he’d attended there. Glittering and golden and lush, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

And frankly, he was impressed.

The paneled walls, already adorned with silver filigree, dripped now with ornate arrangements of evergreen foliage that cascaded ceiling to floor. Juniper and balsam and cedar perfumed the cool air, which would soon warm as more guests arrived to fill the space.

The general descended the stairs slowly and surveyed the burgeoning crowd, his polished dress boots sinking into the impossibly plush ivory carpet. Matching velvet curtains were drawn back with gold and silver tassels to reveal narrow two-story windows, which shone spectacularly with fragmented reflections of the massive crystal chandelier suspended in the center of the room. Even the floor, the white marble inlaid with subtle patterns of cream and silver, had been polished to a gloss so pristine it may as well have been a mirror.

Quinn paused at the first landing, tapping his fingers idly on the banister. A presence quietly appeared to his right, but the general didn’t turn; he knew who it was on instinct alone. “High Commander Walther,” Quinn addressed, waiting a beat before he turned to face their silver-haired leader. He crossed a fist over his chest in greeting.

“What do you think, Belvedere?” the high commander asked, his benevolent smile and easy posture loaning him the appearance of a mild-mannered benefactor. But the man was as finely dressed as Quinn, sporting a set of formal military blues in a saturated lapis that brightly contrasted Quinn’s dark indigo.

“Suitable, I suppose,” Quinn quipped, his neutral expression cracking into a smarmy grin.

The commander laughed heartily and clapped the general on the back. “Suitable is certainly what we aim for here at Wymberly,” he chuckled, quirking a brow as he regarded his newest chief appointee. “Although, with all this talk of the ‘Executioner of Earl’s Crossing’ perhaps I should have made you the overseer of the Mother’s Lament.” His expression darkened a little, affording Quinn a glimpse of the predator behind the smile. “Anyway. It’s well earned, Quinnley. Well deserved indeed.”

Quinn, aware of the appraisal, schooled his face to the picture of cool confidence—which wasn’t difficult, considering how he was cool and confident. Still, it always grated on his nerves when the man addressed him by his full first name. He smiled nevertheless. “It’s appreciated,” he returned, inclining his head in a small bow. “And I couldn’t be more thrilled at the honor, as you know.”

“That I do.” The High Commander stepped up to the railing, hazel eyes sweeping over the well-dressed guests like a lion deciding which antelope in the herd he might later make his prey. “Your father would be proud to see this day. To see how far you’ve come in his footsteps. And how far you’ve ventured beyond them, dare I say.”

Quinn silently bristled, but his face remained neutral. “I like to think so, too, sir.” He cast his gaze to the people milling below, most of whom he recognized from afar by mannerisms alone. By all accounts, it was as elite a guest list as one was likely ever to get—all high-ranking military and Thebesian darlings. The Terril siblings had arrived, the sister Elora making herself known instantly in a glittering ensemble of black and silver. The Hathaways. The Ramirez family. Colonel Ritchie and his elderly mother. Even jealous General Crenshaw’s crone of a wife picked her way solo through the crowd like a hen, her stride lacking any semblance of grace in a gauzy mauve gown. He might’ve pointed her out and shared a chuckle with the commander, if the topic of his father hadn’t just fouled his mood.

“You know, I once dreamed of a night like this for my son,” the high commander said, almost offhandedly. Quinn knew better. The man never did anything offhanded. “Look at us, Quinnley. You, lacking a father. And I, a son. What a team we make.”

Quinn was too skilled at masking his emotions to let it show, but a conflicting mix of revulsion and—to his own horror—pride festered beneath his perfectly pleasant visage. Being practically the same age as the late Gregoray Walther II, it had of course occurred to the Belvedere general that the high commander’s close attention and special grooming hadn’t only been the product of Quinn’s talent…but that it also fulfilled an opportunity for the aging man that the Rebellion had stolen from him that bloody night all those years ago. The High Commander was anything but sentimental (despite the act he so easily put on for the public), but Quinn knew him well enough to understand how driven he was to cement his legacy. Even if he had to settle for a lesser bloodline to do it.

But where the high commander had missed a son for nearly decade and a half, Quinn had only found himself lacking a father for the better part of a year. Their journeys were hardly parallel, even considering how absent General Marius Belvedere had been over the course of the twins’ life. And given the way in which Marius had met his end, well…the wound had barely formed a scab, and now the high commander was picking it open.

“Indeed,” Quinn replied smoothly, meeting the man’s eyes with a smile. Quinn never did anything offhandedly either. “Thank you, High Commander.”

“You’ve reaped what you’ve sown, Chief Belvedere,” the man said, sounding sage. “A harvest we’ve desperately needed for a long time. Enjoy yourself tonight.”

The high commander left him alone on the landing. Quinn rested both elbows on the rail. He largely ignored the feel of the eyes upon him from below. He looked the part: a perfectly coiffed, immaculately dressed general, wearing his new title not only as a bronze medal pinned to his jacket, but in the imperious lift of his chin, in the broad set of his shoulders. Where he normally wore a close-cropped beard in the winter months, tonight he was clean-shaven, the sharp cut of his jaw on full display. It was a calculated choice—the idea was to present himself as approachable, perhaps slightly younger than his years, to cement himself in the favorable graces of the elite. To soften, if only a little, his still-fresh reputation as the Executioner.

A phantom voice echoed through his mind as he stood there, scanning the crowd once more. Too bad you’re not wearing one of mine, it said, a sultry purr in his imagination—Chloe, with the ghost of her seamstress’ fingers trailing over the tailored jacket that swathed his broad shoulders. Had he been alone, he might have laughed. He thought back to the ensemble he’d worn to Maria’s wedding. The luxurious indigo jacket he wore now, which leaned daringly nearer to purple than blue, was far more traditional despite its color. Would she approve of his fabric selection, despite the regulation structure? I would move this seam, she might say, that confident gleam in her blue-gray eyes. Better to make out that physique of yours. And these buttons? She would flash a devilish smirk. Far too difficult to remove…

A shiver bolted down his spine. He found himself not just wishing she had been the one to craft his outfit but that Chloe was there at his side, clad in a gown of her own creation, gliding alongside him as he finally descended to the main floor. She would have been the talk of the party, possibly even more so than he, and he would have reveled in it with the same amount of pride. But that wasn’t to be, for more reasons than her life station. A pang of disappointment echoed through him. He’d grown too accustomed to thinking about her, and that habit was proving incredibly difficult to shake. Especially—annoyingly—now that she’d declared she wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore.

As soon as his polished shoes touched the marble floor, an arrival distracted the guests. Quinn followed their gazes toward the hallway door and was frankly not surprised to find that the object of everyone’s attention was his dear twin sister stepping over the threshold. He watched as Maria handed a luxurious fur-trimmed coat to the attendant, revealing a form-fitting dress in navy blue. A grin tugged at his lips. Military blues. A statement, to be sure, from the queen of statements—flared at the hem, with a high turtleneck and long sleeves. The impression was made even more profound by her husband’s simple black suit…no blue, no military involvement.

Maria found Quinn’s gaze immediately despite the crowd. She said something to the people around her and they laughed, turning to look at Quinn too.

“Brother dear,” Maria greeted, sisterly mischief pulling her painted lips into a grin. She reached up to pat his clean-shaven cheek. “You look like you did when we were ten.”

Quinn snorted. “As always, Mia, your kindness is unparalleled,” he drawled. He gave a nod of greeting to Max, then flicked his gaze back to his smirking sister. “I wasn’t sure whether to expect you after your last message.”

“Anything to keep you guessing.”

“We had the wind on our side across the Atlantic,” Max explained. He seemed relieved there was a topic he could contribute to. “Made it back to the port in Washentown with a day to spare, and got to Thebes a few hours ago.”

“And how was…?”

“The Canarias,” Maria supplied, looking miffed that he hadn’t recalled their most recent destination. “It’s an archipelago off the coast of Morocco—”

“I’m sure he knows about the Canarias, darling,” Max cut in. “He has more things to think about than memorizing our travel itineraries.” Quinn arched a brow and chuckled, pleasantly surprised by Max’s forwardness. Maria shot him a look that quickly gave way to a smile.

“He’s right,” Quinn said. “I’m familiar. We did take the same geography lessons, you know.”

“Like anyone could pay attention to old Master Ventra.”

At that, the twins shared a knowing laugh. Maria’s expression sobered first, and she intercepted a waiter carrying flutes of rosy champagne. She passed a glass to Max and Quinn, then raised hers between them. “Congratulations, General Belvedere,” she toasted, her voice warm. A hint of pride twinkled in her amber eyes, and Quinn was surprisingly touched by the unexpected sentiment from his stalwart sister. She made no mention of their father as might have been expected; instead, they shared a sort of stubborn glee in the knowledge that the old bastard’s son had risen above him. Quinn was suddenly very glad she’d made it.

“I must go make my rounds,” declared Maria. “I promised Max we’d get them over with early.”

Max looked mortified that she’d admitted such. The general swallowed the remainder of his champagne and laughed. “Truthfully, I don’t blame you,” he said. As if to reinforce his point, he snagged a glass of white wine from a passing waiter and brought the chalice greedily to his lips.

The Lanes then disappeared into the sea of guests, leaving Quinn at the mercy of the passing attendees who felt the need to strike up a conversation with the guest of honor. The ones with lower social standing tended to offer him quick, reverent congratulations before going on their way, as if afraid to bother him. The higher-status guests were not shy in roping him into conversations, bringing him into their interpersonal debates, doling halfhearted condolences over the loss of his parents, or gushing over everything they’d heard about the incident in Earl’s Crossing. “We heard you took the town without losing a single soldier,” the middle-aged wife of some newly-appointed colonel said, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. Her friend, clad in pale yellow, gawked at him wide-eyed as she added, “I heard they were building an army to march on Thebes, and you killed every last one of them.”

Quinn had neither the desire nor the energy to correct their stories. Information churned out from society’s gossip mill was rarely accurate and impossible to manage. So he drank his wine and smiled along—which sometimes made the women blush, and he had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes—and waited patiently for them to excuse themselves, only for them to be replaced by others just as eager to hear him speak about Earl’s Crossing. Which, of course, he never did.

He deposited his empty glass on a table nearby and found himself mercifully alone. The general wasn’t sure how many glasses of wine he’d downed since the party had really gotten going, but it was enough that the glow of the electric lights were haloed in hazy gold and the stream of waltzing couples on the dance floor seemed to flow like a river before his eyes.

A pretty young woman sidled up to him, interrupting his reprieve. “General,” she said, batting long black lashes up at him. She was petite, bolstered by tall silver high-heeled shoes, and wore a ruched scarlet dress that stopped at her knees. “I’ve been watching you all night,” she drawled, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Waiting to get you alone.”

With the wine coursing in his blood lowering his inhibitions, Quinn wanted to laugh. Instead, he offered her a lopsided smile. “So I have an admirer?” he replied diplomatically.

“You do.” The woman stretched out a manicured hand. “And her name is Therese. Therese Saintclair.”

Quinn’s own hand felt enormous as it wrapped around Therese’s small fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips. “A pleasure, Miss Saintclair.” He knew her uncle; Robert Saintclair was a ruthless Colonel who frequented Compound on overnight shifts, prowling the grounds like a wolf.

She tossed her platinum blond hair over her bare shoulder, exposing the cut of her collarbone and the length of her slender neck. “I’d like to show you just how much of a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance,” she murmured, her breath perfumed with alcohol. Her lips brushed his ear, just barely, and he thought instantly of Chloe. Of whispered words and challenges. Of monsters and their pleasure.

For a moment, he imagined what it might be like to bring someone like Therese Saintclair to his bed. But it felt wrong somehow. Hollow. This woman was undeniably beautiful, well-connected, and even quite bold with the help of the booze. But she didn’t excite him; for the flames behind his ribs, she was mere kindling, a quick shimmer that would drop to cold ash and leave him voracious for more.

Chloe, on the other hand, was gasoline.

As if in response, the seamstress’ voice echoed in his head, clear as a bell. All the women want to fuck you, she’d say, laughing wickedly, and the men can’t decide whether they want to fuck you or BE you.

He chuckled out loud before he could stop himself. Therese’s blue eyes lit up at that and took it as an invitation to get closer, pressing the entire length of her side against him as she nestled against his shoulder. Quinn could feel eyes glancing in their direction, so he tolerated it for a moment before breaking away with the excuse of fetching another drink. Some frilly cocktail, he noted with distaste, but realized it could still serve a purpose by thrusting it in Therese’s hand. She did not pick up on the fact that the gesture was an excuse to put distance between them, instead reading it as a gentlemanly favor. Hmm. Pretty enough. But she’s either an idiot or a drunk. Probably both, Chloe’s voice whispered to him.

“Please excuse me, Miss Saintclair. I must have a word with my sister,” he said politely, hardly daring to crack a smile for fear of her inviting herself along. Once, he might’ve been delighted by the attention—the attention he’d been getting all night, in fact. He’d have his pick of adoring ladies at the end of the evening, and probably could have helped himself to more than a single serving, at that. What has that damn seamstress done to me? he thought.

“I’ll be waiting, General.”

The way the blonde spoke his rank prompted the hairs on the back of neck to rise as he walked briskly away. It was a smooth purr, respectful, a tone he might have found appealing before. But it was nothing like how Chloe said it. The seamstress uttered his name like he was a battle to be fought, a challenge to be won—not some idol to be worshiped or false hero to be praised. Like he was more than just the title that preceded his name, or the legacy of his family dynasty. She made him feel like he was, foremost, a man. None of the rest of it had mattered to her.

Had. It hadn’t mattered to her until suddenly it did, and she swiftly closed the book on their impassioned era. The disappointment he’d felt at Chloe’s dismissal had been eating at him like an acid. As bitterness washed over him, the golden lights and the decor were suddenly too garish, too saturated. And if he heard one more fucking arpeggio from the string quartet in the corner, he feared he might show everyone in attendance just how he’d earned his nickname at Earl’s Crossing.

It wasn’t easy to escape Wymberly unnoticed. Apart from Compound, the high commander’s estate was the most secured place in all of Thebes and probably all of Northam. Fortunately, Quinn’s status and reputation meant very few ranked high enough to stop him from leaving, and even fewer had the guts to say anything to his face. He wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather—he hadn’t bothered tracking down his winter overcoat before he slipped out—but the wine in his belly and blood kept him from shivering as a jittery member of the Wymberly livery staff brought him a horse.

“And your coat, sir, from the valet,” the young boy stammered, thrusting the heavy wool garment at him.

Quinn slid his arms into the warm embrace of the coat and then cantered down the long oak-lined driveway, the icy wind sobering him up a little. The guards at the gate let him pass with a series of posture-perfect salutes, and he burst out onto the deserted street with a clatter of hooves in the nighttime silence. The road that passed in front of Wymberly had been blockaded for the event, of course, but it was still very late; most of Thebes had hunkered down for the night. Quinn found himself turning left onto the Avenue…one route to Avondale, yes, but also the thoroughfare upon which a certain seamstress ran her shoppe.

The street lamps were mostly doused at this time of night to conserve energy, with only one every few blocks left illuminated to break up the darkness. The general felt more like a shadow than a man as he wended his way down the deserted road, hoofbeats muffled by packed snow on the cobbles. Nearly all the storefronts were dark, with heavy curtains drawn across the windowpanes against the cold. The abandoned Avenue, combined with the influence of a few too many drinks, left Quinn with the eerie sense that he had somehow detached from the world—as if he wandered through some kind of dream, where the snow glittered a little too sharply and the shadows seemed to swim on their own.

But that couldn’t be, because in his dreams he wouldn’t simply pause outside Rose’s, paralyzed with indecision. He wouldn’t chew on his lower lip, debating whether or not to knock on the front door. He wouldn’t spend long, frigid minutes staring up at the soft glow of lamplight that leaked from a gap in the curtains on the second floor. And he definitely wouldn’t be hearing the memory of Chloe’s voice declare over and over that they shouldn’t see each other anymore.

No, in his dreams, he would already be inside, backing her into the wall, breathing her in, trailing kisses over every hidden inch of her.

“Fuck,” the exquisitely-dressed general whispered to himself, the word escaping in a silvery cloud carried away by the wind.

He dismounted gracefully considering the concentration of wine in his blood and secured his horse to the hitching post outside, fumbling a little with the reins.

She told you to go, he told himself. She ended this.

Ended it? With you? the darker part of him retorted. A woman doesn’t willingly give up Quinn Belvedere.

He stepped up to the shoppe door, fine snow-dust blowing from the rooftops and settling like glitter in his wind-tossed hair.

What kind of a man would you be if you didn’t heed her wishes?

The darkness in him stirred, flashed its teeth. Not a good one.

He rapped a bare knuckle on the door.

And waited.

Regardless, she couldn’t be seen on his arm. She couldn’t draw that sort of attention and she most certainly would never walk the halls of Wymberly so long as he was alive. She searched her lover’s face as he remained close. Fingers itched to run through his curls, to dishevel them in a way that only she could. Memories swirled around in her mind - the smell of him, his laugh, his hand in hers. Clover mentally attempted to patch the hole his words were leaving in her, like trying to put a bandaid on a broken dam. Futile.

And the fine silver thread that had bound them together since she first laid eyes on him, drew tighter and tighter with each step he took away from her. She felt it, begging her to go after him. To stop him. To beg him. So tight it was nearly pulling her shattered heart right out of her chest.

Snap.

The door closed behind him. Not with a slam but with a click, making it all the worse. She watched him, rooted to the spot as he disappeared onto the street. She longed to let her knees buckle, to sink to the floor and weep into it. The fabric of her skirts would absorb the tears that would undoubtedly roll down her face. The tight knot inside of her twisted, pressing and pressing and pressing against her lungs. Daring to release the breath, it came out like a sob - a pitiful, mournful sound.  But that was all she permitted herself. With practiced hands, acting out of instinct rather than true attention, she packaged everything up for the night. She locked the front door and drew the curtains.

Aaron. She needed to see Aaron.

-

The streets were livelier than she had anticipated, with boisterous drunkards and their companions for the evening wandering along the streets. She drew the hood of her brown clock further down over her face, blocking the wisps of snow that swirled in the gusts of wind. It was a longer walk that she would have desired at this time of year, meandering through the city to prevent a direct path of being followed. Finally, she pushed into Aaron’s bar.

It was thickly packed with patrons hiding from the winter inside by the fire and with the warmth of lovers on their laps. Stormy gaze slid from person to person in quick succession before she lowered her hood. Tapping her old boots against the wood to her left, she wound through until her eyes met Aaron’s. It must have been something etched in the lines of her face, or perhaps he just knew her soul so well, but his smile faltered before it even made its way to his mouth. Large, calloused hand smacked the back of another bartender’s shoulder and he jerked his head to his back office.

The door clicked behind her as she drew off her cloak and let the brown fabric hang from a hook by the fire in hopes it would help dry the hem. She settled into the familiar chair beside the flames and was brought a glass of scotch, neat. She raised her eyebrows at him and he settled across from her, giving her a knowing raise of his eyebrow. Clover’s attention shifted back to the flames, feeling the crushing weight in her chest again. It was suffocating and yet the pain wouldn’t completely claim her. She was trapped in this purgatory, an emotional hell.

“Well?” He inquired once and then let the silence surround them again, broken only by the snap and hiss of fire licking alongside wood. The seamstress continued to stare, willing the flames to swallow her whole, to end whatever sort of grief this was that was spreading through her like a cancer.

“I got too close to a mark.” Not entirely the truth but close enough.

“Ah.” Aaron reclined, crossing his ankle over his knee and balancing his own full glass atop it. Again, silence. He was more than good at listening. A bartender’s gift, he had called it on more than one occasion, and an excellent method of extracting information without actually seeming interested.

“I don’t like how this feels.” Clover nearly whispered the words, holding the drink that still hadn’t made its way to her lips. She feared that not even the alcohol could dull whatever this was, could wipe his words from her memory.

“It is not pleasant, no.” Gray-blue eyes met his then and he smiled sadly.

“Your situation is a bit different.” She corrected. “Mine was my own foolishness.” Finally, she took a long, slow sip of the amber liquid and felt it burn all the way down to her empty stomach. “I can’t believe it.”

“Does he know anything?” Aaron asked without accusations in his tone. Clover still cut him a withering look.

“I was foolish, not reckless.”

“Hmmm. Want to talk about them?”

“Yes.” Another sip. “And no.” They drank, letting the quiet soothe the sharpness of the emotions. Whether it was the companionship or the alcohol, the knot unwound some and Clover let her dark head recline back into the chair, closing her eyes.

“He is in the militia. I’ve gotten good intel from him and it was so…easy. And then suddenly…” a toss of her head, slight, irritated at herself. “It was like I was running along as I always have and then I just ran right off a cliff. It wasn’t slow or easy. It was all at once.”

Aaron examined the woman across from him. Nearly young enough to be his daughter, he wondered how many people thought they were truly lovers. It was a good ruse, an easy excuse, but he looked at her only with the fondness of family. And with that too, he now looked at her with pity. Her situation was all circumstance. Born to those parents, ripped from her life and thrust into this one. One not meant for children. Rose had cared for this woman before him, but the seamstress and rebel had not known how to raise a daughter. She had not sought to preserve Clover’s delicate edges, to guide her into womanhood and allow her emotions. Rose preached that emotions got you killed. It wasn’t untrue but as he noted the tension in the Walther’s shoulders and the crease in her brow, he wished they had done it differently.

Clover recounted her relationship with Quinn to Aaron then, careful about the details and omitting certain parts. Yet he received the gist and he felt the pain in her words when she realized she had to sever ties, and then how the man’s words cut her open and left her bleeding. Even as her voice faltered once or twice, she didn’t cry. She held it close inside of her and pressed it firmer and firmer, turning carbon into diamond.

“You did what you had to.” He sighed, setting down his glass on the side table. “And I’m sorry for it.”

Her eyes opened, swirling gray and blue and silver like a hurricane brewing in the ocean. “I know.” Leaning forward, she settled her elbows on her knees and ran both hands through her hair. Clasping her hands on the back of her neck she exhaled slowly through her nose. Clover held the position for what felt like a decade before sitting up straight.

“What news is there?”

“Marigold and her son are settled. But we lost Patrice in Junakuska. Someone’s rooting them out far faster than we can recruit them. And there aren’t enough people to train them quickly and improper training is getting them killed.”

“What we need is to eliminate whoever is masterminding this. If we can determine who is it precisely, we could activate the Lark.”

“We were saving them for the High Commander, a last resort.”

“I understand but if we eliminate him and this man takes his place we’re in an even worse position. Without a significant heir, they would squabble at his grave but I suspect whoever is eliminating us so swiftly will be a contender. I’ll see what I can uncover.” Clover’s head throbbed. And as it throbbed, a snake slide through her body. It was a hissing, spitting thing so full of venom she snapped her head back up. Realization, just as swift as the one earlier, slammed into her. Blood drained from her face. Her mouth went completely dry and her blood turned to icy sludge in her veins.

Quinn.

The heir apparent was Quinn.

The muscles in Chloe’s neck tensed almost imperceptibly, and her posture stiffened. She was no longer langourous on the stool, draped like a fine silk…she was nocked and ready to fire. Or flee.

After all this time in each other’s beds, he knew the intimate details of her body—the way she carried herself, how her body reacted to his, how she fearlessly took up space in his presence. He knew her in pleasure and he’d seen her in pain. He’d even had the privilege of witnessing her awe, bewitched by the artworks that lined the halls of the High Commander’s museum.

But Chloe’s reaction to this was visceral.

As if his good news was not, in fact, good news.

He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d imagined this moment a playing out hundred different ways since his visit to Wymberly. But this? Not once had it occurred to him she may not react with the same unbridled enthusiasm he felt. And yet he’d seen it! Just for a moment, as brief as a flash of summer heat lightning, her eyes had shone bright with the emotion he’d waited days to witness. True to the blue-gray storm that always churned in her gaze, however, the clouds darkened. The curtains fell. The walls rose. She’d allowed him in, and then just as quickly slammed the door in his face.

Well, the general, too, could build a fortress. The warmth in his expression faded as she spoke, replaced with a practiced cool indifference that belied the hollow ache that had carved itself into his chest. “Thank you for the congratulations, Miss Paice,” he replied, allowing his hand to slide back to his side. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further. She’d struck a nerve, but he refused to let her see it. He didn’t step away; he kept his body angled toward her, despite the change in her manner.

“I fear you’ve misunderstood me,” Quinn continued, a smile tilting his lips—exactly what one might expect of a general with a reputation such as his. “Where exactly did you imagine this going, Miss Paice? I’m hardly proposing marriage here.” A laugh, nonchalant. “I simply thought you might appreciate a night out. A chance to wear one of your fine gowns.” He hummed. “Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company. In more ways that one.” Memories of their wicked trysts darkened his gaze, but rather than excite him, the thoughts only amplified the discomfort in his gut. Still, he kept that part of him hidden carefully away.

“But you are absolutely right,” he drawled, “and I understand.”

Except he most definitely did not understand.

His casual tone was alarmingly convincing, as if he’d been through this same process a hundred times before. There was nothing in his body language that indicated how impossible it felt to drag himself away from the seamstress. How the distance of the counter between them felt like a mile.

He had to force himself to look back at her as he slid open the lock and tugged at the door, amber meeting storm in a collision that made him feel unsteady. “It was fun while it lasted, Miss Paice, but every flame is bound to burn itself out eventually. Take care, please.”

Their mouths met. Not the collision of monstrous titans, warring for dominance, but affectionate. It was brief but so inviting, warm and comforting - like home. Shock slid through her at the thought, leaving her a bit dazed. The general’s words wrapped her up with their sincerity. Each word he spoke was another battering ram against the walls she wanted to keep between them. Stormy gaze searched his face, amazed at the boyishness of his features. He was elated, truly and utterly thrilled to talk to her. To talk to her, not to take her to bed. Walls crumbled, leaving her exposed and excited. She smiled gently, briefly looking down at how he rubbed at her hand, almost nervously. The feel of his calloused skin against her knuckles was like a balm to the anxiety coursing through her. Perhaps…

Milliseconds was all her mind needed to run rampant with the idea. The idea of coming home to him. The idea of sitting together and sharing their lives. His mouth on hers in that tender, warm way that reminded her of a sensation she had not felt in decades. Quinnley Belvedere could be hers. Truly and totally hers.

The intensity in his gaze when their eyes met again startled her almost as much as his news. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. He was a general in the High Commander’s military. He was responsible for rooting out enemies, responsible for supporting the oppressive regime that she was fighting with every single breath she took. And he was moving up in those ranks. That meant - she swallowed hard, searching his face. She knew what he wanted from her. She knew what he needed from her. Because it was precisely how she had felt last night. She wanted to share her life with him, her hopes and dreams and activities. If he was doing precisely what she was doing then that could only mean that she was not alone. He - he - he couldn’t. No. No. No. No.

The emotional whiplash was too much.

Suddenly, it was like she was drowning and falling all at the same time. The ocean roared in her ears and the earth was pulled out from beneath her feet. Major General Quinnley Belvedere. Major General. As suddenly as it hit her, she returned to her senses. Clover’s body was on autopilot with years of training kicking into gear. She smiled, weakly, looking down at their hands. As she squeezed them gently, the seamstress felt an entirely new sensation. A tight, crushing grip grabbed her heart and squeezed with all its might. Her hands withdrew and she took a step back before meeting his face again.

“Congratulations, General. The High Commander would be a fool to not recognize your talents and reward them appropriately.” Clover gave him another small smile as her heart was breaking, as she rebuilt those walls for the sake of the Resistance. For something bigger than herself. At the expense of what might have been happiness, what could have been love if she let this go further. But it couldn’t. He couldn’t feel for her. She had to end this now. “You honor me with the invitation,” the words were stiff, as if forced but she kept her tone lighter. Every ounce of training from Rose was utilized to keep from caving. “But I thought we both understood what this is, what this was.” Everything. “I am a seamstress and you are a Major General. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further.” She fought the urge to look away, to hide the feelings beneath that he might see lurking. Clover kept her gaze on his face, her expression pitying even as she longed to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. “I am sorry if I gave you any different impression.”

Maddening, of course, because their wicked escapades had become so addicting. It was pleasure, nothing more, that kept the two of them coming back again and again. Worth it, to be sure; the thought of it was enough to stoke the embers that perpetually smoldered for her, and he wet his lip with his tongue, studying her. She was dressed in what he recognized as one of her standard workday outfits, with a soft measuring tape slung casually around her shoulders and bits of snipped golden thread stuck to her lap. His smile broadened. Her intensity radiated even like this, in the middle of the workday, and he knew her well enough to see it. Or maybe she felt comfortable enough with him now to let him see the real her.

The thought thrilled him more than it should have, and the monster that dwelled behind his ribs stirred to life.

Boldly, perhaps too boldly, the general reached over and flipped the ‘open’ sign in the window to ‘closed’ and twisted the lock closed. “I have something to share with you,” he said, his voice betraying his excitement. He strolled around the counter, closing the gap between them. A magnetic pull dragged him forward and he pressed his lips gently to hers. Warmth spread from his core to his fingertips and back again. “I missed you,” he heard himself say when he pulled away. He’d meant it to sound tantalizing, but what came out was raw earnestness, his heart skipping a beat.

Quinn cleared his throat and stood straighter, reaching for one of her hands. “I’ve been counting the minutes until I could come back here,” he admitted, running his thumb over her knuckles, tracing the silvery scar there. He kept his amber gaze low, looking at their entwined hands. “It was torture to wait. But I received some very exciting news last week. It’s part of the reason why I was kept away…” He trailed off, then looked suddenly upward, capturing her stormy stare. “I’ve been promoted.”

His heart picked up its rhythm, thrilled to finally speak the words out loud. “It’s not being announced to the public for another couple of days. But I had to tell you. You’re looking at Major General Quinnley Belvedere, now. It's...well, it's something I've been working toward for a long time.” He grinned crookedly, but his gaze was sharp, watching for her reaction. “There is to be a celebration in my honor at Wymberly next week. Miss Paice, would you consider joining me there?”

Even Dennis questioned where her attention was, bringing it to her notice that she had stitched a golden bird on Ms. Aryn’s cloak instead of the white dove. Shaking her head, dark strands fell against her cheeks. “I just don’t know where my head is at today. Thank you for catching that before I had the sleeves completed.” She reached for her seam ripper and a small, precise pair of sewing scissors. She removed all of the golden thread (a costly mistake but not irreparable fortunately) and set the entire project aside.

Clover needed to clear her mind and the best way to do that was with a thorough talk with Aaron. She wouldn’t divulge the extent of her transgressions but she could receive enough of a scolding to wake her from this stupor she’d been in for the last month. At a military man’s beck and call. Certainly, she had garnered useful information and not just having been able to save Marigold, but it wasn’t her purpose for the relationship and that’s what was so frightening. They also needed to discuss who the man was that was rooting out their spies. He was decimating her carefully orchestrated network and it was making it exceedingly difficult to recruit. And with the idea that other countries were no longer on their side…the difficulty was increasing and rapidly.

Fortunately for the rebel leader, the General in no way felt how she did. To him, this was a convenient fuck. It was a great lay but she knew someone of his status would never deign to truly engage with someone of her station. She took comfort in that fact and convinced herself that the relationship could be maintained for that reason. It was a dangerous game she played - not of spy and rebel but of the heart. So much more frightening.

“I should probably just close the shoppe with how out of it I am,” Chloe waved a hand. There were no pressing galas, no formal weddings - nothing urgent. “Take the rest of the afternoon off.” She could go see Aaron, grab a drink at the bar and try to sleep over the insanity that had come over her. Hopefully, though, her sketch would be lost in his pile of mail and his interest had waned. To be ghosted was the best that she could hope for. If Quinn would just be a phantom haunting the corners of her mind, she could survive it.

“You sure?” Dennis asked, even as he began packing up. Clover knew he had a little woman he’d taken a shine to and a few extra hours with her was exactly what he wanted.

“Of course. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved him off and heard the door chime shortly after. Clover hung the cloak up in the back hall, securing it on the hanger. She heard the door chime again and frowned, wishing she had asked Dennis to lock the latch behind him. “Just a minute!” She called out, brushing back the errant strands of hair and putting on her best Chloe as she entered the front of the shoppe.

A broad smile, a true smile that she would have recognized anywhere, greeted her. Quinn. Clover’s heart stuttered in her chest. She abruptly came to a halt, startled by both his presence and the twist in her chest. “Not at all.” She immediately smiled back, settling onto the stool behind the counter. A little distance between them should help. “Though I admit this is a surprise.” She closed her ledger and set her pencil atop, gray eyes meeting gold. “How can I be of service?”

Captain Smith, clearing his throat, spoke first. “Our initial two persons of interest in Earl’s Crossing has turned to three, and they’ve been under our surveillance for several weeks now.” He shuffled some papers, using pins to stick two highly detailed typewritten profiles to the corkboard.

Quinn stood to the side, looking directly at the High Commander. The regime leader hardly blinked, his hazel eyes returning the general’s gaze like a predator ready to charge. “This is the first of our targets, Antoine Wacker,” Quinn began. “Early twenties. A farrier by trade, tending to local horses under his father’s tutelage before he was conscripted. Now he serves the military stables in Earl’s Crossing. He would be a smart recruit for Clover, being close to mid- and high-ranking officers when they aren’t expecting to be overheard.”

“But,” added Smith with a smirk on his scarred face, “easier for us to keep an eye on.”

The High Commander nodded once, which Quinn knew to be a good sign. Smith filled in a few more details before they continued to their next profile.

“The second has proven more difficult to track,” prefaced Quinn. “A woman, Bryn Tidewater, lifelong resident of Earl’s Crossing. Mid-thirties, no children. She and her husband Gerald owned the general store that was ransacked during the siege. Gerald was executed for treason alongside his brother and nephew. Since then, Bryn has taken over the business and is attempting to rebuild. It puts her in a position to be communicating with vendors and shippers and townsfolk, including traveling soldiers who use the store for bulk goods on their way through the mountains.” He paused. “Clover would be a fool not to take advantage of someone in a position like hers. And we know he is no fool. To be frank, I suspect Clover had already begun to make moves in Earl’s Crossing when the other rebellion broke out. I still don’t believe they are connected.”

Quinn gnawed at his lip. “The third is a new discovery, and less well positioned from a strategic standpoint, but we believe she has been passing messages between third and fourth parties. A local baker named Marigold. Our intelligence flagged her as suspicious after a few visits to Bryn Tidewater’s general store for supplies. We’ve had eyes on her for…”

“Two and a half weeks,” Smith provided with a confident nod.

“What are your recommendations, General Belvedere?” the High Commander asked.

“Stay the course with Antoine Wacker indefinitely. He lives in the militia barracks and works long shifts in the stables. Keeping tabs on him is easy. We bring him in if his behavior changes or he attempts to leave town. Until then, I recommend we start planting information—nothing important—just to see if we can link him to a leak.”

“And the Tidewater widow?”

“Mrs. Tidewater has been more of a challenge to surveil, but our efforts have dredged up some promising leads. Including the baker.” Quinn smiled then, his amber eyes dark. This was the thrill of the chase. A strategic burn. A plan coming together. “It’s too risky right now to feed either of them false information. Given the slow rate of activity in the aftermath of the attack, I recommend we continue watching them for another fortnight. Use them to get to others. Then we employ more…direct measures.”

Another nod from the High Commander as Captain Smith moved on to logistics, pinning more papers to the board in quick succession. Quinn could feel the Walther man’s eyes on him. Appraising. Calculating. But for what, Quinn couldn’t guess. He knew his work was solid. He knew his strategy was smart. Still, feeling the sharp attention of the nation’s most dangerous man garnered mixed emotions—honor, anxiety, pride, revulsion.

Not for the first time, Quinn wished his father Marius was there.

As if his emotions weren’t mixed enough.

———

The next two weeks were a whirlwind. Progress at Earl’s Crossing was moving faster than any of them had imagined, the wheels in motion gaining a momentum that had no sign of slowing down. Energized by the excitement of it all, Quinn Belvedere spent every spare moment in the company of Chloe Paice. At Avondale. At her shoppe. In the carriage. As the sun shone, the night fell, as snowstorms raged—he couldn’t get enough of her, until every waking thought tethered him back to the seamstress.

Yet the more time they spent together, the more insistent the feeling that twinged behind his ribs became. Warm, like embers, but bitter, like longing. Until he couldn’t deny it anymore.

But he could ignore it. At least for now.

Never mind that the wintry sky, dark on the horizon, reminded him of her inquisitive gray eyes. Or the heavy snowflakes, they way he pictured them shining like constellations when they caught on her dark hair. He could ignore those things, too.

Although his strategic successes had thus far outweighed the setbacks, there had been some minor snags and developments that were weighing on him, and keeping him from spending as much time with Chloe. He wanted so badly to recount his days to her—the wins and the losses, the gains and the frustrations. More than once he found the words on the edge of his tongue, begging to be released.

So when the High Commander summoned Quinn to Wymberly, the vague invitation penned personally and sealed with the Walther’s infamous crest of twin serpents, his first instinct was to tell Chloe. The darkness in him stirred to life at the thought of it. He even imagined her accompanying him there. But that was ridiculous; he had made the seamstress part of his routine (a daily one, of late, he realized with a smirk to himself) and it was simply habit that had conjured the thought.

The High Commander was waiting for him in his study, a fire crackling in the hearth.

“Have a seat, please, General Belvedere,” the man said, gesturing with a smile to the empty leather armchair facing the fireplace.

Quinn saluted, his expression curious as he glanced around the room. This was the first time he had been summoned directly to the High Commander’s personal study, and the impressive space felt more like a library, or a clubhouse, than an office. He took his seat, and to his surprise, the Walther man reached over to pour him a glass of gin. The two men were alone.

Quinn didn’t dare take a drink before his superior did, but the man neither moved nor spoke. Just stared at the general, eyes glittering dangerously in the firelight. Had he misinterpreted the summons? “Is this about the missing Earl’s Crossing informant?” Quinn heard himself ask, suddenly on edge. “Because I can assure you, we have several leads as to the baker’s whereabouts, and this virtually confirms our suspicions—”

The High Commander held up a hand, which silenced Quinn immediately. The general quirked a small smile, trying to dispel whatever strange tension had settled between them. If this meeting wasn’t to discuss his mission’s setbacks, then—

“Major General Quinnley Marius Belvedere.”

Quinn’s brows shot up. "Sir?"

“I’m promoting you.”

What?

The High Commander’s face broke into a broad smile, and he lifted his glass. “Major General Quinnley Marius Belvedere,” he repeated, his smooth baritone enunciating every syllable. “I have also listed you as next in line for Chief of the Academy, once General Baxter retires from his post.”

Had Quinn not been so adept at schooling his mannerisms, he might’ve dropped his glass of gin. “Sir,” he said, not bothering to hide the shock on his face. “I…it’s an honor, sir.”

“This is well deserved, Quinnley. You are young yet, but you have proven your capability and your loyalty since the moment you stepped foot into the Academy as a trainee. And before.” The High Commander took a sip of his gin at last, freeing Quinn to do the same. “A fine soldier. A bold leader. A clever strategist. A true testament to your lineage. I should always like to have a Belvedere by my side.”

Any other time, the possessiveness in that statement might have made him bristle; now, however, caught up in the surprise of it all, Quinn felt nothing but pride ballooning in his chest. The jump from Brigadier General to Major General was no small thing, and as the High Commander had alluded, he was on the younger side for such a rank.

Let them object. Let them talk. They already did.

“Thank you, sir,” was all he could manage.

“I’ve arranged a celebration,” the High Commander continued. “In a week’s time we will make the announcement and mark the occasion with a party. Here, at Wymberly, if that suits you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Welcome to the upper echelon, General,” the High Commander drawled. “I hope you enjoy the view.”

———

Whether it was the gin, the wine, or the overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Quinn practically floated back to Avondale that night. It was well past midnight, and the fire in his bedroom blazed hot, warming his bones as he undressed from his formal blues and slid on his wool robe. His bed was disappointingly empty, and he grinned at the thought of summoning Chloe again—she’d been furious at his audacity, and hadn’t been afraid to let him know about it—but it was far too late to send a carriage now. He would simply have to wait to deliver his good news in person.

Disappointment swept over him. Quinn didn’t want to wait. He wanted to fill her in on all the details, not just of his conversation with the High Commander, but everything that had led up to it. His strategies, the rebels he’d tracked down, the spies he’d caught. How he’d won over the other captains and generals at Compound. He wanted to see pride in her gray eyes. He wanted to see that smile she donned when she thought he wasn’t looking—intense but soft, intimate, almost like…well, like she might feel…

No, certainly not that. They were kindred spirits, nothing more. The alcohol in his blood was clearly clouding his judgment.

Yet the thought of that was suddenly all his swimming thoughts wanted to focus on. He climbed into bed, and as he settled beneath the quilts he could have sworn he felt her svelte form pressing against his back, her arm draped over his waist, pulling him to her. And he sighed deeply, contentedly, as sleep took him.

———

Five days. Five excruciating days. That’s how long it took for Quinn to have enough free time to call on Chloe Paice. New strategy briefings, council meetings, and preparations for his promotion announcement had consumed his days.

But his thoughts? Those were consumed by the seamstress. Excitement buzzed beneath his skin, skittering like lightning down his limbs as he pushed through the shoppe door. He paused at the counter like any other customer, although he decidedly did not look like a typical customer. Rather than his standard military blues, he wore civilian clothing this time—a rich burgundy shirt beneath a thick black winter coat, and slate wool slacks tucked into fur-lined boots. His hair had been disheveled by the hands of the wind, and cropped stubble coated his jaw.

“Just a minute!” came a familiar voice from the back room. The sound of it, as pure and clear as the bell that had announced his arrival, caused a flutter in his abdomen. Just the anticipation, of course. That was all.

The moment she rounded the corner, he broke into a smile. “Miss Paice,” he greeted, quirking a brow. “Is this a bad time?” He stepped forward, leaning against the counter. “I’d like to speak with you about something.”

But then there he was. Her Quinnley. Her General. She surveyed him, bashfulness at being caught gone completely. Clover licked her lips, held his gaze and smirked. “Why should we have to choose just one?”

And they didn’t. The following morning they even commandeered the kitchen and the dining table and the floor. Savages. Ravenous. Like their time apart had not dulled the ache for one another. Chloe was so spent after their time together, she fell asleep in the carriage on the way home, clutching her satchel to her chest. Cheek pressed so firmly against the tassels pillow from the carriage bench that when she awoke, blearily, strings were imprinted into her skin.

The General found his way to her shoppe on more than one occasion over the next two weeks. Once he even dared to summon her to Avondale, smirking charismatically when she arrived heated and angry at being called like a pet. But the smirk gave him away, he knew that she’d be furious and that her fury would be taken out on him. That night they broke furniture. That night she had never had a better apology.

Duties were not forgotten but she became even more efficient. She completed her tasks precisely and swiftly, in case he would come to her. She managed to receive word after a month that Marigold had be safely relocated with her child. Stolen in the night beneath the noses of this new commander’s spy-hounds. It had been a tedious task but Clover had been insistent to Aaron. The baker could identify her. Knew her name. Knew her face.

Even as she reveled in that small success, she felt a burn in her chest. She longed to share that success with someone other than her second-in-command. She felt this itch she couldn’t manage to scratch and her left her with a nervous energy for the better part of a week.

Coincidentally, it was the same part of the week where the Belvedere heir failed to materialized. Clover felt so strange. Strange, because suddenly she wanted to tell him about her day. She wanted to make him laugh. She wanted to lie in his arms, sated and happy and listen to him talk about everything and nothing at all. She wanted to feel the rumble of his snores beneath her head and how his fingers absently traced her spine even in sleep.

Chewing on the corner of her thumb, she wondered if she should send him a summons. Return the favor, so to speak. The idea made her smile but it felt too needy, it felt…well, it left her feeling exposed. Something less obvious, then. So she spent an entire candle and evening sketching. Snow fell outside the window in thick, heavy flakes as winter became to settle in. She felt the chill in her fingers ease with each brush of the graphite against the page. Clover finished in the very early morning hours of the following day, fingers gray from smudging and eyes a bit red rimmed. The seamstress didn’t even bother to move to the bed, as she fell asleep in the chair by the window.

Light streamed in the window, falling over the unconscious seamstress when the door open down in the shoppe. Wearily, she opened her eyes and rubbed her hands together before cursing herself for not washing up last night. Undoubtedly, she’d have some smears on her face. It took her a moment to wash up, change and become presentable for the day. Gray eyes caught sight of the sketch from the previous evening and she smiled. She removed the page from the very expensive sketchbook the General had gifted to her. She laid a scrap price of cloth over the image before she folded the pages and sealed it within an envelope she used for her customers. From memory and without pausing for a moment in the recollection, she scrawled Avondale’s address on the front.

The missive was off to Avondale before most of the other shoppe’s opened and she wondered if he would receive it tonight when he returned from Wymberly. She wondered if he was even in Thebes. Surely he would have told her if he was leaving? No. No what obligation did he have to her. She hoped he might have told her. For the cause of course. For the intelligence, naturally.

She felt her heart lurch at the thought of not knowing where he was. She worried of the danger he might be in. Something else crept up alongside all these emotions, foreign and warm. It slide along her skin, not like a serpent, but like a blanket. It enveloped her in a sense of comfort, of a new type of want.

And alongside of it, suddenly, fear. It wouldn’t be what she thought it was. Clover would not have been so foolish. The Resistance leader, lost daughter of Northam, would not have been so reckless as to fall in love with General Quinnley Belvedere, loyalist to the High Commander.

He closed his hand around the missive, crumpling the paper against his palm, and dragged himself away from her—but only a step, still close enough to see the storm in her gaze. He paused, holding her stare, drinking in the devilish gleam in her expression. A strange pang twisted in his chest, and for a moment, he was lost for words. “I have to go,” he finally said, stuffing the note into his pocket. “Someone will come for you shortly.”

The general reluctantly left, distracted—but not by the message that had interrupted them. The odd twist of feeling behind his sternum lingered even as he exited the room, and it cut through his desire in a way that did not douse the flames—not even a little—but rather fueled them, like thick timber stacked atop a hearth. This wasn’t a simple flare, burning hot but fast until only smoldering ash remained; this was fuel for a sustained burn, meant to endure, steady and searing.

It made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t identify.

And it took a lot to make the Executioner of Earl’s Crossing feel uneasy.

He paused at the top of the staircase to straighten his appearance, pushing his hair back and buttoning his crisp white shirt. The message had directed him to meet one of his captains outside—

“Master Belvedere?” The maid’s voice was soft, and it came at the exact moment a loud rapping sounded from the front door. Quinn gestured for her to wait a moment, and he tugged open the doors himself, greeted by a gust of icy wind and two high-ranking soldiers dressed in their military blues.

“Captain Smith. Captain Clarke,” Quinn said, arching a brow. He pulled the crumpled note from his pocket and waved it in the air. “This is the first I’ve been home in a week. What’s this about?”

Smith, one of Quinn’s finest men, who had fought valiantly at Earl’s Crossing and returned only recently, smiled apologetically. “You’re going to want to hear this, General.”

Quinn beckoned them inside and turned around, catching sight of the maid, who had stepped to the side and looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else but standing in front of three soldiers in the foyer. “One moment, please, gentlemen,” he said, turning to her. “Beverly, what is it?”

She held out a folded scrap of paper. “Your guest wishes to send a note into town, sir…”

Notes seemed to be the theme of the evening. Quinn nodded, taking it from her, skimming the short message…something about pink chiffon and pearls in the window. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. Please see to whatever she needs.” He turned back to the captains, who had exchanged knowing looks. Quinn rolled his eyes and gestured for them to follow him.

They entered a side room on the lower level, where the three men conversed in hushed tones. Evidently, their presence in Earl’s Crossing was beginning to pay off much quicker than he’d anticipated. The rogue rebels with no Clover affiliation had already been eliminated in Chambrook village, but they’d be fools to believe the threat was completely neutralized. Where there was rebellion, Clover was sure to follow. And with the population decimated, it was more difficult to hide. The Ace squadron members had identified two possible connections, both of whom were under careful surveillance.

“So there has been movement?” he asked, intrigued. “So soon?” The general ran his fingers along his jaw thoughtfully. “Tell the agents to stay the course. They’ve been lying low and they don’t have the numbers for another large-scale attack. We need to keep watching them. Learn as much as we can about how they operate. Their panic is our gain.”

They spoke for several more minutes, Quinn spelling out orders to give the other ranks, but all in all…it was good progress. Not just for Northam, but for Quinn himself. The High Commander would be pleased.

His company left as abruptly as they’d arrived, and the general practically levitated up the stairs to his awaiting seamstress. But she wasn’t waiting for him in the guest room. Had she fallen asleep? He pushed open the unlocked door to find the room empty when she didn’t respond to his gentle knocks. Huh. He narrowed his eyes and turned, catching the muffled sound of something scraping from across the corridor. It was coming from Maria’s room. Specifically, the closet.

“Miss Paice.”

He clearly startled her, because she whirled, meeting his eyes with the guilt of a child caught sneaking a sweet from the kitchens.

It shouldn’t have surprised him to find her here, really, but there was no trace of amusement in his expression. Quinn was protective of his sister, whether she needed it or not, and this felt…well, wrong. “I see you’ve discovered Maria's closet,” he drawled. He stepped closer to Chloe, eyeing the dress she’d been examining, and smiled, although a little stiffly. “She wore that one for the last summer solstice gala. Made a big deal about importing the material from the Carib Territories.”

Gently, he reached for her hand and led her back into the hall, closing the door pointedly behind them. “You are my guest here, Chloe, and entitled to whatever luxury you wish,” he said, “but I’m afraid that does not give you free rein.” His amber gaze softened a little. “I hope you understand.” He reached up to tuck a strand of her still-damp hair from her forehead. “Now, to business.” His expression darkened and he dropped his voice. “My room…or yours?”