In the theme of disclosing possible triggers, there is gore in this chapter.

Also, I do feel bad for torturing Aramis. I do, really. But hey, I have this thing for Gerard Manley Hopkins and Catholic guilt, so I've just got to go where my heart leads me, and it leads me to ANGST.

Happy reading,

Laz (who's just angsty, man.)

Chapter Ten

Dawn came at last.

A Musketeer was foremost a soldier, and sleepless nights were as common to them as restful ones were to civilians. But as the weak sun rose and turned the clouds the soft color of eggshells, Athos felt unutterably tired. The exhaustion was deep inside him, deeper than his bones, hunched in the ridges of his brain.

They had left Marguerite sleeping. Her fever broke just after the Queen left, as if her presence was the treatment needed to bring Marguerite out of danger. When Aramis was satisfied that his patient would survive his absence, he and Athos quit the Maiden's Heart, and leaving it behind was to Athos both a great relief and a small ache. They could no longer look at the place as a whorehouse and tavern. He could no longer distance himself from it, and from the people inside.

The rising sun now found them, along with D'Artagnan and Porthos and Captain Treville, striding through the palace corridors.

"You are certain of this," Treville asked not for the first time, over the clatter of the armor on the mass of Red Guards marching behind them. "It wouldn't improve the situation to falsely accuse a minister to the king."

"We have a signed confession," said Porthos, holding the document up as they neared Barthelemy's offices. Indeed, a confession had been recorded and signed by a Jesuit who survived the Musketeer raid on Lenoir's hideout. The signature was barely legible, as the interrogator had broken most of the man's fingers in order to get it. "There's no mistaking it—the minister funded the assassination attempt."

"So he is the Goldfinch, then?" D'Artagnan asked. "That doesn't seem to fit."

Athos and Aramis exchanged a glance—their information on the Goldfinch came from Marguerite, who at all costs must remain anonymous.

"We'll know soon enough." Athos scowled. He didn't like lying to Treville, and he hadn't yet had the time to explain everything to Porthos and D'Artagnan, but they knew enough. They knew Marguerite Danois was not who she appeared to be, and that her presence at Lenoir's hideout was, for better or worse, the only reason they now had cause to make an arrest.

They had reached the minister's offices. Athos turned to the half dozen Red Guards and said firmly, "Wait here."

"We have orders to take the minister to the Chatelet," said one, then added, "from the Cardinal."

Treville frowned. "You'll take him when we're through with him and not a minute before. Understood?"

A sickly hollow feeling was creeping into Athos' insides as Porthos went to the doors and tried the handle.

"Locked," he growled, then with the strength of a bear he gave a huge kick and the doors burst apart. They froze, hands on their swords.

Inside, Barthelemy was waiting. With a loaded pistol.

He sat behind his desk. The parchment and scrolls on the surface were impeccably arranged, the ink pot full with black liquid, the quill lying straight, parallel to the pistol. Other than the minister, the room was empty. Barthelemy sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. He had the frenzied yet calm look of a man who knew exactly what he had to do.

"Minister Barthelemy," began Treville with less than his usual booming authority. They all watched the pistol, silently calculating its distance from his hand. It was already cocked, ready to be fired. "You are under arrest by order of the King for conspiracy and treason. You are to come with us to the Chatelet where you will await trial."

He wasn't going to go the Chatelet. Athos could see it. He tightened his grip on his rapier as they advanced into the room slowly. But what could he do? Cut off the man's hand before he reached the pistol? Shoot him before he had a chance to shoot himself?

"I thought it wouldn't be long," the minister said softly. He had a high voice suited to obsequies and not much suited for anything else. He sounded hollow, like air escaped through his mouth and just happened to make words. "And then it came this morning. And I knew you would come."

"What came?"

But Athos had seen it; lying on the desk next to the pistol, clean, white paper and jet black ink scrolled artfully, almost lazily into the shape of a bird.

"Minister," he said, matching the man's soft tone. "Who is the Goldfinch?"

The man shook his head; he looked beyond them as if seeing a vision. "Not a man," he breathed. "Not a man. A monster."

Athos tried again. "Why did you work with him? You paid the Jesuits to kill the King—why?"

The minister let out a gasp of air that sounded like a sob. "He has my child—he had my child. What was I to do? And then—"

"What do you mean, had?"

He shook his head infinitesimally. "He took her in the night, and in the morning I received a letter instructing me to deliver a sum of money to the Jesuits with the intent that they kill the King. I wouldn't do it—I searched for my child. We found her in the stream bed, drowned." Barthelemy swallowed dryly. "The next letter said my wife was next."

Suddenly, he turned to Athos. "Please—ensure that my wife is safe. Don't let him find her!"

Athos felt panic rising up his throat. He was very near the desk now. If he was quick, he could reach the pistol. "Minister, who is he—the Goldfinch?"

"I sent her away," he replied, his voice rasped and dream-like. "Somewhere he would never find her—"

"Who is the Goldfinch?"

The man was shaking his head. "I don't know. But he's an aristocrat—and the letters, they came from England." Barthelemy was shaking now. "It is better this way. He cannot get to the King now, as long as my wife is safe—"

Treville lurched forward. "Wait—"

"—That English monster!" His hand moved surprisingly fast and they all lunged toward him, reaching—

But the gun reported, loud as a thunderclap, and Barthelemy's body fell back from the desk, the pistol clattering from his lifeless hand to the ground.

Later, when the body had been removed and the place cleaned, Treville took them aside.

"The King wants answers. He has become…somewhat paranoid since the attempt on his life. And I have nothing to give to ease his worries."

"If he wants answers, then give him one," said Porthos. "The minister paid the assassin to kill the king, and he failed. And in disgrace…" He trailed off, leaving an ugly pause.

"We don't know that for certain," Treville muttered. "Was the money Barthelemy's or the Goldfinch's? And Barthelemy was being blackmailed—"

"We know the assassin dressed falsely as a Jesuit, and that his brother, the leader of the Jesuits, had no knowledge of it," D'Artagnan said. "We heard Barthelemy confess that he paid Lenoir."

"It doesn't seem right to besmirch the memory of a man who was serving his king and was coerced into treason," Aramis said. "The Goldfinch killed his daughter, threatened his wife! What was he to do?"

"He could have come to us," Athos said. Aramis rounded on him.

"You don't honestly blame—"

"Enough." Treville raised his hands in defeat. "I will tell the King of Barthelemy's treason and make delicate inquiries about the whereabouts of Madame Barthelemy. As for the Goldfinch…"

No one spoke. The trail had gone cold with Barthelemy's body. There was no way for the musketeers to pursue the identity of the Goldfinch, except to wait. But for Marguerite….

The Musketeers left, partly relieved and partly disappointed. Athos was the last to turn away, and when the others were out of earshot, Treville called to him.

"I'm curious," he said in a voice that said he was a good deal more than curious. "What was the woman—the one who was shot—what was she doing with the Jesuits in the first place?"

Athos disliked the way Treville looked at him now, with eyes that tested him, assessed him. It reminded him of his father, in a way. The old Comte de la Fere had been immune to his sons' deceptions and had had a gaze that bore into young Olivier until he came out with the truth at last.

But he was Athos now, no longer Olivier, and he would not be intimidated.

"It's unclear," he replied. "I doubt she will speak to any of us ever again."

Athos was silent as Aramis spoke hurriedly to Porthos and D'Artagnan in a quiet corner of the garrison, detailing briefly the events of the previous night.

"We're sworn to silence, understand? No one can know of it beyond us, not even Treville," Aramis pressed. "The Queen's safety depends on it."

"The Queen's safety would be better served if she didn't wander from the palace at night on spy business," D'Artagnan said wryly.

"Keep your voice down," Porthos growled. He seemed to be taking the news rather well. That was how far Porthos' legendary loyalty extended—hardly anything surprised him, and if it did, it did nothing to alter his duty. Athos envied this simple outlook.

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was shocked to know that Marguerite was the Queen's spymistress. "What is she thinking? A ring of spies of her very own, disguised as prostitutes? If word got out about this—"

"It won't," Aramis said vehemently, spearing D'Artagnan with a fierce look. "She's the Queen, a queen whose husband's chief advisor tried to kill her. She's protecting herself the only way she can, and we must help her."

Mother of God, Aramis. Athos could see the blatant love in his friend's face, a fierce passion as well as quiet affection, so different from the easy lust he spent on other women. Aramis did not know how to guard himself, shut off the world from his emotions like drawing the curtains over a window. As it was, Athos could see directly through the window of Aramis into his feelings, and Athos wished it unseen. Every time he witnessed Aramis' love for the Queen, he knew it would come to haunt them.

"And you," D'Artagnan said suddenly, looking to Athos, whom he could always count on to be as distrustful as he was. "Are you all right with this?"

Athos lifted his head and sent them a look that communicated quite clearly just how he felt about it all.

"Ah," said D'Artagnan. "So that's that."

"And remember—" Aramis started but Porthos cut him off.

"We won't tell anyone, Aramis, so save your breath." How was it that a man with such an intimidating physical presence could be so comforting? "How is Mademoiselle Danois?"

"Alive," Aramis sighed. "And for that we can be thankful."

Alive.

And it goes on.

Days, and then weeks passed in what felt like a new era to the Musketeers, and like all soldiers they drew comfort from the constant nature of things when everything seemed to be changing around them. Before, they had had little knowledge of the clandestine battle between rival political forces. Before, when they saw men dressed in black with watchful gazes, they thought little of it, dismissing them for the many suspicious characters in the city. Now they looked away and rode on, or returned the few polite nods the quiet Queen's Musketeers gave them. When they were in the vicinity of the Maiden's Heart and a young woman carrying laundry or groceries gave them a pointed look, they could no longer dismiss it as merely strange. This was the world now—they were surrounded by spies. They supposed it had always been so, but now they were aware of it.

It was the hardest for Aramis, who frequented the Maiden's Heart to continue Marguerite's treatment. He went without warning, disappearing to the tavern when time allowed and Athos could not watch him go. He didn't attempt to speak to Athos about her, though Athos could sense his friend's desire to say something.

Athos threw himself into his work. He took extra guard duties and returned late to the garrison, smelling of wine and sleeplessness. He spent extra hours in the yard training new recruits and testing his own skills. His eyes were watchful but growing more hollow as each night passed with only a few hours spent in a drunken state of dreamlessness. Aramis and Porthos knew to keep silent—this was not the first time their friend had been so troubled. But D'Artagnan was not so patient.

"You're ill," he shouted one day when Athos emerged from his quarters with a face as white as salt. "You don't sleep, you hardly eat. You do nothing but drink and work yourself nearly to death. And I am just to sit by and watch?"

The boy meant well, but Athos retreated further, for guilt was a strong force in his life. So he took meals regularly, drank less, and went to bed pointedly at the appropriate time. But the hollow pit in him only seemed to grow. It lessened only once that Aramis saw, when he spoke quietly to Athos in the yard.

"I took her arm from the sling today," he said both gently and carelessly. "She's healed better than anyone I've ever treated. It's remarkable."

And something in Athos was both eased and aggravated. He mourned many things from his old life—the simplicity, the comfort, the peace of mind—but he had not missed the pain of a heart with love in it.

And it goes on.

Things changed again, and it could not be said if the change was welcome. Celebrations broke out in the palace and in the city, but it brought only dread to Athos' heart.

For when the King called his court to assembly and announced it, with the excitement of a giddy boy, that his Queen was with child and a royal heir would arrive in six months' time, Athos and Aramis shared a look of mutual fear. Mother of God, Athos prayed as the court applauded and the Queen, their strong noble Queen, blushed like a virgin girl and refused to look at them. What are we to do now?

There was nothing to be done. Not about the bastard baby growing in the Queen's belly, not about the deadened look in Aramis' eyes as the Queen called him to meet with her in the presence of her ladies. And then there was the panic.

Later, Aramis pulled Athos aside, and then the panic he had so carefully repressed bloomed on his handsome face.

"He knows," he breathed, frantic. "God. He knows, Athos!"

"Who?"

"The Cardinal. I can feel, the way he looked at me, at her. Oh, God!" he groaned, covering his face with trembling hands.

And there was nothing to be done. Athos could fathom no plot to somehow undo all of this, and so he did what he did best: he pretended to forget, and urged Aramis to do the same.

"The Cardinal knows nothing," said Athos. "Only three people know of what happened at the convent, and none of us have breathed a word of it. He can at best only suspect."

"But if he suspects, then he can discover the truth. The man has spies everywhere!"

So does the Queen, Athos thought dryly, and was grateful for the thought for the first time.

"And if one of the nuns saw something, heard something—" Aramis looked like he was going to be sick.

"Then they wouldn't speak of it to outsiders. Aramis. They are holy women, and loyal to the Queen. You must stop this. He knows nothing."

But the Cardinal did know something. Athos saw his dark, shifting eyes, still not recovered from the blow they dealt him when they proved his treachery to the Queen. Even if he had no evidence, surely the Cardinal's criminal heart was searching for retribution.

Best then that Aramis appeared blameless and gave the man nothing.

But it was in Aramis to feel deeply, no matter whatever outward stoicism he managed, and later that evening he was so morose that Porthos resolved to take him drinking.

"No," he said. "I must—check on Mademoiselle Danois."

"Then we'll go to the Maiden's Heart and you can manage both."

When D'Artagnan came to fetch Athos to join them, Athos teased the young Musketeer that he didn't seem to mind doing the fetching these days.

"It's better than standing still," was all the Gascon said. "Are you with us?"

"No," Athos said, too quickly, too resolutely. "Not tonight."

D'Artagnan shifted where he stood, his face contorting the way it did before he worked out how to say something.

"Is this about Marguerite Danois?" he said at last. "Because you have been strange since that night, and with no offense intended, I've never seen you turn down a drink. Either she disturbs you, or you are dying." Or both.

"D'Artagnan—" Athos began, and stopped. He couldn't say the words aloud. The past had molded him into a private creature, and he couldn't outthink the consequences of admitting it. Yes, she disturbs me, and I want to be disturbed.

D'Artagnan shifted where he stood, looking ponderous. He turned as if to leave and said, "I know all of—this makes you think of Milady."

This young man and Athos had an odd bond of sorts, an understanding. They both knew Milady and had emerged from out of her charms not quite whole. D'Artagnan had even loved her, in his own way, and Lord knew Athos had been ravaged by his love for her. It helped to have someone else who had not always viewed her as a villainess.

D'Artagnan continued. "I told you once that she and Marguerite were different somehow, though at the time I wasn't sure how. I know why now. Milady—I don't know where she came from or what her life was like before she met you. But she deceived everyone in order to better herself, rise above her station. She did it to conceal her past and become Anne de Breuil or Milady de Winter. But Marguerite—she lies to protect the Queen, and how many times have we done the same? She would have the world think her a whore, rather than let the truth be known and put the Queen in danger. She could change how she's seen, but she won't." As he left, he said, "She's not your wife, Athos."

Aramis had know Athos for nearly six years, from when his friend first arrived at the garrison, a melancholic drunk who was so deadly with a sword he won a commission with ease—not too different from the Athos of the present, who was less melancholic and slightly less drunk, but infinitely more deadly.

He had witness Athos' mysterious sorrow, which drove him to drink each night. Aramis could recall dark days early in their friendship when Athos weaned himself from the alcohol and dove fiercely into his work to compensate. Aramis had tried to help his friend. He loved his friend. But he had not understood his friend.

Until now.

Aramis drank and drank more, emptying cup after cup of wine or brandy or mead—whatever he could get his hands on. At first he grew boisterous and jolly, jesting with Porthos and D'Artagnan, praising the fiddler who scratched out reels on his old instrument in the corner. The tavern took on a brightness, and he grinned at the girl who brought him more wine. Solenne. He smiled blearily at her face, downturned with concern, and drank on.

But it was not enough. He drank more, and the melancholy came, followed by irritation and self-loathing. Another patron tripped up Solenne on her way to the kitchen, and Aramis set on him, snarling, suddenly finding himself facing the business end of a dagger. He might have died there were it not for Porthos. He might have died, and he didn't care.

And it was still not enough. Now he was swimming sickly in nausea, the wine curdling his stomach, the stench of his own sour sweat gagging him. He could feel the tears behind his eyes, eager for release, but he kept them leashed. He could not let his friends see, for they would ask questions, questions he might want to answer with the truth. He could not make out Porthos' face clearly, but he could feel his friend's confusion and worry rolling off him in waves. It made him even sicker.

It would never be enough. Is that what sent Athos home from the taverns at night, the gross realization that no matter how much he drank, it would never erase completely the past, the ache, the longing, to hold her as she slept and as she woke, to make love to her softly with her growing belly between them, to be called the father of her child, to have her, to have her, Anne, Anne, Anne…

He was carried home between Porthos and D'Artagnan. He knew because he heard the soft murmur of their voices passing through him as he stumbled along—D'Artagnan's voice lighter and sharper than the deep, warm of Porthos'. And then it was just Porthos, his voice still rumbling as he spoke to Aramis absently, like one would to a child.

"…just in here, not far. There you go. Sit down—easy, now. Can you move without keeling over? No? Right, hold still…"

Porthos' rough hands tugging off his jerkin, his boots. Pulling his shirt over his head, remarkably gentle. When the hands came back to push him softly down to the cot, Aramis gripped them.

"Porthos…" His voice was slurred and slightly desperate. "If I—If I did something terrible, unforgivable—would you still be my friend?"

Porthos' large dark face, his voice soft but demanding. "What did you do?"

But Aramis only shook his head, and the motion made him retch, and Porthos steadied him as he vomited over the side of his cot. When he spoke he was gasping and the tears leaked from his eyes.

"You—you would hate me, you'd damn me, you'd leave me—Oh God." He retched again, but the absence of dinner left him heaving up nothing.

"I would never leave you," came the gentle giant's voice, and a hand stroked his hair. Aramis stiffened at the touch and then fell into it. He couldn't see—just drifting shadows and Porthos' voice, full of something Aramis had never heard but had somehow always been there. "You could never do anything to make me leave you."

"But I have," Aramis choked. "And you will."

"Quiet, now. Sleep."

Aramis was crying, which he would not usually bring him shame. Tears were evidence of passion, and God knew he had enough of that. But these tears stung him as they drifted down, and he was moaning as he lied down, moaning even as he fell into a chaotic sleep.

"What have I done? Oh God, what have I done?"

The music of coins was tinny in the silence of the empty tavern. Marguerite sat at a table that was usually occupied by patrons, but it was well past midnight and she used the solitude to conclude some business. She stacked the silver livres in towers of five, the Spanish pesetas in groups of four. She totaled the groups and used the numbers as keys for the ciphers coding the messages that lay before her.

She decoded the messages quickly, for her mind was built for such puzzles as ciphers. Normally one of the girls would be doing this, but with her arm nearly mended, Marguerite had a longing to do something with it, to reinforce its usefulness. When the messages were decoded, she placed them squarely in the fire burning low and hot in the hearth and watched the embers reduce the parchment to ash in a matter of seconds. Then she turned back to a blank sheet of parchment and began to write.

It took a great deal of concentration to manage a cipher convincingly, especially such a cipher as this, for the code in this was as much about what she gave away as what she concealed. The letter she penned was intended to be coded simply, almost too simply, as if by an amateur too pleased with their success to be intricate with the code. The cipher's key was based on the address of the recipient. Anyone trying to break the code would surely succeed without much difficulty, and once they did they would find a letter written by a frivolous young woman, detailing the recent scandals in her town. This letter would read thusly:

Dearest friend,

Never in all my life have I been so utterly exhausted! Even my mother, whom you know is thrifty with praise, agrees your soirée was the most exquisite form of entertainment in which we have yet to participate. What a night it was! Thierry, my darling fiancé, was quite overcome, poor dear. He does not tolerate exertion well, not since his childhood. Really, though, I have a suspicion that the reason behind his exhaustion has little to do with the wonderful wine you provided and more to do with the presence of the Comtesse de Feuillide. Edith, I have come to suspect an infidelity of him with regard to that woman. Any woman may have similar thoughts of their intended, but I had hoped to be free of such worries. Tomorrow I intend to confront him as meekly as I can to understand the extent of his feelings, if it is merely passing or if it will have bearing on our union.

Regretfully, I am also writing to tell you that I will be unable to visit you this Wednesday as I previously promised. Edith, it is a shame, as I do so enjoy your company, I am quite put out—you must forgive me. And the reason for this hasty cancellation is quite queer! Since I know you love odd little stories, I shall share it with you. Sophie and I were taking our daily walk along the river yesterday, when the strangest thing happened…

The letter was so guileless and dull and utterly long that anyone would throw it out immediately, even after toiling to break the simplistic cipher. (Especially with such a post-script: "Do you like my little cipher? I do know how you like to work your little brain puzzles.") This is what she intended as she told an unreal woman's fictional story to a false woman who would never read it. Even her own agents might think it a trick were it not for the small parcel that would accompany it, containing a single English pound sterling.

The secondary code was not difficult to discover, but hidden as it was in the ramblings of the supposed author, it was rather well hidden. The coin was a clue—the first letter of every sentence. Once arranged and broken into words, the true message would read: NEW THREAT / REASSIGNMENT / DISREGARD CURRENT OPERATIONS / LOOK TO ENGLAND.

And so a pound sterling for good measure. She sealed the letter and addressed it with a flourish. Behind her, the floorboards creaked, signaling the approach of Solenne.

For it could only be Solenne checking on her.

"Marguerite! You should be in bed," the young woman chided, padding over to her in bare feet and her dressing gown.

Marguerite smiled, for a woman as young as Solenne did not understand insomnia. "I am quite well, Solenne. I was having trouble sleeping. Here, will you see this delivered tomorrow? Have Marius take it the usual way." Marguerite handed Solenne the letter containing her coded message.

"How is your arm? Still hurting?"

It did still hurt, but no more than her tired eyes or cold feet. It had been reduced over the last weeks from a stabbing, fiery pain to the dull constant ache that twinged in her shoulder now.
"It's nothing, it's fine," she said absently.

"Why can't you sleep, ma chère?" Solenne said, smoothing a hand down Marguerite's river of hair.

Marguerite said nothing, knowing Solenne, who was as dear in her heart as a little sister, thought she was in pain, or having nightmares, or troubled. But the truth was that Margot liked the night; she preferred it to the day. At night, all the unimportant things faded into a blue so deep it felt like living on the bottom of the ocean. At night, the fires and candles burned more brilliantly and their warmth was more welcome. At night, the world grew quiet, and there was something both powerful and intensely lonely about witnessing the world when everyone else was asleep.

"I'm sure I will be able to soon," she said. "You should return to bed, Solenne. You should get some rest, if not for yourself, then for the child."

Solenne smiled and placed a hand on her belly in a telling way. She was only three months into the pregnancy, but a small swell in her abdomen was already visible. "Sometimes I forget," she whispered with an strong fondness that made Marguerite ache. The young woman padded away, still caressing her belly almost dreamily.

Marguerite took the key to cipher she had written and tore it methodically into small pieces, then placed them in the fire. She watched them to make sure every piece was devoured. And then she was staring at the flames, finding shapes in the writhing heat like she did when she was a child. She let herself be consumed by the flame, hypnotized by its graceful, feral movement, and indulged for a moment in the idea of a baby of her own.

When the knock came, quiet and short, Marguerite looked away from the fire and put the thought away purposefully. That was how she handled things that were inherently painful: with purpose.

Before she went to the door, she took a pistol from the armoire in the sitting room, making sure the flintlock was clear and the pistol loaded. Then she moved quietly to the door and opened it a crack, peering through to the person on the other side.

And paused.

She put down the pistol and opened the door. She returned the weapon to its place in the cupboard. She heard the door close softly. She turned around.

"I looked for you," she said to Athos.

His eyes were as mesmerizing as the dancing embers in the hearth, and they bore into her with quiet intensity. He said nothing, but took a step forward, then another, growing golden and sharp as he entered the firelight.

"I waited. Aramis came, and I healed. Your other friends came, but not you." She reciprocated his steps with backward ones of her own, drawing him further into the room. "I kept waiting. Even for that damned cat." She felt the table at the center of the room pressing into her, and she gripped its edge with her hands. He took another step.

Marguerite liked silence, and here she was, filling it up with senseless words. But they felt right to say. Athos said nothing, eating up her voice hungrily, and so she spoke again.

"You've kept away. Why?"

"Because…" His voice was always so surprising; there was something feral about him, something wild that made the deep timbre of his voice seem remarkably soft—one expected a roar from a lion, not a purr. And yet he purred, and she shuddered at the sound of it. "Because I was afraid."

"Of what?"

He was so close now; if he reached out, his hand would brush her face. The thought was terrifying, and she wished he would do it.

"Of looking at you once more."

He made no move to touch her, but his eyes—oh, God, his eyes—were far more intimate than any touch.

"Am I so terrible to look at?" She breathed this, aware of how their voices were growing quieter as they drew closer and closer. She could feel his heat now, radiating from him as blazing as the heat from the fire. There was an odd shifting of the space between them, now mere inches, as they both made to touch and then fell back.

His face was tilted down to her, his breath grazing her cheek. "You," he said, his eyes fluttering all around her face to her lips, her neck, and back to her eyes. "You are devastating."

The pull between her lips and his was so strong, as if cosmic forces were driving them together. She was breathing hard, and the movement of his chest mirrored hers. The space between their mouths seemed such a small but insurmountable distance, and he didn't kiss her. Instead, his hand reached for hers, careful and quivering, and their fingers danced together, winding and testing each other's strength. Their voices were barely audible.

"I confess…I have not done this in a very long time."

"Nor I."

And when the temptation could no longer be resisted, he closed the gap between them and kissed her. He meant to be gentle, but her hand gripped his suddenly, urgently, and he parted her lips with his tongue, and then they were breathing into each other and the kiss became something untamed. He could feel every one of her gasps as if they were his own, and when he shuddered under her mouth, she responded in kind. His lips wandered down her lovely long throat, biting at her collarbone until her free hand clutched at his hair. Tenderly, he drew down the linen of her blouse to reveal that scar that almost killed her, still brightly red and beating as if it had its own heart, and traced its warm ridges with his tongue. She moaned aloud and he stilled suddenly, like an animal pricking its ears.

He rose to look her in the eyes, her soft and saddened hazel eyes, only to find them wide and blazing and hungry. He imagined his looked the same. The terror, as delicious as it had been a moment ago, was gone. What replaced it was infinitely more dangerous and irresistible.

She looked down at her hand, fingers tangled with his, and said, "I will not be silent."

He moved his thumb to brush against her wrist. "Be anything, but do not be silent."

With their fingers still entwined, she led him to bed.