Notes: FenellaG - Hey! Not sure if this fulfils your expectations for the chapter, but I hope you like it nonetheless! ;)

Enjoy! x

CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 13

A whirlwind day of social calls had kept Millicent Collins from what she really preferred – business. Now, as she entered her apartments, and shrugged off her fur coat, she headed up the stairs towards Remy's room to discuss more pressing matters.

That morning, as she had left, she had passed him in the hallway – his report had necessarily been brief, telling of darkened, unmanned labs and empty cells – an essentially abandoned facility. The general, she thought, was far more cunning and resourceful than she had given him credit for! And now she wanted a much fuller report from her young protégé.

She knocked on his door, once, twice, without response. After the third knock she quietly entered, finding the room, unsurprisingly, empty.

Millicent grimaced to herself.

She knew where he was. With that Darkhölme woman.

"Tread lightly, my boy," she murmured to herself, not for the first time, and slowly pulled the door shut.

-oOo-

Remy, of course, was exactly where Madame Collins knew he was – or at least, on his way there – and treading lightly was the furthest thing from his mind.

As he approached L'Hotel, Madame's warnings were nothing more than a dim echo, chased away by the anticipation of what the evening held in store – or didn't.

Fifty-fifty Rogue wouldn't be there. He still hadn't the slightest clue which way the wind was blowing with her, and… well, he would've been lying if he'd said he didn't enjoy a good chase.

He entered the same old hotel, signed the same old book, smiled tightly at the same old concierge, impatience chasing his steps. He took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and strode to the same old room.

He threw open the door, stopped short.

She was lounging on the green velvet sofa facing the entrance, legs crossed, hair pinned up, cherry red lips pursed delectably round the end of a long, lacquered cigarette holder, just like the night he first met her.

She was dressed in nothing but a satin, pale green teddy, French knickers, expensive silk stockings and heels.

"Hello, Monsieur Marceaux," she purred at him, removing the holder from between her luscious lips and blowing smoke. A small smile curled her the corner of her mouth as she saw him standing there, rendered utterly speechless by the sight of her. "Betcha ya didn't think I'd be comin' this evenin', did ya?"

The words snapped him out of his trance. He pulled the door softly to behind him, looked her up and down like she was some tasty morsel just waiting to be gobbled up.

"I dunno, chere," he drawled back just as silkily. "Pretty sure you'll be comin' for me at least some time t'night, catin."

She laughed quietly, rich and throaty.

"Oh, I know so," she murmured. "Was there ever a woman you couldn't please, Remy LeBeau?"

There was a kind of deprecating lilt to her voice that gave him pause.

Her, sitting here, barely dressed like this, could only mean one thing. Seduction. It was the game she'd played from the very first moment she'd met him. Teased him with her impossibly beautiful looks, the insinuating sweep of her words, the promise of her body. If she thought he'd be taken in by this again, she was a fool. It sharpened his mind, focused it against her onslaught. But his body... his body had different ideas. Everything about her was calling out to him, and it couldn't help but respond.

At the very least this was her way of taking control, and he was acutely aware of it.

"I know what you're thinking," she spoke unexpectedly.

A sardonic smile curled his lips.

"You do?"

"Yes." She indicated to the sofa opposite hers and, after a moment, he moved over to it, sat down, his pose almost mirroring hers. Casual. Languid.

"You're thinkin' I'm sittin' here, lookin' like this, because I'm toyin' with you, Remy. Playin' games with you."

She took a last pull of her cigarette and laid it aside.

"But darlin'... I'm just playin' by the rules you set for me the moment you walked back into my life."

Technically they were the rules she'd set eight long years ago, but he wasn't in the mood to quibble with her, not right now.

She stood, effortlessly elegant. Her expression was almost sad.

"Truth be told, I don't like this game. But you're still angry with me, and I can't fault you for that." She walked over to him, hips swaying with those heels. She looked down on him and he looked up at her. She was so beautiful she could have made grown men weep. Not him. Not anymore.

"This is the me you want to see," she continued softly, matter-of-factly. "The person you think I am. So this is the person I'll be, if this is the way you want me."

She dropped to her knees before him, not once breaking his gaze. She put both palms on his knees, and he saw the bracelet on her wrist, reassuring him that she was, indeed, powerless.

"I know what you want from me," she said. For the first time her eyes dropped, and she watched her palms slide slowly up his thighs. He, however, didn't stop looking at her eyes, unable, as he was, to fully trust her, to give himself up to her in that moment. "Pleasure first, information second. Strictly in that order."

She reached for the button of his trousers, slowly thumbed it open. He watched with bated breath as she unzipped his fly. Somehow he heard her words, but they swept over him like sunshine on a spring day, their flavour a tickle in his mind, nothing more.

"If that's what you want I'll give them to you," she murmured, slipping her hand inside his pants. "You won't even have to ask."

She touched him; and at the same moment she raised her eyes back to his, locking gazes with him again. She guided him out from between his flies and stroked him, slowly, firmly. He opened his mouth but not a sound came out – only a soft exhalation of breath. He was already half aroused… had been since he'd first seen her sitting there waiting for him… but not for the first time with her he was left struggling with how to pace himself.

"Am I pleasin' you?" she whispered, seeing his expression.

Did she have to ask?

He ran his fingers through the elegantly pinned rolls of hair at her temple, found the first bobby pin.

"Oui," he answered quietly.

He pulled out the pin and let the lock of hair uncurl itself slowly, café-au-lait waves prettily framing the left side of her face. Her hair was shorter than he remembered it being… and he realised she'd cut it in the eight years since they'd last met. That felt symbolic somehow. It disquieted him, but not enough to quell his desire.

She smiled, not knowing the thoughts in his head. She held him in her fist; and Dieu¸if he didn't have her mouth on him soon, he'd die of the sheer denial… …

"You asked me who Kurt was," she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his erection. "So I'll tell ya."

She twisted her face, kissing him lovingly, whispering: "Kurt was my friend. He was a mutant. I'm lookin' for him. I don't even know whether he's alive or dead, but I'm lookin' for him."

He held his breath, mesmerised far more by the luscious swell of her lips, the warmth of her breath, than the words she spoke – even though she was answering questions he had expected to ask her, at some point during the night.

"He's also the general's son," she told him what he had already guessed, before finally sucking him into her mouth.

Wagner.

The file she'd stolen.

It had been his.

The revelation hit him at the same moment the revelation of her warm, wet mouth enveloped him, and he made an animal noise at the sensation, his eyes almost rolling back into his head. For seconds that felt like minutes he rested his head on the back of the couch, fighting to contain himself, to regain control of his ragged breathing. There were things he wanted to do… thrust into her, have his way with her, spill himself into her without care or concern for anything but release.

But he was better than this, and in a few moments he'd regained a handle on himself. He looked down to find her green eyes looking up at him in this strangely worshipful act, and he rested his left hand on her head, stroked his fingers through her auburn and silver hair, his right hand moving to caress her cheek with his thumb, the tender cadence doing as much to ground himself as encourage her. She was a seductress, yes, and this was a part of her game… But tonight the rules of engagement were different. Cards on the table. The transaction laid bare. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

"So he's a mutant," he stated, his voice gravelly with lust, knowing the answer already. His mind was screaming at him that her freely giving up this information was solely for her benefit, not his, but his body was protesting anything but the senseless quest for release.

She blinked, relinquishing him only reluctantly, her lips still refusing to surrender contact.

"Yes," she whispered.

His mind was too dazed to compute what that meant either, especially when she began lightly tonguing the tip of him.

"Like us then," he murmured, and her eyes found his again as she pressed a gentle kiss to his aching flesh.

"Yes," she whispered. "Do y'want me t'stop?"

He ran the backs of his fingers over her cheek, said: "Non."

And then he was back in her mouth, his body arching towards hers without thought, chasing a release that was as sublime as it was profane. Even in the middle of passion he was stunned by it, her sinful ability to take him to heights no other woman had done before or since she walked so chaotically into his life. There were times when he would have berated a God he didn't believe in for throwing her his way… this was not one of those times.

The press of his orgasm inched in on him on a tidal wave of inevitability, a humming crescendo he couldn't hope to stave off even if he wanted to. The sensation prickled up and over him, and he gasped her name without thinking, his voice hoarse:

"M-Marie…!"

She almost paused at the name, almost; but she had no intention of stopping as she redoubled her efforts, and the rush of his climax descended on him like a hurricane, whipping him up and away as he poured himself unashamedly into her.

It was over all too soon; and he sank back into the couch, his muscles spent. He stared up at the ceiling and remembered to breathe. When he looked again, her eyes were still on him, her lips still wrapped around him. He heaved out a long, slow, trembling exhalation and once more touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, stroking her softly.

She let go of him, moving to gently kiss his knuckles.

"Jesu, chere," he murmured breathlessly. He dropped his head back against the couch, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Rogue rose to her feet, crossing over to her purse and retrieving her cigarette case and matches. She joined him on the couch, lighting up two smokes – one for him, one of her. She tried not to the think about the way he'd just said her name.

"Here," she said.

He lifted his head to look at her, and she slid the cigarette between his lips in a gesture that seemed wickedly loaded considering the way hers had been wrapped round his cock only a few moments ago.

Truth be told, he was still seeing stars in the aftermath.

"'Fanksh," he said around the cigarette in his mouth. He sucked smoke in and let it out the side of his mouth slowly. Within a minute or so, he finally felt his heart rate begin to ease.

"Kinda thought you'd have more t'say," she observed, amused, when he still couldn't find any words.

"You done gone wiped me out, chere," he confessed – his arm, at least, felt strong enough to take the cigarette from his mouth and tap ash away before it fell on him.

"May've shot m'self in the foot then, sugar," she quipped good-naturedly. "I had more plans for us t'night."

He glanced over at her, stuck the smoke firmly back in his mouth again.

"Oh, don't you worry none, p'tite. Gimme a few minutes and I'll be rock hard for you again, you give me reason t'be."

She laughed, a genuine laugh.

"What kinda reason d'ya want, Cajun?"

"Hm." He eyed her, sitting there beside him in her green silk teddy, stockings and heels, her scarlet lip paint all smudged and mostly on him, thinking he didn't need much more than what he saw beside him. "Just sit tight dere, ma mignonne, you'll do by and by."

So saying he patted her reassuringly on the thigh, before going back to his cigarette.

Rogue smirked and shifted slightly to face him, reaching out to remove his shirt. Yet again, she realised that the necklace, with Clan Akkaba's ring on it, was not there.

"You ain't asked me about Kurt yet," she began casually, toying with the top button of his shirt. He looked at her.

"That's 'cos you just about drove everythin' out of my mind, chere. Thought that was the idea."

"If it was, I wouldn't have mentioned it," she answered seriously. She worked free the button, went for the next.

"True." He mulled on that a bit, frowning at the ceiling. "And you wouldn't have mentioned it wit'out a reason."

"Mmm-hmmm." She hummed her assent, sticking the cigarette firmly between her teeth and swivelling round so that she could undo his shirt all the quicker. This time his eyes didn't leave her; even as she busied herself unbuttoning him, she could feel his gaze assessing her face.

"You're lookin' for dis Kurt fella," he murmured with sober realisation. "You want me to help you find him."

Her gaze flicked up to his as she swept open his now unbuttoned shirt. He grimaced.

"Why dis always haveta be some game, chere?"

"Hey," she threw at him warningly, taking the cigarette out her mouth. "You were the one who started this game, so don't go blamin' me!" She paused, pouting, sweeping her palms up his pectoral muscles and over his shoulders. "I just thought we could make this… relationship… more profitable for the both of us."

He glared at her, and she sighed.

"You can say no." Her voice was hard again. "You have no cause t'do anythin' I say. I just thought…" She trailed off, not really knowing what she'd thought. "But it doesn't matter," she concluded decidedly. She swept the shirt off his shoulders, and this time he helped her divest himself of the clothing.

"You said he's the general's son," he noted.

"Yeah." Her eyes were downcast again.

"Why doesn't he help you?"

His shirt was off, and she turned her attention to his trousers.

"As always with mutants," she answered quietly. "Nothin' is so simple. He's what the general calls Untermensch."

She tugged his trousers and his underwear down to his thighs, and he leaned over to yank them all the way off. When he sat back up again, she was sitting on her knees beside him, looking at him with an expression that was not so obviously beseeching as watchful.

"You think he's on one of those trains," he voiced what he already knew was the truth. "That's what you're doin' out there, at the train tracks at night."

She made no reply, but she didn't need to.

"Sometimes," he said quietly. "It's better to just let a someone go. To leave the past behind."

She said nothing, made no sound of agreement or dissent. Instead she looked at his chest and said:

"Where's the ring?"

He didn't know what she meant at first, until he realised what she was referring to.

"Somewhere safe."

"Why don't you wear it, when you need to hide your eyes? Instead of those bracelets, which hurt like all hell?"

He considered the idea, only belatedly realising what she must have been suffering in their past recent rendezvous, having to wear it. But he didn't want to think about it. The ring, and all it stood for… The idea of wearing it was offensive to him.

"It wouldn't fit me."

"I reckon it would. On ya pinky finger."

"I ain't wearin' anythin' belongin' ta fuckin' Clan Akkaba!" he exploded furiously, getting to his feet and walking, naked, over to the wet bar. He suddenly needed a drink, badly.

"Then why d'ya keep it—?"

"I think you know why," he cut off her question, his tone dark. He was angry, so angry with her for spoiling everything, yet again. "What you saw of me in your head – that's why. The love, the hate. And by the way – the love part? You made damn well sure I loved ya back then, worked every fuckin' trick in the book to make it impossible for me t'do anythin' but fall ass over heel in-love wit' ya, before ya used me. That's why I wear that fuckin' thing. So's I don't ever forget what the fuck you did t'me. So's I don't never get fooled again."

And it was the truth; just not all of it. But as it said it, it was the only truth there was.

"Remy," she said sadly.

He didn't want to hear it. More of her vulnerability, more of her fragility. He didn't know whether to believe it was real or a game anymore. He occupied himself with fixing his bourbon, trying to focus on anything but the softness she inspired in him.

"I'm sorry," she spoke at last, her voice small. "I'm sorry I asked about Kurt, I— It was stupid of me to mention it. I don't know what I was thinkin'."

How did she do it? Make him regret being so harsh with her, so effortlessly?

He turned, seeing her still there on the couch, kneeling, her hands in her lap.

"Let's not talk about it again," he replied quietly. He twisted aside to crush out his cigarette on the ashtray there, before moving back to sit beside her. The truth was, she'd braved some honesty with him. He wanted to give her some in kind, however dangerous that might be. And there was something he wanted her to know anyway.

"One thing you should know, chere," he spoke, reaching out to toy idly with the strap of her silky camisole, "I ain't Millicent Collins' 'gigolo', if that's all what you still thinkin'. Our relationship ain't like that. At all. She's more like my—"

"Handler?" she broke in, proving to him that she'd wondered – thought – about this before.

"Ha. Non. I told ya. I work solo. You could say she's my cover. I let folks think what folks will. So does she. It's a tidy arrangement… for both of us."

He hooked the lacy strap and tugged it down her upper arm slowly, revealing the milky white swell of her breast, feeling the first rush of arousal pulse through him again.

"So… you're really not with the Resistance?"

He shook his head.

"We scratch each other's backs, time t' time. Works out well."

She frowned at that. He could see her trying to work out why exactly he was here at all. But he wasn't going to indulge her, of course.

"You know me," he said, abandoning the strap to run the joint of his forefinger up the exposed slope of her breast. "I prefer t'work alone. Sometimes, teamin' up has its perks, but… more often than not, it backfires, hahn?"

He gave her a knowing look. They were both thinking about the same thing. The one time they'd both become partners-in-crime and ended up becoming lovers, before it had all literally come crashing down unceremoniously around them.

"You had a partner-in-crime, chere, the past eight years?" he asked softly.

He continued to trace his forefinger down her breast, pushing aside the thin layer of silk… Her eyelids flickered.

"I—I did. For a while. Not in crime, but… in something else."

She gave a small, sharp intake of breath as the joint of his finger found her nipple, and he leisurely circled it, watching as he slowly teased it into hardness.

Something else. He wondered what that meant.

"And dis Kurt… he was your partner?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes glazing with regret. "He… He trusted me… I let him down. Just like I let everyone down."

The words were so plaintive that his emotions vacillated between bitter memories of just how she had let him down, and the need to comfort her. He didn't think he could handle more reminders of their shared past, not right now.

"Hey," he murmured, catching her chin with his free hand and making her look at him. "Shh."

He kissed her, before lowering his head and suckling her nipple into his mouth. There was, after all, no better tonic for sorrow than pleasure. When he heard her sigh, when he felt her free hand weave in his hair, he knew she was no longer thinking on the past. He paused in his tender ministrations only to pull the camisole up and over her head, turning his attention to her other nipple when he'd slung it aside. He was further encouraged that her mind was firmly on more pleasant things when he felt her hand grasp his cock and begin to work it back up to full arousal.

He groaned.

There was something about her, something about the way she worked his body, that was almost like she could get inside his mind and figure out exactly what he wanted. Not that she hadn't instinctively known such things before, even in her previous inexperience, but now she was bold, confident – even if he suspected she had had very few men in between their first meeting and now, and had had barely anyone at all in more recent times. He couldn't help but wonder whether there wasn't still some vestige of him that she had absorbed, that she was still syncing with unconsciously in the back of her mind. It was a momentary distraction from more delightful endeavours. With a growl of impatience, he hoisted her up into his arms – to which she shrieked with surprise – before settling himself back into a sitting position, and depositing her into his lap.

"Get rid of that damned smoke," he all but snarled, plucking the cigarette from her hand and twisting it out on the ashtray at the little table beside them. "And get out of those goddamned knickers."

She quirked him a sarcastic smile, getting briefly to her feet to remove the offending article of clothing, tossing it away with a playful little whirl of silky fabric. Watching her standing there in nothing but stockings and heels was more tantalising a tease than anything else he'd seen from her so far, and that was saying something.

"C'mere," he crooned.

She obliged, moving to straddle him, stockinged legs sliding in against his hips as she slowly lowered herself onto him, a tremulous breath escaping her lips as she was finally joined to him again in the most intimate way possible.

"Ya said ya had plans for us t'night," he spoke, his voice strained, slipping his hands round her rear and trying to temper his own lust. "This the kinda thing ya had in mind, chere?"

She looked down on him, eyes glazed, dreamy.

"Uh-huh," she responded in a barely-there wisp of a voice.

And for a while, neither was inclined to say more.

-oOo-

From their position tangled up on the couch, Rogue glanced over at the grandfather clock across the room.

Time, as always, was never on her side.

"Time I left, sugar," she sighed. "I'm woefully late."

"Hmm."

He didn't sound happy about it either, and he made no move to remove his arm from her waist or his hand from her hair. Rogue pursed her lips into a perplexed little frown. She was becoming increasingly confused about where this was leading to. His mood swung between disdain and desire for her. One moment he was incensed, the next tossing threats, the next wanting sex. Over the past couple of encounters, his mood had mellowed, and she had thought perhaps she could venture to suggest a partnership, of a business kind if not a romantic one, but… that had been a stupid notion of hers. And now he knew more than he had any cause to know about her past, her present, her reason for being here.

But here she was. Lying in his arms in a gorgeous hotel room, something that just a few short weeks ago, she had never thought possible. This was a blessing. This was a gift from the heavens, and if this excuse for no-strings pleasure was all their relationship would or could entail, she would accept it. It was a thousand times better than anything she deserved.

With a sigh she pushed herself up from him; but he caught her, pulling her back down for a passionate kiss.

Confusion rolled over her again. Could kisses be so sweet, yet mean nothing? And it was precisely because she felt something for him that she refused to push him away, and kissed him back.

When it was over, she quickly pulled away from him and to her feet, lest she never stop.

"I'm late," she muttered to herself as she began to hurriedly dress. He made no comment, merely watching her from the couch – she could feel his eyes on her. Within a few minutes she was dressed again, grabbing at her purse, jacket and hat. As she passed him on the way to the door, he reached out and gripped her wrist, staying her.

"We do this again, chere," he said. "Tomorrow."

Her heart leapt, her mind whirled.

"I can't tomorrow."

"Then the evenin' after."

She paused. She was coming to a horrible realisation.

"Remy." She turned to him, looked down at his hand on her wrist. "We… we need to stop doing this."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because…" She took a deep breath. "Because it's dangerous."

And it hurts, she added in her mind.

"Then no business," he insisted quietly. "Just sex."

Her body pulsed with a need that was still so strong, despite having had her fill of him and more that evening.

"If I don't stop this now," she admitted, "I won't stop."

"Maybe dis Cajun don't want you to stop."

Her eyes darted to his. He was quiet, watchful, gauging her reaction. She gave him none.

"Do you want t'stop?" he asked her.

"I…"

She fought it, perfunctorily. What was real and what was a trap, she didn't know anymore, nor did she think she particularly cared.

She got to her knees beside him, held his gaze, said:

"No."

The pull of his devilish eyes was almost too much to bear. She knew he wanted to kiss her, but she couldn't allow it. She was already late. Instead she eased her wrist out of his grasp and put her hand in his.

"I'll see you, then," she whispered. "The evenin' after tomorrow."

He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her bare knuckles. That kiss alone was worth the headache the bracelet caused her.

She stood.

It didn't matter what he did with it. Whenever she left him now, her heart would remain in his grasp.

Rogue hurried down the staircase and into the lobby, leaving the hotel with her heart thudding painfully so in her chest. Whatever feeling she'd had back in that room hadn't left her… she taken it with her, just as she'd left it with him.

She was tied to him now. Irrevocably. It made no sense; and yet nothing else made sense.

Until this moment the love she'd harboured for him for all those years had been a limp, anaemic thing she'd long left for dead.

Now it was alive again, boisterously so, joyful and gleeful and impossible for her to ignore.

She stepped out onto the streets with the world whirling around her, everything sparkling with a new-found clarity.

She was in-love; and God help her, for that love still wasn't meant to be.

Ripping the bracelet hastily off her wrist, she turned into a darkened alley and streaked straight up into the sky. She was already too late to care about taking the immense risk; and she needed this moment, she needed space to breathe.

For a few wild seconds she fought the wind and the clouds, breaking right through to the stratosphere where everything was clear and uncomplicated, and there was no one to judge and no one to see… …

She came to a stop, her hair and coat fluttering in a glorious maelstrom around her, and there she was, a goddess far removed from the world, from all the ties that bound her, made her fragile and human. She breathed in deep, as if to suck in the essence of this, this freedom she might never feel again.

To not be Rogue… to have no ties… no mission, no lies or subterfuge… no betrayals or reparations owed.

Was it possible? Was it possible that there could be a Rogue out there who was… happy?

As usual her thoughts ripped her away from the joy, the simple, childish wonder of the moment. Again, she felt that pang in her heart; and here, way up high, the more stretched thin her heart felt, as fragile as a rubber band drawn to breaking point. She could fly across the world right now and her chains would be shattered… Yet the promises she had made could not easily be tossed aside. The yearning of her heart could be denied still less.

And so, knowing her fate, she sank through the clouds again, until she broke through the other side and saw the city once more, half shrouded in darkness. Back in '32, when she had last been here with him, this had been the city of lights, a metropolis of glimmering jewels and neon gems, as bewitching as the treasures they had stolen. Now half the city was barely a twinkle in the sultry velvet black of night. She would mourn the loss later – for now, darkness was what she needed.

She skimmed the bottom of the clouds, taking care not to fly too low, keeping an eye out for planes. Within half a minute she was over the river Seine and shooting north across the sky like a dart towards Rue de la Rochefoucauld, towards the place she now called home. What would have been a 40-minute walk had been reduced to a few short minutes. She alighted silently in the back courtyard of the general's apartments, barely illuminated by the lights of the occupied rooms. It was already well past curfew.

She had dallied too long with Remy… Far too long. She straightened her clothes, rearranged her hair, and softly pushed open the back door.

All was quiet within, the rest of the household keeping with the general's strict early bedtime hours. Only a few old oil lamps lit the hallways, and Rogue slipped through them, taking the back staircase up to her room, mindful of the loose and creaky floorboards she had long mapped out in her mind.

A part of her was certainly not surprised when she saw the general waiting at the top of the staircase for her arrival.

"Good evening, Anna," he greeted her; and she stopped short, unable to read the expression on his face, whether it signalled disaster or something more benign.

"General."

She had intended the greeting to come out neutral, but there was an inhalation in her voice, of surprise, of unspent exhilaration at the evening's events. She knew it was a tell, and she did not dare say more.

"You are exceptionally late this night," he noted, his tone so even as to be unreadable to her. She bowed her head in response.

"Yes. I… I am sorry, General."

He appraised her a moment.

"My dear," he began, a faint smile touching his thin lips, "you have a lover."

This time surprise alone kept her from uttering a single word; but her cheeks flushed involuntarily, giving her away.

"Come now, dear Anna," he prompted her. "The truth is quite patent. I might even hazard a guess as to who your paramour may be. That young man, Marceaux, pays you a great deal of attention, does he not?"

The words were spoken jovially enough for her to know that he knew the truth, and even that he was not angry with her; but this was a secret that she had intended to keep jealously to herself, something she could horde in the quiet hours when she was alone. For the general to know… …

But at least it is not one of the maids, she thought sternly to herself.

"Yes, general," she answered meekly. "You are correct."

"Of course I am!" He gave a little laugh. "I have not lived all these years without noticing things such as these. He is no doubt a foolish young man, but I cannot deny you make a handsome couple."

Rogue blushed furiously, mortified by such a matter being spoken of so freely by a man such as him, yet pricked too by the misery all her previous dealings with Remy LeBeau had inflicted on her. A handsome couple! Yes, perhaps they might've been, in another time, in another world. Not in this one.

"I apologise, general," she forced the words out through gritted teeth. "I know you rely on me… This will not happen again."

"Ah, my dear Anna," he rebuked her in a softer tone, taking her gloved hand in his and gently patting it. "You imagine I am angry at you. Yet how many times have I told you that you must not deny yourself pleasure? Not for a past that cannot be changed, and certainly not for an old man such as me. I rely on you, yes. But I know my days are numbered. If I can die in the service of my country, that is all one such as me – who has lived his life and has nothing left – can wish for. But you are young. Beautiful, if I may say, and an exceptional creature. The world, and all it has to offer, is for you – you must not deny yourself."

Rogue stared at her hand in his, her eyes and throat burning. How little he knew of what she could and could not have! Of how many had suffered at her hands!

"You are very kind, general," she murmured, unnerved by the sudden impulse to confess all to this man who, strangely, sometimes felt like a father to her, even if she did not dare trust him in any other respect.

Sensing he would get no more from her, the general sighed.

"No, no, this sadness of yours will not do! Your loyalty to my son is admirable, but it is wrong that a woman of such youth and vigour should mourn as you have! My son was not worthy of you – there I have said it! Free yourself from his shadow. That is your general's order!"

He peered at her intently, as if trying to impart his will on her with mere thought alone. It was a look she had seen before, on another father figure no less commanding, though gentler and more just than the one who stood before her now.

"Then I will try to obey," she replied, allowing him a pale smile as concession. He squeezed her hand in response.

"Then it will have to do, for I fear I shall not get much else from you!" He dropped her hand, took a few steps back. "I will not begrudge you your lover, my dear. But in future, you will return on time. While death is not far from me, I do not wish to die needlessly. And I rely on your protection."

She bowed her head.

"Yes, general."

"Well, then." He nodded to himself, formality restored. "Goodnight, Anna."

"Goodnight, general."

She watched on as he retreated to his room, this unassuming little old man, the war hero, who, like her, had taken so many lives.

That he would die someday soon, she had no doubt.

But it would not be at her hands.

-oOo-