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Chapter Text

Sylvie struck the match and touched flame to tobacco, the bitter smoke filling her mouth as she surveyed the desolate farmland stretching before her. She blew out the match with practiced efficiency—a soldier's habit, born in the trenches where a second cigarette lit from the same flame could draw a sniper's eye.

The scar beside her left temple was proof enough.

She'd been five years old when the shelling began. Coated in dust and blood, she'd stumbled into a trench and collapsed into mud mixed with worse things. The boot that trod on her hand had startled her into looking up—straight into the muzzle of a rifle pointed between her eyes. Everything after that moment existed as fragments: the deafening crack of the gun, Private Tommy's helmet deflecting the bullet just enough to send it careening into her skull instead of through it.

The lesson had carved itself into her bones along with the scar. One match, one cigarette. Never more.

She uncrossed her legs and stood, boots crunching through fresh snow. Toxic smoke merged with her frosted breath as the droning grew louder overhead—bomber planes, their engines thrumming with mechanical violence. She cupped her hand above her eyes, squinting past the winter sun.

German planes. Which meant they'd already pushed far past the borders.

"Sylvie, please come back inside."

The voice was weak, threaded with pain. She pulled the cigarette from her lips, wincing when the paper stuck and tore a small piece of skin. She ran her tongue over the wound and pushed off from the barrel she'd been leaning against, her boots leaving deep prints in the snow as she rounded the barn.

The barn's bright red paint stood out like a wound against the white landscape—visible for miles. She dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath her heel, but the thought evaporated when she saw him.

Alain had collapsed against the gate of the empty horse field, slumped forward with his crutch lying useless in the snow beside him.

Sylvie broke into a run. She snatched up the crutch and wedged herself beneath his outstretched arm, gripping his shoulder hard as she replaced the fallen support. "Alain, you're going to kill yourself moving around like this!"

The chill that shot through her body had nothing to do with winter. It radiated from him—cold, wrong, dying.

"I woke up, and you were gone." His voice rasped, barely audible, but she caught the edge beneath it. A fragment of the man he used to be.

She whispered an apology and adjusted her grip, moving slowly to keep from taxing his broken body. His hand trembled as it found hers, their fingers locking together with familiar ease. He squeezed weakly. She leaned her head against his, and despite everything, he smiled.

"I'm sorry."

Sylvie sighed. Since Alain had returned from what the news called "the front line," he'd become someone else entirely. The strong, assertive man she'd married eight years ago had been replaced by someone timid and dependent—qualities she'd never imagined he could possess.

What had he seen out there to change him so completely?

He'd never depended on her before. Not once. But the day she'd opened the door to find him hopping up the path on crutches, something heavy had settled in her chest and refused to leave. Every time she looked at the stump where his right leg used to be, her stomach twisted. Worse still were the moments when their eyes met—his single remaining eye was haunted, cold, filled with things he would never speak aloud.

She kicked open the garden gate, snow tumbling from the wooden ledge in heavy clumps. The path had disappeared beneath the white blanket, but she knew it by heart. Their cottage loomed ahead, windows frosting over, icicles creeping down from the roof's edge like frozen teeth.

She paused on the doorstep and released his wrist, reaching for the handle. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Alain."

His lips brushed her cheek—cold, but tender. For the first time in weeks, her heart fluttered. His hair tickled her skin, and she closed her eyes, savoring the contact.

"I lov—"

The force hit them from behind.

Sylvie stumbled forward, her shoulder slamming into the doorframe. Pain exploded through her arm as the distant crack of a rifle reached her ears—too late. The sound rattled inside her skull, shaking her brain against bone. Everything went silent.

Something dark sprayed across the door.

The weight at her side became impossibly heavy. Alain's hand, which had been gripping hers, went slack. They fell together.

"Alain?"

Her voice was a whimper. She stared at the door—at the blood streaking down the white paint—and couldn't bring herself to look at him. Warmth spread across her shoulder, soaking through her coat. Her knees buckled. She couldn't hold him anymore. He slumped forward as they sank onto the doorstep, and she scrambled to catch his head.

It hit the door with a dull thud.

What was left of it.

Her fingers tangled in hair and blood and pieces of brain matter, and she jerked back, frozen, as Alain's body slid down the door and crumpled at her feet. She reached for him—fingers stretching uselessly—even as the mechanical click of a rifle being reloaded sounded behind her.

Boots crunched through snow. Orders were shouted, but they didn't reach her ears. The sounds floated somewhere distant, evaporating like the sharp bursts of breath leaving her mouth.

Her hair whipped around her face as she turned. Her eyes burned from the cold and the strain, but she didn't blink. Through the tears gathering in her lashes, she recognized the object pointed at her.

A gun muzzle. Again.

Just like the trench, all those years ago. Except this time, she wasn't among allies.

The man holding the rifle was speaking, but she heard nothing over the buzzing that filled her ears. Her palm burned from how tightly she was gripping the snow and pebbles she'd scooped up without realizing.

He swung the rifle toward her.

She threw the compacted snowball.

It hit him square in the nose, blood bursting from the impact. She launched herself at him before he could recover, slamming both shoulders into his chest. He staggered backward, his hand snagging her calf as he fell. She kicked hard and broke free.

His shouts alerted the others. Grey outlines moved through the snow, rifles raised, voices barking commands.

Sylvie lurched back across the garden and grabbed the fallen rifle. Adrenaline flooded her veins, drowning out thought, drowning out grief. She spared one glance at Alain's body—just one—and choked back a sob.

Then she ran.

Her boots pounded through the snow as she tore around the corner of the cottage. A bullet screamed past her head, close enough that she felt the heat of it, close enough that brick shards exploded against her cheek. She didn't slow down. The shouts behind her grew louder, closer, and she ran harder.

The woods loomed in the distance—too far, but her only chance. Her lungs burned, her legs screamed, but she refused to stop. She veered right, then left, zigzagging through the open field as bullets kicked up miniature blizzards around her boots.

They had to give up. She was nobody—she had nothing to offer them, no information worth extracting. But she wasn't stupid. She knew what soldiers did to women they caught.

One of them was closing the distance. She could feel him behind her, so close the hairs on her neck stood on end. The trees were just ahead—one final burst of speed and she'd lose them in the shadows.

At the last second, she twisted. The soldier's outstretched arms grasped at empty air as she ducked low and swung the rifle butt into his hip with everything she had. He cried out and staggered, clutching at the injury.

She didn't see the second soldier until his elbow drove into her ribs.

The rifle flew from her hands as the impact folded her in half. They crashed into the snow together, a tangle of limbs and desperation. She kicked and thrashed as he tried to pin her down, his companion scrambling over to help. A forearm pressed down on her chest, crushing the air from her lungs. The man's breath was hot against her cheek as he practically lay on top of her to keep her still. The other soldier locked her ankles in place.

She bucked and writhed, but her body was giving out. The fight bled out of her all at once, and a strangled cry tore from her throat.

The pressure on her chest eased. She rolled onto her side and curled inward, arms wrapped around her shaking body, chin tucked against her chest. The trees loomed overhead—so close. If she'd just pushed harder, just run faster, she would have made it.

"Fräulein?"

The voice was calm, slightly breathless, almost gentle. It confused her.

"Fräulein!"

Sharper now, irritated. She turned her head. No point in making them angrier. Through the spots dancing across her vision, she made out a black shape—a gloved hand, extended toward her.

"Get up!"

The command came in German-accented French. It sounded absurd, but she understood.

She ignored the hand and pushed herself upright, her arms trembling with the effort. Her legs buckled immediately, and she staggered sideways. She expected to hit the ground, but an arm caught her. She jerked back instinctively, flailing, but the hand grabbed her again and yanked her against a chest. She shoved at him, trying to create space, and glared up into his face.

"Fräulein."

The tone was a warning. She pressed harder against him anyway.

"I suggest you comply." He leaned down until they were nose to nose, his face obscured by a helmet and fabric mask. "Unless you want a bullet in your chest?"

It wasn't really a question.

His hand gripped the back of her coat, pulling the fabric tight, restricting her movement. She swallowed hard and let her arms go slack.

She was at their mercy now.

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Chapter Text

Her fingers traced the collar of Alain's uniform, smoothing an edge that wasn't there. She refused to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the downturn of his mouth. Annoyed.

"Sylvie?"

Her own mouth pinched shut. She withdrew her hand and crossed her arms, tucking her chin against her chest. "What, Alain?" The whisper was coarse, her throat raw from their earlier screams.

"I don't want to part like this." His fingers, warm and familiar, curled under her chin. An index finger tapped gently, a tickling sensation that made her lift her head just enough for him to seize the opportunity. He cupped her face in his hands. "I have to go."

The truth of it made her squeeze her eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. She pressed into the warmth of his palms as his thumbs wiped them away. "Promise me," she pleaded, her own hands cupping his. "Promise me you'll come home."

A rush of breath, an agonised sigh, tickled her face. He pulled her tight and placed a kiss over the scar at her temple. "I will always come home to you."

A sudden sway, and her body threw itself back against the chair.

Sylvie's eyes snapped open. A few rapid blinks cleared the haze of sleep. The low gaslight of the kitchen pushed back against the darkness, and the creak of wood brought her mind crashing back to the present. The German soldier still occupied her kitchen table. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

For a moment, she had forgotten.

The memory—the last she had of Alain before the war, the last of him whole—dissipated like smoke. She wiped the dampness from beneath her tired eyes with the pad of her thumb. It was foolish, falling asleep so exposed. She rubbed her worn hands together, inspecting the small blisters forming on her palms from digging Alain's grave.

"Fräulein?"

A dry, rattling gasp pulled her from the chair. Beside her, the soldier's chest heaved. A hand rose from his side, searching the air for something to hold.

Hesitantly, she stood and leaned over the table. Glassy eyes swivelled in their sockets, taking a moment to focus on her. A weak smile cracked his bruised lips, and a lurch in her stomach followed. His skin was dangerously pale, clammy, with deep purple circles that seemed to hollow out his eyes. The man on her kitchen table was seconds from death's snare.

His arm shook with the effort of reaching for her. She met his hand in the middle, and her fingers closed around his. She was shocked by the sliver of strength he still possessed; the grip was frighteningly tight for a man in his condition. She tried to pull away from his unnaturally cold hand, but he attempted to speak. The words were a jumbled, wet rasp. She frowned, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and leaned closer.

"Est-ce que ça fait mal?" 

He slurred the words in French, his breath tickling her skin. The question was so unexpected she raised her head. Their eyes met, and she froze. He was crying, his fingers trying to maintain their grip. She cupped his hand tightly between both of her own.

He wanted to know if dying hurt.

Every inch of her wanted to torment him, to feed his fear with horrific images. The part of her that had watched Alain die wanted to let him suffer. But her head and heart were at war, and the nurse—the stubborn, ingrained part of her—refused to let go.

"No," she said softly. "Ça ne fait pas mal."

At her response, he gave a slow, bobbing nod. His gold-flecked eyes never wavered from her face as the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. For the first time, she allowed herself to truly look at him. The weak, almost cocky smile peeled back the fatigue of his war-weary face.

He wasn't a man. He was a boy. Eighteen at most. An enemy, yes, but a child at the end of his life. He had barely tasted it, and now he never would. Somewhere, a mother would weep for her only son, dying on a stranger's kitchen table with no family to soothe him.

Forgetting for a moment that this boy was likely the reason Alain was no longer breathing, she combed her fingers through his short-cropped hair. She slid two fingers down to his wrist, searching for a pulse. Her throat constricted. The time between each faint beat grew longer.

It wouldn't be long now.

"Danke."

The rasped word barely reached her. His hand went slack. A final, rattling breath pushed through his parted lips. She gently brought her hand down his face, closing the lids of his lifeless eyes, and set his arm back at his side.

Death was not new to her; it came with the profession. Yet none had ever left her feeling so empty. She glanced at her watch. The hands were closing on twelve. He had missed midnight by seconds.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She would not sympathise with a dead German.

A spring creaked from the floor above. A soldier turning in his sleep. Her hand clenched into a fist. They had come to her home, taken her husband, and then had the gall to demand she save their comrade—a task at which she had failed, though none of them seemed to care. They had made themselves at home, pilfering her small supplies, sleeping in her beds as if they belonged here.

No one had even stayed to watch the boy die.

As the thoughts consumed her, feeding her anger, a new idea was born.

No one was watching her.

Her heart raced. This was her chance. Her only chance. She listened for any movement from upstairs, but there was only the sound of soldiers stirring in their sleep. It was quiet. She couldn't be sure they were all asleep, but checking would cost her precious time.

A nervous excitement took hold. She crept to the kitchen door and peered into the empty hallway. She peeled her coat from the bannister, the skin on her arms tingling as she slipped it on. Her feet itched to move.

She guessed they would expect her to use the back door, to run for the woods as she had before. This time, she would head for the nearest village. It was the direction the Germans had come from—leaping from one danger to another—but the abandoned neighbouring farm was too far, and this cottage was no longer a home. It was a carcass of memories.

She twisted the handle. The door opened without a sound.

Under the moonlight, the fields glowed, the light reflecting off the untouched snow. She released a held breath, the cloud of it twisting into the still air. She took a moment, letting the tranquillity clear her jumbled thoughts. And in that calm, a chilling realisation struck her.

The upstairs windows.

Of course. That was why no one was downstairs. They could watch the front and back of the house from the bedrooms.

Keeping close to the wall, she moved back along the side of the building toward the barn. The real trial would begin there. Running on foot was suicide; they wouldn't be so lenient a second time. Her value as a medic had died with the boy on her kitchen table. That left only one option.

She reached the barn and eased off the latch. The bright red door groaned as it swung open, and she flinched, her eyes darting back toward the cottage. Silence. She slipped inside, the heavy scent of dust and hay scratching at her throat.

She spread her arms, fingers feeling through the darkness. Two sharp clicks of her tongue echoed through the barn. After a prolonged silence, a gentle whinny and the impatient scratch of a hoof answered.

Relief surged through her. She found the splintered gate, her fingers tracing it to the latch. A wet nose nudged her palm. "Fabien," she whispered, her head bowing to knock lightly against his. Alain's horse, usually a nipping, biting trickster with her, was blessedly compliant. She offered him a crumbled sugar cube, and he lapped it from her palm.

Working by feel in the dark, she saddled him, her hands clumsy but determined. The last part was always the hardest—the bit. She approached him, holding it out. His dark eyes blinked down at her, and for a terrifying second, he looked ready to rear.

"Please, Fabien, please," she whispered, stroking his long nose. He huffed a warm breath that blew her hair from her face, then trotted forward, mouth open.

Giddy with relief, she stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Two sharp taps to his side, and he trotted calmly out of the barn.

In the few minutes she'd been inside, a rough wind had started up, blowing loose snow across the field like a sandstorm. Her hair whipped wildly across her face, but not enough to obscure the pair of cold blue eyes trained on her.

The metallic click of a rifle being loaded stole her breath. To her right, a second soldier. A pair of turquoise eyes, narrowed and focused, stared down a rifle barrel levelled squarely at her.

She pulled on the reins, and Fabien halted. The blue-eyed German was the only thing stopping the other from shooting. He held up a hand, two fingers extended in a silent command.

"Bastards," she cursed.

He lowered his hand. The turquoise-eyed soldier lowered his weapon, though his finger remained on the trigger. The blue-eyed man approached slowly, patting Fabien's neck as he walked around to stand beside her. A half-smile curved his mouth as he extended a gloved hand.

"I thought you would have learned from last time, Fräulein." The smile bled away into something cold and calculating. "You cannot run."

They no longer needed her. Why not let her go? An almost haughty laugh escaped her. "Fabien," she whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle pat.

As if in on the joke, the horse let out a breathy whinny. The turquoise-eyed soldier stepped forward, and with three sharp clicks of her tongue—just like Alain used to do—Fabien's back leg kicked out.

A wet, ragged gasp told her he'd hit his target. She pulled the horse back under control and stared at the blue-eyed German.

"Fine control you have there." His hand moved up the reins, his larger one settling over hers. He gave a single, forceful pull.

She was dismounted before she could react, falling hard into the snow. The impact wound her, and she rolled away from Fabien's stamping hooves. Dragging her aching body onto all fours, she froze. A pair of dusted boots entered her vision. She looked up through watering eyes and pushed back, sitting on her legs.

The cold metal of a handgun kissed the top of her head. Her fingers bunched in her trousers.

She almost smiled. At least she had tried. In a few short minutes, she'd be with Alain. That was a freedom all its own.

"Giving up already, Fräulein?"

He dropped into a crouch in front of her. Their eyes met, and a charming smile disarmed her. He withdrew the gun and rested it on his thigh. His free hand took her chin, a meticulous application of pressure forcing her toward him.

"Your defiance is admirable, if a little troublesome." He spoke as though praising her, and when she arched a brow, he laughed. "We need a medic. Our last one died." He waved the gun in a silent warning. "If you behave, Fräulein, no harm will come to you. You have my word."

He released her. She stared at him, dumbfounded. How could she possibly act as their medic?

"Nein!" 

She growled the refusal in his own tongue, the single word barely marred by her accent. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. He gripped his chin, stifling another laugh.

"Forgive me, Fräulein, you seem to have misunderstood." His hand fell away, his expression turning to ice. "This was never an offer."

"Neither am I," she snapped, possessed by a sudden, lion-like courage born of exhaustion and frayed nerves. "With my knowledge, I can kill you in a heartbeat if you entrust your medical care to me."

"You're quite amusing, Fräulein, but your threat is a hollow one." His hand was at her face again, pushing back the hair that covered the scar at her temple. "Even now, your instinct is to help Horst." His gaze flicked to the soldier Fabien had kicked, who was now coughing up blood. "You haven't got it in you to kill."

She bit the inside of her cheek. He had her. She could have made the boy's death an agonizing one, but she hadn't. She had offered him peace.

He stood, holding out a hand. She batted it away and brought herself up from the floor, brushing snow from her clothes.

"He'll be fine," she said, looking at the buckled-over German. "No strenuous activity, and plenty of rest."

Her change of mind clearly pleased him. She, however, loathed herself for it. They weren't going to offer her an easy way out. Her knowledge was too valuable, and her will, it seemed, too weak.

"Forgive me," she whispered to the night sky, hoping Alain wasn't witnessing this.

A rush of hot breath on her head made her look down. A rough lurch forward to escape Fabien chewing on her hair sent her stumbling into the chest of the man who now held her life in his hands. He pinned her arms.

"The dead do not listen," he whispered, his face pressed against hers, the words a cruel slash of pain. "So they cannot forgive."

He broke away and turned, raising his right hand. A silver chain dangled from his fingers, and she grabbed at her throat, realizing what he'd done.

"I will keep this as insurance for your good behaviour." He slipped a finger through the misshapen ring on the chain and curled his fist around it. Alain's wedding ring. "Welcome to the Schutzstaffel," he said, the words almost crude. "I am Erwin Roth. And it's a pleasure to have you."

Chapter Text

An impatient huff of breath made Sylvie turn. Met with Fabien’s sad gaze, she patted his nose and offered a tired smile, hoping to ease the stallion's distress as she removed the reins. Free, he scraped at the snow with a hoof, eager to roam. Sylvie stepped aside and gave his thigh a firm pat. He whinnied and set off at a gentle trot. She watched him go, a ridiculous envy taking root. Who in their right mind envied a horse?

A dry cough came from the man Fabien had kicked—Horst, she thought his name was. She rounded on him, eyeing the dark, horseshoe-shaped bruise blooming on the edge of his jaw with faint amusement. If he'd been any closer, the damage would have been far more substantial. As it was, the kick seemed to have caught him across the jaw and shoulder.

"I suggest you sleep it off," she advised.

He scoffed in reply, snatching up his rifle and jutting his head to order her forward. A small smile curved her mouth. He was forced to sling the gun over his shoulder, unable to lift his right arm without cursing through the pain. She added Horst to her mental tally: the man whose nose she’d broken, the one she’d struck with a rifle butt, and now Horst.

It wouldn't be good for her if she kept this up. Erwin’s promise of safety was only as good as her compliance. Fear-driven or not, their tolerance for her retaliations had a limit.

With that in mind, she swept past the man whose puppet she now was, head bowed, refusing to look at him. She ignored the two soldiers flanking the front door and stepped over the threshold.

The whole house seemed to have woken up. From the kitchen came the shuffle of boots and the groan of wood—they were removing their dead.

She took the stairs, crossing paths with another soldier. He was bleary-eyed, his dark hair sticking out at odd angles as he kneaded one eye with his palm. He smiled down at her, and she nearly tripped. She didn't return the gesture.

On the landing, she shrugged off her coat and followed the source of her current annoyance to the bedroom on her right. She threw the door open without knocking. Three fully grown men in varying states of undress tripped over themselves, grabbing at anything to cover their exposed skin while barking out a confused mixture of French and German complaints.

She scanned them quickly, singled out the man she was looking for, and gave a firm nod. Pushing into the room, she clambered onto the bed and made a grab for the burly, blonde-haired male—the one with the broken nose. The now-familiar click of a rifle sounded behind her. Did they think she meant him harm?

The truth was much simpler.

She closed in on the man's nose, her other hand wrapping around the back of his neck to hold him still. She wriggled the bone until it clicked back into place. Releasing him, she listened as he inhaled deeply, the clear rush of air through his nasal passages like music compared to the aggravating whistle.

"That's much better." Hands clasped as if in prayer, she hopped off the bed and slipped out of the room, dismissing their bewildered stares. The two newer arrivals at the door let her pass without a fuss.

Whether it was frayed nerves or sheer exhaustion that made her act so boldly, she was unsure. She only knew she needed to sleep, and she couldn't have done it while listening to that soldier's whistling.

A yawn parted her lips as she found her own bedroom, gratefully unoccupied and untouched. She locked the door, the thunk of the bolt sliding into place offering a temporary sense of ease. This room was her only sanctuary, the last place untainted by them.

She sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her boots. Too tired for her usual routine, she crawled under the blankets and dragged the top pillow from Alain’s side. Hugging it, she inhaled his lingering scent, a small comfort. She buried her face in the pillow and finally did what she’d been wanting to do all day. It wasn't crying, not really. It was screaming, the sound muffled by the mouthful of fabric as her body shook with the overwhelming rush of emotion.

"You can't lay in bed all day."

Sylvie grumbled, burrowing deeper, clawing at the blankets to stop Alain from pulling them off. A click of his tongue from the corner of the room made her sigh. He wasn't going to let her have a lie-in. She brought her head out from under the sheets, blinking in the warm glow of the gaslights. Outside, it was still dark.

"Alain, what time is it?"

He moved to the end of the bed and threw her coat at her. "Come on." He left without another word.

Curiosity piqued, she dressed hastily. At the foot of the stairs, the front door was wide open. She approached with caution, a startled yelp escaping her at the sight. The fields were painted white, snow falling in a gentle flurry that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Alain’s silhouette stood at the edge of the garden with two others.

She ran down the path. Stood between a sandy-brown horse and a red one, Alain smiled, holding out the reins for the red one. "You said you always wanted to ride a horse in the snow."

Her chest fluttered. She climbed over the low brick wall and took the reins, patting her designated horse. "What's his name?"

The reddish horse whinnied and nudged her playfully. "It's a she," Alain said. "And her name is Belle." He gestured to his own mount. "This is Fabien, Belle's brother."

Sylvie mounted Belle and steadied her. With a click of his tongue, Alain set Fabien into a gentle trot, and they moved across the snow. The scenery was beautiful, like they were in their own little world. Alain watched her, his expression thoughtful.

"Do you miss it?" he asked.

"Miss what?"

He faced forward, annoyed. "Living in the city. It must be boring here for you."

She thought for a moment. "I do not miss it at all. Even if I did, it is a little late now that we are married." She smiled and tapped Belle into a light gallop, laughing as Alain cursed and urged Fabien to match her speed. The chilled wind bit at her face, but she remained happy, happy that he had remembered such a small thing.

Sylvie woke slowly. She rolled onto her back, a hand draped over her eyes. They felt raw and puffy. She couldn't recall when she'd fallen asleep. Fanning an arm out to the empty side of the bed, she wished, just for a moment, that it was cold simply because Alain had woken up early.

Denial was a poison. She had to make do with the memories.

She threw back the blankets and caught her reflection in the dresser mirror. Dried blood matted her hair, staining her neck and face. It was like the trenches all over again—all that was missing was the mud and the wide, glassy-eyed stare of a terrified child.

She gathered fresh clothes and peeked out into the corridor. The broad back of a soldier descended the staircase. She waited, then crept across the landing to the bathroom. Reaching for the handle, she hesitated, then knocked. She was no stranger to the naked male body, but she didn't want to see any more of them than was necessary. The night before had been more than enough.

No one responded. Groaning, she leaned her head against the door, safe in the knowledge it was empty.

She locked it behind her and turned the taps of the bath, the room slowly filling with steam as she undressed. She kneaded the tight, knotted muscles in her shoulders. Testing the water, she slipped in, cupping her hands to splash her face. She scrubbed at every inch of her body, a frantic need to feel clean taking over. The soap slipped from her hands.

She watched the bubbled square slide across the tiles. A pair of polished boots parted sharply. The soap hit the sole of one and flipped up against the shining leather.

Her head snapped up, her face flushing. Her limbs were uncoordinated in their panic as she brought her knees up to cover her exposed chest.

"Calm yourself, Fräulein." Erwin bent to retrieve the soap and threw it back into the bath. It made a popping sound, creating ripples against her legs.

The door was locked. She had made sure. How did he get in?

Curled into an almost foetal position, she couldn't look at him. "How did you—?"

He cut her off, shaking out a towel and holding it up like a modesty panel. "I was already here. Apparently, you didn't notice."

She remained in the bath. "And you did not think to announce yourself? I knocked on the door!"

"Did you, Fräulein? I must not have heard it." His voice held an edge of amusement. He was entertained, and it was at her expense.

Her mouth pinched together. She slapped a hand against the water. How could he treat this invasion of privacy as a laughing matter? Any respectable man would have announced his presence.

"You perverted wretch!" she shouted, grabbing for the towel. She didn't trust him not to drop it. Awkwardly, she stood, wrapping the bath sheet around herself as she left the water. It dropped to her knees, keeping her covered. She wrapped another towel around her wet hair, feeling his eyes on her back. She glanced at him, her own eyes narrowing at his inquisitive stare. He was leaning against the doorframe, fingers gripping his chin.

"Forgive my intrusion, Fräulein," he said softly. "But how long were you married?"

A vicious twist in her gut at his use of the past tense. She stuttered the answer. "Eight years."

"Eight years is a relatively long time." He paused. "From what I saw of you... you haven't borne any children."

The bottle slipped from her hand and smashed on the tiles. A hand unconsciously pressed against the scar that stretched from hip to hip across her abdomen. "I'm barren," she said stiffly, picking her way out of the field of glass she'd created.

"Barren?" he questioned quietly, his tone balanced between confusion and uncertainty.

She rested her hands on her knees, head bowed. Why was she telling him this? It was none of his concern. It was just more information for him to use against her. It was worse than him seeing her naked. "That's all you need to know."

Her voice choked. She stood and moved to collect her clothes. Erwin’s finger tapped the scar at her temple. "Does it have something to do with this?"

She pulled the towel on her head to cover the indentation. "Have you no understanding of a person's privacy?" she snapped, losing patience. She stepped around him, heading for the door. "Or for that matter, how to act accordingly." She twisted the lock, welcoming the cold rush of air from the hallway. "I have no intention of talking with you or your friends outside of what is expected of me." She met his dead-on stare, peeved by the faint curve of his mouth. "So until I'm needed... shut up."

She purposefully slammed the bathroom door and ran to her bedroom.

Chapter Text

Sylvie paced the length of her room, gnawing at a fingernail until the skin was raw. Since the intrusion in the bathroom, she had remained locked inside, grateful for the solitude to let her temper cool. But it was difficult to think clearly when her stomach was twisting into knots. She hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, her hunger suppressed only by the complete upheaval of her existence.

A loud, traitorous gurgle finally forced her hand.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open—just as a heavy fist descended to knock.

It connected with her forehead with a dull thump. She stumbled back, clutching the offended spot, eyes watering.

The German soldier—the tall one who had smiled at her on the stairs—stumbled forward, stammering an apology. His hands waved wildly in a panic, as if trying to catch the words falling from his mouth. A bead of sweat crawled from his hairline.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you!"

"Quiet!" She scrambled to cover his mouth with both hands, silencing his shout. She pulled back almost immediately, wiping her palms on her trousers. They were damp with his sweat.

"It's fine," she hissed. "What do you want?"

He stepped back, scratching his temple sheepishly. "You're wanted downstairs."

She sidestepped him without a word, wondering what fresh hell awaited her. She followed him down the stairs, pausing only when he stopped abruptly in the hallway.

Between the open front door and the garden, a soldier lay on the floor. His chest puffed with rapid, panting breaths. Sylvie looked down at the source of his agony and bared her teeth in a hiss of sympathy.

She understood why he hadn't screamed—silence was their safety—but she couldn't grasp how this unit was still functioning.

In twenty-four hours: one dead. One with a broken nose. One limping. One kicked by a horse.

And now, one with his ankle caught in the rusted jaws of a hunting trap.

She stared down at him, shaking her head. "Are you sure your medic didn't shoot himself just to get away from you lot?"

The soldier’s head shot up, face contorted. "What was that?"

"I said you have to be the most hopeless group of soldiers I have ever seen." She crouched beside the injured leg and purposely jabbed a finger near the trap. He hissed and whined. "What kind of idiot steps in a hunting trap in the middle of a war?"

He opened his mouth to rebuke her, but his head fell back against the floorboards. Satisfied, she performed a visual examination.

The teeth hadn't gone too deep—his thick leather boots had saved him from losing the foot entirely. She felt around the base for the release mechanism.

She turned to the bumbling giant lingering by the door. Eventually, she would have to learn their names. Calling them 'Bastard One' through 'Five' was becoming confusing.

"I need towels, salt, and my bag."

He nodded and stepped over her to retrieve the items.

She placed a knee on the soldier's uninjured leg to pin him. "You," she pointed to another soldier hovering nearby. "Support his back." She grabbed a scarf from the hook by the door and threw it at the patient. "Tie this just below your knee. Tight. I need to reduce the blood flow."

The giant returned, laden with supplies. "When I release this," she told him, speaking slowly, "you need to push the jaws apart and keep them open."

He gave a stiff nod.

She gripped the mechanism. "Ready."

She pulled. The tension released, and the jaws sprang open. The soldier kicked out instinctively, his boot catching her in the chest.

"If you kick me again," she snarled, shoving him back down, "I will amputate the foot."

The soldier went an incredible shade of white.

With the threat established, she turned back to the wound. Blood soaked through the towel instantly. She needed to see the damage. She glanced at the soldier holding the leg; a sheathed blade hung at his hip.

Without asking, she snatched it. The atmosphere in the room snapped tight as wire.

She sliced down the trouser leg and cut the boot laces. Placing the knife handle between the soldier's teeth, she worked the leather loose. It was suctioned on by blood. She braced her foot against his thigh and pulled hard.

The boot came free with a wet squelch, sending a spray of blood up the doorframe.

She peeled off the sodden sock. Spitting out the blade, she pulled on fresh gloves and pushed a finger into one of the puncture wounds. The soldier writhed.

"Hold him still," she ordered.

She probed the wound. Not deep. Bone intact. Small mercies.

She packed the holes with wadding and cleaned the edges with salt water, scrubbing away rust and dirt. She threaded a needle and cut away a torn flap of skin that was beyond saving. Pinching the edges of the largest puncture, she drove the needle through.

When the last stitch was tied off, she sat back, blowing a stray hair from her face. She offered the knife handle back to the soldier who had assisted her.

"Danke." He wiped the blade on a clean towel, his brown scruff softening a smile.

"No need to thank me, you bas—" She cut herself off, pursing her lips.

"So you've assigned us numbers, then?" He looked amused, tapping her shoulder.

She swallowed nervously. "I don't know your names. Numbering you seemed efficient."

He laughed—a deep, chest-rumbling sound he tried to stifle behind a hand. "You're an amusing little thing, Fräulein." He cleared his throat. "My name is Dieter." He held out a hand.

She stared at it for a moment before taking it. His grip was surprisingly gentle. He pointed to the grumbling man on the floor. "And this idiot is Erich."

Erich muttered something in German that sounded distinctly impolite.

"Right." She tapped Erich’s leg. "Up. I'll bandage it properly later, but it needs air."

She helped hoist him into the living room and propped his leg on a stool. Leaving him to his misery, she returned to the hallway. It was a slaughterhouse of bloodied towels and debris.

Sighing, she bundled the mess and carried it to the kitchen.

The room was spotless. The stain from the dying boy was gone. The broken crockery she'd smashed in her rage—gone.

She hadn't cleaned it. Which left only them.

Unsettled by their sudden domesticity, she dumped the towels in the bin and scrubbed her hands raw at the sink. Her stomach growled again, a furious reminder of her original mission.

Supplies were critical. With five extra mouths to feed, her pantry would be empty in days. She had intended to go to the village before this nightmare started. Now, it was a necessity.

She retrieved her coat and checked the pockets, finding a crushed roll-up. She lit it, savouring the burn of dry tobacco. That supply was low, too.

She stepped out the front door, careful to avoid the trap. She whistled—a high, sharp sound. Fabien trotted up the field, answering the call.

A small cluster of soldiers leaned against the garden wall. Erwin was among them. He was the last person she wanted to see.

"Fräulein?" he called.

She ignored him, swinging a leg over Fabien’s back. The coat she’d used as a saddle blanket took a moment to adjust.

"I'm going for supplies," she announced to the air, refusing to look at Erwin. "I won't be long."

"On your own?"

The question came from the man with the broken nose—Horst.

"Yes. I can't exactly take you with me, can I?" She fought to keep the sarcasm from sounding hysterical. "Tell me, what do you think the villagers will do if I trot in with a German soldier?"

Horst stepped forward. "I will go with you."

"Your French is horrible. They'd spot you a mile off." She circled Fabien, keeping distance. "Currently, I have three of you who are utterly useless, not including the dead one. My supplies are limited. If one of you bungling idiots gets shot, I cannot drag you back here."

Silence. Her logic was unassailable.

"Try not to kill yourselves while I'm gone," she called, snapping the reins. "Or at the very least, do it outside so I don't have to clean the floor again."

She half-expected a bullet in her back. When none came, she leaned forward and urged Fabien into a gallop.

The wind whipped her hair, and for a fleeting moment, she felt free.

She approached the village cautiously, taking the path through the woods. The town was sleepy, seemingly untouched by the war that lingered at the borders. People walked the sloping paths, tense but smiling. It was a relief to hear French spoken without the thick, guttural accent of the occupier.

She tied Fabien to a post and rubbed her aching thighs. Bareback riding had been a mistake.

She moved through the market, buying vegetables and bread, her arms soon laden with bags.

"Sylvie!"

Panic seized her. She turned, expecting a gray uniform.

Instead, she saw a familiar face. Patrice. Dressed in his French army uniform, a broad, cocky grin spread across his face. He jogged over.

"It's been a while, Patrice."

His smile faded slightly as he ran a hand through his cropped hair. "I keep forgetting you're married. I got myself worked up seeing you here." He cocked a brow, hopeful. "Unless that's changed?"

He realized the implication of his words instantly and morphed into horror.

"Still married," she lied, her voice meek. She averted her gaze.

Usually, this was the part where Alain would appear and clout Patrice affectionately. The absence of that moment hollowed her chest out.

"I'm sorry," Patrice said, nudging her shoulder. "I didn't think."

"When do you?" she managed a weak laugh.

He dramatically clutched his chest. "You wound me, madame."

He took her heavy bags without asking—"It's the least I can do"—and walked her through the market. He chattered about the front line, about his leave, about how glad he was to be away from it.

She was free. She was alone with a French soldier. She could tell him. She could scream for help.

"Patrice?"

He stopped, turning to look at her. "Patrice, I need your—"

The words died in her throat.

In the corner of her eye, a figure loomed.

Resting casually atop a barrel, a cigarette hanging from his lips, was a man in civilian clothes. Shirt sleeves rolled up, relaxed posture, calm demeanor.

Dieter.

He took a drag of the cigarette, the smoke drifting lazily. He stared right at her.

"Who is that?" Patrice asked, noticing her distraction. He narrowed his eyes at the stranger. "I don't recognize him."

Sylvie's mind raced. If she outed Dieter, a firefight would start right here in the market. Innocent people would die. Patrice would die.

"Are you alone?" she whispered, turning so Dieter couldn't read her lips.

Patrice frowned, stepping partially in front of her. "Yes. Is there something you need to tell me?"

She felt sick. Lying to a friend. Protecting the enemy. "I don't know who he is," she lied, her stomach knotting. "I was just wondering if he came back with your unit. Probably just passing through."

Patrice relaxed, buying the lie. "As long as he isn't competition."

She forced a laugh and steered Patrice away.

Later, as evening darkened the sky, they sat in the local pub. Patrice was nursing his sixth wine. The amber liquid swirled in the glass before he drained it.

He turned on the stool, bloodshot eyes boring into hers.

"Stay."

She raised a brow. "What?"

"Stay here. With me. Tonight." He leaned forward, covering her hand with his.

She laughed, assuming it was the drink. But his face was serious.

"Patrice, I am married." It hurt to use Alain as an excuse, knowing he was cold in the ground. "I cannot."

He groaned and sat back, bashful. "You are right. Please forget I said that."

"Goodnight, Patrice."

She left him there and walked back to Fabien. The sun had set, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. It was time to return to her dirty little secret.

She loaded the supplies. She could leave. She could just get on the horse and ride in the opposite direction. Dieter couldn't catch her on foot.

She reached for the reins. A shift in the shadows stopped her.

A figure stepped out from the edge of a building. Blue eyes shone unnaturally bright in the darkness.

Erwin.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" she whispered harshly, using Fabien as a shield between them.

"You have been making an excellent attempt at that yourself," he answered coolly, stepping in front of the horse and grabbing the bridle.

"Pardon?"

"I saw you with the soldier. You had the perfect opportunity to leave when he propositioned you."

Her blood ran cold. He had heard everything.

"I didn't say anything," she hissed.

"You expect me to believe you stayed silent out of loyalty?" He scoffed. "I am many things, Fräulein, but stupid is not one of them."

She hauled herself onto the horse, grimacing at the pain in her legs. "I do not expect you to believe me. Don't think for a second I want to help you."

He released the reins as she guided Fabien onto the road. He walked beside her, his pace relaxed. "Then why? You could have slept in a warm bed tonight. You could have been free."

She snapped the reins, urging Fabien into a trot. "Because I am a widow of one day," she spat, tears finally spilling over. "The mere idea of going to bed with another man—to allow him to touch me while Alain is barely cold in his grave—is unthinkable. It is absurd that you think I would."

She kicked Fabien into a run, leaving Erwin standing in the road.

She took the path through the woodland, slowing to a trot as the canopy thickened. The gnarled branches blocked out the moonlight, leaving her riding blind.

A snap of a twig echoed.

She halted the horse. Her skin prickled. Another snap.

Erwin couldn't have caught up. Dieter was behind her.

She hoped for a wild animal.

A hand closed around her arm.

She was dragged from the saddle before she could scream. A giant hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sound. An arm pinned her against a broad chest, hot breath gliding over her cheek.

"Not a sound," a voice whispered in her ear.

Chapter Text

Legs kicking, Sylvie’s fingernails clawed at the giant arm. Whimpering breaths beat against the hand covering her mouth and nose. Her heart fluttered when a familiar voice whispered in her ear.

"It's me, Fräulein."

Dieter's deep voice was a welcome relief from the terror, though still alarming. He removed the hand covering her mouth. "Stay calm. We have visitors."

Before Sylvie could protest the rough handling, the cold lick of metal pressed under her breast.

"Don't make me use it, Fräulein. I've never had to kill a woman." Dieter positioned her so her body was trapped between his muscular thighs, repositioning his grip on her shoulder. "I don't want you to be the first."

He sounded oddly upset by the idea. Sylvie tried her best to relax, though the knife tip bit into her skin with every breath.

A barely noticeable rustle approached from behind. Sylvie felt Dieter's head turn, the scruff of his beard scratching against her hair.

"Dieter?"

Dieter squeezed her shoulder in acknowledgment, his chin settling back on her head. "It's Erwin."

Unsure whether to be relieved or furious, Sylvie turned her head away as Erwin crouched in her peripheral vision.

"What's the situation?" Erwin whispered, steadying his feet on the uneven ground.

Above her, Dieter lifted his head to speak without knocking his jaw against her skull. "Horst spotted them coming up from the west."

West? That would suggest they were coming up from Bourges. French soldiers. Her countrymen.

"Fräulein?"

Without needing to be asked, Sylvie knew what they wanted. Silence. Complicity. She shifted in Dieter's hold but remained quiet. She dug the heel of her boot into the dirt to keep from sliding, shaking her head when a branch cracked too close for comfort.

If not for the knife jutting against her rib, she would have called out. She should have called out. But fear was a powerful silencer.

Dieter's hand slid down her body, wrapping around her waist. A gentle pull signaled her to move. Using each other for support, they stood. Guided by Dieter, Erwin led their retreat from the clearing.

Fabien, startled by her sudden removal from the saddle, remained in the clearing. He scratched at the ground and shook out his glossy mane, the jingle of the bridle echoing in the quiet woods.

The noise drew the French soldiers closer. Shouts rang out. They were closing in.

Sylvie made a rash decision.

Four quick tongue clicks.

The sharp tip of the knife pinched her skin as Dieter's hold tightened. Erwin paused, turning back.

Ignoring the pain at her rib, Sylvie repeated the sound—a quick succession of clicks, an almost melodic pattern she hoped was correct. Alain had never taught it to her, but she had heard him use it a thousand times.

With a soft whinny, almost like he understood, Fabien turned. Even in the dark, the horse looked forlorn but determined. He reared up, his magnificent form silhouetted against the moonlight, and the supplies slid from his back.

His hooves clopped loudly against the earth. He hopped around, making an incredible amount of noise, until he broke into a full gallop—back the way they'd come.

Shouts erupted across the woodland. "Over there! The horse!"

Sylvie hung her head, holding back a groan of shame as the rush of boots faded into the distance, chasing a decoy.

A long, palpable silence spread between the trio.

Still pressed against Dieter's chest, Sylvie relaxed when the knife was taken away from her breast. His hand drifted from her waist to her hip, giving a gentle squeeze. She almost recoiled.

"Clever little Fräulein," he murmured against her ear.

"Don't thank me," she snapped, forcing herself out of his hold and stumbling away. "Thank the man one of you bastards shot."

She returned to the clearing and stared down at the sacks of supplies lying in the dirt. Rolling her eyes, she moved away, hugging her arms around her body.

Behind her, Erwin and Dieter murmured back and forth. Their arms occupied with the sacks, she could only catch snippets of their conversation—enough to know she was the topic. Still "Fräulein." Always "Fräulein."

"Sylvie."

The two men stopped. She didn't turn around, but she could feel their confusion.

"My name is Sylvie."

She clarified it simply and kept walking. The cottage was dark ahead—the soft glow absent. They had doused the lights, playing dead to avoid drawing the French soldiers.

She stopped for a brief moment and stared up at the building.

Using Fabien as a decoy had sealed her fate. She had chosen.

Conflicted emotions were not a valid excuse. If she had reasoned it out, she knew Alain would understand. Patrice would have been angry, but alive. Back in the clearing, she could have turned the tables. Even if Dieter drove the knife into her chest, the French soldiers would have found them. She would have died a patriot.

Instead, she was a traitor.

She rounded on the two men as they approached. Taking advantage of their burdened hands, she swung the back of her hand at Erwin. It connected sharply across his jaw with a sound that echoed in the silence.

She didn't wait to see if it hurt him. She curled her throbbing hand against her chest and marched the last few metres, kicking open the gate.

The bumbling German—the one who had opened the door into her face earlier—stepped out of the way, eyes wide as a doe. She pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the voices calling after her.

She paused outside her bedroom door, shaking her hand wildly and hissing curses. The pain was sharp, throbbing in time with her heart.

A creak on the stairs froze her.

Erwin lingered at the top of the staircase. He was visually calm, but his eyes held a look she hadn't yet witnessed. The raw red mark on his left cheek answered her question—it hurt him as much as it had her. A slight scratch in the centre of the red patch dribbled a small bead of blood down his clenched jaw.

He stepped forward.

Sylvie moved. She turned the handle and threw her body against the door, tripping backward into the room. She fell on her rear and kicked out to slam the door shut, but Erwin's raised arm caught it before it hit the frame.

She scrambled backward until her back hit the wall. She shrank against it, knees drawn tight to her chest, face buried in her arms.

A painfully long silence enveloped the room.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, skipping a beat when the tip of a boot tapped her leg.

"Fräulein," Erwin said, his voice cold and cutting. "Look at me."

She tried to control the quivering of her jaw and slowly raised her head, keeping it tucked in the safety of her crossed arms. Her vision blurred. She hiccuped quietly, blinking until Erwin came into focus, crouched in front of her.

"Thank you."

The two simple words shocked her into a forced calm. She held back her shaky breaths and stared.

What was he playing at?

Seeing her uncertainty, he sighed, his nostrils flaring. He rubbed his reddened cheek, pulling his hand back when it touched the thin sliver of blood. He ran his thumb over the bright liquid, his thick brows rising in surprise.

"You didn't have to help us back there." He dropped his hand to rest between his legs, wiping the blood on his trousers. "We were in a serious pinch. Your quick thinking changed that."

His mouth flicked up at the corners—a genuine smile.

He was driving the insult into the injury. His gratitude for her betrayal was a poison.

"Get some rest." He straightened up swiftly and patted the top of her head. She tipped away from the contact. "You're certainly proving to be a worthwhile investment, Sylvie."

Hearing her name roll off his tongue made her shudder.

Giving it to them was just one more piece of herself she had handed over to the enemy.

Chapter Text

Sylvie locked the door and slid to the floor, nails scratching down the wood as if she could claw her way out. She curled inward, hugging her legs, her face buried in the small gap between her knees. Dry, racking sobs shook her shoulders.

"What happened?"

Alain’s hand turned her shaking palm, revealing the semi-circle of teeth marks blooming at its edge.

"Fabien bit me."

Sniffling, she shoved her hand back under the tap. The cold water soothed the burning sensation.

A soft snort made her look up. Alain leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching her with amusement.

"He's warming up to you, then."

She scoffed. "How does that make sense?"

She wrapped her hand in a towel and leaned her hip against the sink. "It's his thing. That and chewing hair."

He reached out, running the frayed tips of her hair between his fingers. A smile warmed his usually stoic face. "Is that why you keep yours short?"

She pressed a kiss to his wrist. "Partly, yes."

He leaned in, their mouths hovering close, until a sharp knock at the front door made him curse. He stole a quick peck and stepped away.

The memory dissolved.

Sylvie jerked awake as her head rolled to the side. She flailed, catching herself just before she slid off the door entirely. She pushed herself back up, aching shoulders thudding against the wood.

"Fräulein?"

A voice called from the other side, followed by another set of knocks. She wiped her face, grimacing at the wetness on her cheek. She’d drooled in her sleep.

"Frau—!"

She thumped her fist against the door to silence him and peeled herself off the floor.

She unlocked the door, filling the gap with her body. Her eyes were still hazy, barely focusing on the man trying to coax her out. The tall German with the doe-like green eyes blinked at her, almost imploring. He looked so innocent that the harsh grey of his uniform seemed like a costume that didn’t fit.

He made a sweeping gesture toward the stairs.

Guilt pricked her. She moved, her thighs rigid from riding bareback the night before. At the foot of the stairs, she gave an odd little wiggle of her hips, trying to ease the ache without making it obvious. Her bruised hand throbbed; she shoved it into her coat pocket and rolled her neck until it clicked.

A disgusted noise came from the living room. The soldier she’d pistol-whipped hopped back inside on his good leg, glaring. Apparently, grudges died hard.

She looked to the doe-eyed soldier for an explanation. He pointed toward the front garden with an elaborate mime act. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she opened the front door.

Her heart flip-flopped. For the first time in days, it was happiness.

Fabien came up the field like a sulking child, shaking his mane before pushing his large nose against the man guiding him. Sylvie didn’t trust her legs to run, so she forced herself into a slow stroll to the garden wall.

Fabien’s warm brown eyes stared back, less than pleased. He turned his head away from her outstretched hand. For a horse, he possessed enough attitude to make her forget he was, in fact, just a horse.

She leaned over the wall, brushing her fingers through his mane. It was littered with leaves and twigs. Fumbling in her pocket, she found the crumbled remains of a sugar cube and offered the fragments.

Fabien sniffed, huffed, then dove into her palm greedily. He must have been starving.

She was lost for words. Gratitude was expected, and she would have given it readily if not for the suspicion of ulterior motives.

She glanced sideways. Dieter leaned against the wall, face placid, removing a cigarette from the corner of his mouth.

"There's no need to be so suspicious," he said. "It's merely small thanks for saving our skin last night."

He offered the cigarette. She took it slowly, checking the butt was dry before placing it between her lips. She inhaled deeply, exhaling a long plume of smoke as she organized her thoughts.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

Movement in her peripheral vision drew her attention. Erwin stood nearby, giving her a smart incline of his head. His cheek was clear—no bruise, no scratch.

"Devious little swine," she growled under her breath, tearing her gaze away from his smug face.

She pinched the cigarette, inhaling sharply, and almost forgot Dieter until his warm breath hit her ear.

"I get the feeling Erwin did something rather particular to stoke your fire, Fräulein."

The words were a trigger. Her hand slapped over her eyes as the memory of the bathroom—steam, soap, nakedness—replayed vividly. A groan rumbled in her throat, heat creeping up her neck.

She angled away from Dieter’s unnecessarily close face, throwing down the cigarette and letting her hair fall forward like a curtain. "I'm not exactly fond of any of you."

"That was not what I was asking."

Dieter used two fingers to tuck her hair behind her ear, forcing her to look at him. "I want to know what Erwin did that made you reserve a look especially for him."

She rocked back on her heels, bewildered. He was just like Erwin—probing, coercing, trying to crack her open with soft questions.

She shook her head. No chance. That memory was too personal, too humiliating. It would remain buried unless Erwin chose to brag about it.

"He is the one spearheading this," she said stiffly. "That is all."

She hopped over the wall to return Fabien to the barn. Dieter’s arm shot out to block her path. She tipped her body sideways, brushing past his fingers, half-expecting him to grab her. Relief washed over her when she slipped by.

She looped Fabien's reins and clicked her tongue. He fell into step beside her, and they strolled down to the barn.

Later, Fabien buried his head in a feed bucket. Sylvie sat on a hay bale, tapping her scuffed boots together. She whispered a song into the quiet air, the rhythm matching the horse's crunching.

She flopped back onto the hay, stretching her arms above her head until her joints clicked. She brought her hands down to her stomach, fingers drumming on her coat before sliding underneath.

Her fingertips traced the ridge of flesh stretching from hip to hip. The scar was a horrific purple smile across her abdomen, a permanent reminder of what she had lost.

They called it a complication. An emergency caesarean. Alain had signed the forms while she was unconscious, trusting a doctor who was entirely out of his depth. A fatal blunder in the incision.

The baby died. And with it, her ability to ever carry another.

She closed her eyes and dragged her hands away, pressing them over her face. It was no use lamenting the past, especially now. She rolled onto her side, tucking an arm under her head.

Fabien finished eating and walked himself back into his pen. Sylvie rose slowly, closed the gate, and turned to leave.

Back at the cottage, soldiers lounged in the garden, smoke drifting around their laughing faces. They shoved and joked like boys on a school trip.

The happy little scene made her sick. She wanted them gone. She wanted this to be a nightmare she could wake from.

But the cold, harsh reality was that they were here to stay.

A dull throb started at her temples. A real headache to match the metaphorical one. Kneading her pulsing forehead, she walked blindly up the path, feet moving on memory into the house she used to call home.

Chapter Text

Sylvie’s fingers cramped around the spoon handle as another body bumped into her back. The kitchen, once spacious enough for a family, now felt like a packed train car with twenty German soldiers crammed inside. They swarmed the temporary extension table, jostling for space between the stove and the sink.

Sylvie stabbed the spoon into the bubbling broth, humming her frustration through sealed lips.

Somehow, she’d been roped into cooking. The conversation leading up to it was hazy—one moment she was standing by the counter, the next she was chopping vegetables and dropping them into the large pot.

When she’d turned to throw the spoon at the gathered men, the bumbling, doe-eyed soldier—Martin, she recalled—had offered a stuttering thanks. It stopped her cold. His innocence was becoming a problem. The image of his crestfallen face struck her right in the chest, and the anger deflated.

She took a calming breath, gripping the spoon tighter. When had she started sympathizing with them?

The thought of poisoning the food had crossed her mind more than once. Even a laxative would have been amusing, given the single bathroom. The mental image of twenty grown men fighting for the toilet made her snort, and she quickly covered her mouth, bowing her head to hide the trembling of her shoulders. She didn’t want to draw attention, not when their stomachs were already growling like caged animals.

"One minute!" she announced, holding up a finger.

She turned off the heat and stirred the broth one last time. She ladled a serving for Erich, still confined to the living room, and set it aside. Using two towels, she lifted the heavy pot. The soldiers parted like the Red Sea, allowing her to slide it onto the center of the table.

"Enjoy."

She watched as the men dove in. Bowls were passed down the line, filled, and snatched back as if they feared theft. They ate with the urgency of children.

At the far end of the table, Erwin and Dieter sat apart from the chaos, heads close in quiet conversation.

Thunk.

A spoon flew through the air, striking the wood near Sylvie. She scrambled to catch it, pinning it against her thigh. The source was Martin, eyes wide and sweating, his jaw working uselessly.

"Martin, you prat!" the blonde male beside him shouted, slamming a fist on the table.

"I—I didn't—it wasn't meant to hit her, Bruno!" Martin stammered, hands raised defensively.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. She tossed the spoon back onto the table and wiped her hand on a tea towel. "Charming," she muttered. She grabbed a clean spoon from the drawer, nudged the drawer shut with her hip, and slid out of the kitchen with Erich's bowl.

The living room was quiet. Erich sat in the corner armchair, glancing up as she entered.

"Dinner." She held out the bowl. He took it with a barely whispered thanks. Manners, at least.

While he ate, she inspected his leg. She lifted it onto her knee, ignoring his hiss of discomfort as she unwound the bandages. The stitched flesh was swollen and angry, but dry. No infection.

"You'll be fine to move in a day or two," she said, re-wrapping the limb. "Just don't overdo it."

Erich grunted and looked away. "I don't know why we even kept you alive."

Sylvie froze. Her fingers dug into two of the puncture wounds. Erich seized up, gasping.

"Because you're a feckless prat who put his foot in a trap," she snapped, applying more pressure until his back arched off the chair. "That's why."

She finished wrapping the leg and gave it a purposeful pat. Erich yelped.

Small victories.

A boisterous shout from the kitchen made her pinch the bridge of her nose. They’d found the wine.

She backed away from the doorway as glasses were filled. It was going to be a long night. She moved toward the stairs, intent on escaping, but a bottle waved in her face over the banister.

"Care to join me?" Dieter offered a charming smile. "I don't bite."

She leaned against the railing, placing her chin in her palm. "I'd rather reset that trap and put my foot in it." She forced a smile. "Good night, Dieter."

She turned to leave, but his hand latched around her wrist. She looked back, expecting anger, but found only softness in his face.

"Fräulein, we're going to be spending a long time together." He slid his hand down to hook her fingers. "Is it not best to be better acquainted?"

Sylvie hunched against the evening chill, a wine bottle gripped tightly in her hand. She took a swig, fighting the urge to down it all. Getting drunk wasn't the plan, but the warmth was welcome.

She passed the bottle back to Dieter and returned the cigarette to her mouth, tapping a rhythm on the barrel lid she sat on. She hummed along with his one-sided conversation, nodding at appropriate intervals.

Suddenly, Dieter barked a laugh so loud it nearly toppled her from the barrel. He doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes.

"What?" she snapped, clutching the barrel's edge. "What is so funny?"

He straightened, taking a drink of wine. "I didn't think you were listening, and you clearly weren't."

She shook her head, confused.

"I asked if you wanted to join me in bed," he smirked. "You agreed. Quite readily."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she flailed, nearly falling backward in her embarrassment. An arm wrapped around her from behind, steadying her.

She tensed against the warmth of a chest. She looked up, past Dieter’s gaze, and tilted her head back.

"Erwin."

She greeted him awkwardly. He returned a blank stare.

He lifted her off the barrel and set her on the floor, but didn't let go. He and Dieter began speaking in rapid German over her head. The tone wasn't friendly.

Sylvie tried to slide away, but Erwin's fingers pinched her side, keeping her in place. She froze. The tension was palpable. Was this about her? Being the only woman among twenty men was a dangerous dynamic.

Dieter leaned down, his hand roughing up her hair. His beard brushed her cheek, tickling her skin.

"The offer still stands, Sylvie," he whispered in her ear.

Hearing her name from him felt... different. Not unwanted.

"Dieter." Erwin's voice cut in, sharp and warning.

Dieter retreated.

Sylvie felt the wine swirl in her head, mixing with a sudden, overwhelming wave of guilt. She broke out of Erwin's hold and staggered away. Her stomach lurched.

She fell to her knees and heaved. Bile and wine burned up her throat as she choked, retching into the dirt until she was empty and gasping for air.