The ship’s infirmary reeked of salt, blood, and rum-soaked bandages. Dim lantern light swayed with the waves. I sat on a crate, cheek stinging from the slash. Battle chaos still echoed outside—groans of the wounded, shouts of the crew. Then he came. Crevette. The hostage from Ded’s ship. Young, soft-faced Hexagon boy, maybe twenty. Handsome…
The red room. Walls dripping crimson, candles flickering shadows like demons dancing. I woke naked, wrists and ankles chained short to the wall beside her massive four-poster bed. Heart hammering. No escape. The air thick with musk and wax. I tugged the chains. Useless. Panic mixed with something darker—a pull I couldn’t name. She entered….
The rowboat rocks gently on Lake Bourget, July 17, 1817. Near Hautecombe Abbey’s ancient stones. Sun dips low, painting water gold. Julie’s in my arms. Her lips crash into mine. First real kiss. Tongues tangle, clumsy, hungry. Heart hammers like a drum in my chest. She’s married. Older. Sickly. I’m just a boy chasing cures…
The garden air was thick, late afternoon sun warming my skin. Eudes held my hands, eyes locked on mine. My heart hammered like a war drum. I’d kissed Bohémond a hundred times, but this felt different. Deeper. His breath quickened mine. ‘May I?’ he whispered. I nodded, throat dry, pulse racing in my ears. No…
The sun baked the fields as Julien and I left the carriage behind. My heart hammered like the procession bells. We’d groped in the tower, jerked him off in the caleche amid chanting faithful. But now, alone at Sainte Clarisse’s well, no turning back. The air hummed with risk—pèlerins could wander by. I clutched the…
The bathing room in the Lescot house smelled of lavender soap and steam. I pushed the door open, expecting an empty space. But there she was—Marie-Jeanne, sunk deep in the wooden tub, water lapping at her shoulders. Her voice cut through the haze. ‘Suzon? Come rub my back.’ My heart skipped. It wasn’t the maid….
In the grand salon of the Magloire house, Bois de Boulogne, 1793. My heart hammered like a drum. Georges on the sofa, recounting the hunt for Daurcelle. His voice steady, but my mind raced. Sisters watching, smirking. Fulvia’s tease hung in the air. Two men? Me in the middle? But no. My ass was his…