Klaus helped Charlotte out of his car, into the warm summer evening. His encouraging smile elicited a blush from her cheeks. She didn’t want to feel so flustered or notice how handsome he was, but she couldn’t help herself. He looked like Prince Charming in his white linen dress tunic, and his manners matched the image. Shutting the door, he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
In front of them loomed, not a castle, but a massive clubhouse. The Country Club, once a gathering spot for Boston’s elite, had become an equally exclusive hangout for the Reich’s glitterati. A gloved hand closed over hers as Klaus led her quite literally into the lion’s den. She glanced up to find him watching her, his expression intent. “You look beautiful, Charlotte.”
Dropping her gaze, she willed her heart to beat normally. “Thank you.”
To the extent that she looked good at all, she had Zelda to thank. Instead of mice, her sister had transformed the rose chiffon she wore from a bridal party mistake into something straight off the runway. A narrow waist flared into a wide skirt that hit just below the knee, and made the most of her limited curves. With it, she’d paired her mother’s pearls. The matching earrings and necklace had been the one heirloom that, during the siege, she couldn’t bring herself to sell.
“Prepare, darling,” he said, “to be as bored as you’ve ever been.”
He walked her inside, then through a colonnade that belonged in a museum and into a sitting room that was easily twice as large as the downstairs of her house. Seating areas were scattered about, and in one of them sprawled Fred. Marie-France was there, too, and so was another couple.
Fred heaved himself upright, almost spilling his scotch. “Klaus! You’re finally here.”
“Charlotte,” Klaus began, “the Reichskommissar and Marie-France you already know, and—
“Fred.” He waved his glass at Klaus.
“Now,” Klaus finished, “allow me to present Hauptmann Günther Braun and his wife, Eliza.”
Charlotte greeted everyone, all the while feeling Klaus’s hand on the small of her back, warm and reassuring. They sat on an overstuffed leather couch, and Klaus ordered her a drink. As she settled into the plush cushions, she couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in her stomach, but Klaus’s presence beside her helped to anchor her amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. As unnerving as he was, she knew him—and knew what to expect from him, or so she hoped.
“So!” Fred burped. “Leaving the office twice in one week, Klaus. How does it feel?”
“Pleasant,” Klaus replied, with a trace of amusement.
“I’m sure.” Fred smirked at Charlotte, his eyes lingering a beat too long before moving on.
Marie-France patted Charlotte’s knee, as determinedly encouraging as ever. “What he means is that while of course we adore our charming Klaus, we’re mainly excited to see more of you. You know,” she added with a warm smile, “those pearls are simply fabulous.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, feeling grateful.
Marie-France had draped her considerable bosom in a necklace that looked more suitable to wear as a belt. Diamonds the size of Charlotte’s thumb glittered in the low light. She offered Charlotte a cigarette, remembered Charlotte didn’t smoke, then offered one to Eliza.
Eliza, swathed in shimmering silk that accentuated her slender figure, radiated self-assurance and superiority while Günther, sitting beside her, looked uncomfortable in his Heer captain’s uniform. She casually inserted the cigarette between her lips, ignoring his reach for his lighter and producing his own. “So—Charlotte, is it?” She pressed her lips together in a thin smile. “What a cute name. I had a cat named Charlotte, growing up. Where are you from?”
Charlotte felt her own smile slip a little. “Here.”
“Remarkable!” Eliza’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “And how, pray tell, did you come to know our Klaus?”
“At my studio.” Charlotte faltered, thrown by Eliza’s disdain. “We’re neighbors.”
Eliza appraised her dispassionately, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. The mark she’d left on the filter looked like blood. “Ooh, how incestuous.”
Klaus put his arm around her, a protective gesture that was confusingly comforting. “I saved Charlotte from one of her paintings,” he said mildly.
“You paint?” Eliza tilted her head slightly, arching one eyebrow as she spoke. “That’s cute.”
“She’ll be famous, soon.” Fred threw back the last of his scotch, gasping at the liquor’s sharp bite.
Günther, sensing the need to salvage the conversation, attempted to appear enthusiastic. “Tell us more about your art, Fraulein Wahl. What inspires it?”
He didn’t care any more than Eliza did, but even so Charlotte was relieved to be on firmer ground. As she spoke, she noticed Marie-France nodding along, her eyes sparkling with genuine interest. Klaus, too, seemed proud of her enthusiasm. His thumb made small circles on the back of her hand as he listened; it was distracting, bringing back vividly the fire she’d felt at his kiss—and how wrong she was for letting him affect her like this. She was playing along, she reminded herself, going through the motions and nothing more.
Cocktails ended, and dinner was announced. Klaus offered her his arm, again, his touch lingering just a fraction longer this time. She felt a flutter of excitement that she quickly squashed; she was a stranger in a strange land, among enemies. Eliza stubbed out her cigarette, stood, and glared at Günther. Marie-France kissed her husband on the cheek, then patted him. He favored her with a worshipful expression, then led their little group into an even more palatial dining room.
Eliza walked beside Charlotte, like a tiger stalking a particularly enticing deer. “That frock is really fabulous,” she purred, with absolutely no sincerity. “You must tell me, where do you shop?”
Marie-France shot Eliza an unpleasant smile, her eyes bright with malice. “Oh, nothing Charlotte wears is off the rack.”
Fred chuckled, and Günther glanced nervously at Klaus.
Their table, Charlotte discovered seconds later, looked like it’d been stolen from the set of a Masterpiece Theater special. Adorned with gleaming crystal and rows of meticulously arranged flatware, it exuded an aura of beige opulence that matched the club as a whole—and seemed to underscore the tension between the guests, all of whom took their seats with a certain air of reluctance.
Fred promptly signaled for another drink. “Do you like to dance, Charlotte?”
“All women like to dance,” Marie-France rejoined robustly.
Eliza’s scowl deepened; Charlotte got the sense that Günther’s wife didn’t like much. “I do enjoy dancing,” she replied cautiously, hoping to avoid another barb. “Although I must confess that I’m not much good.” In the world she’d grown up in, dinner dances had gone out with Fred Astaire.
Fred let out a snort. “Let us be the judges of that!”
Marie-France placed a warning hand on his shoulder. “I doubt that Charlotte wants to dance with you.”
Fred’s face fell, his wounded pride evident. “But I insist!” he protested, turning to his wife with a hopeful look.
Marie-France pressed on, ignoring his comment. “Tell me, Charlotte, did you attend university?”
“Yes,” she replied, striving to maintain her composure. “At the MFA School.”
“The Museum of Fine Arts?” Günther’s eyes brightened with genuine eagerness, this time. “That’s impressive!”
Fred chimed in, his tone jovial. “Ah, Egyptian things. Lots of Egyptian things.”
The appetizer arrived: beef carpaccio with a sundried tomato chutney, plated like a museum exhibit. A servitor poured them glasses of muscadet, a selection that Marie-France declared to be unexpected; Fred eyed the bottle with concern, while Eliza promptly requested champagne. Günther, feigning enjoyment, turned to Klaus. “You studied music at university, didn’t you?”
Klaus’s gaze remained fixed on his carpaccio, his expression guarded. “Yes, violin performance.”
“My wife is a talented pianist.” Günther directed a warm smile at Eliza, who grimaced at the compliment.
Fred leaned forward, grinning stupidly at them. “Tell me, Günther, when can we expect the pitter-patter of little feet in your household? You’ve been married now for some time.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but press her napkin to her mouth, stifling a laugh at the audacity of Fred’s question. Klaus, on the other hand, maintained a studiedly neutral expression, his thoughts veiled behind a mask of composure as he calmly sipped his wine. She couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind, and if he harbored any resentment towards Fred’s blatant intrusion into Günther and Eliza’s clearly tormented relationship. She silently prayed that no one would direct similarly invasive inquiries at him or worse yet, seek her opinion on the matter.
His eyes met hers, and the ghost of a smile passed through them. No one else at this table could even begin to guess at how much effort it took for him, hiding his true feelings at events like these. The man he showed the world wasn’t the same man who’d brought his violin into a war zone and, despite the weight of his responsibilities, stayed up all night playing it. Music, like Klaus himself, embodied precision and control, yet also harbored a deep yearning, a suppressed rage, an unspoken obsession. Both could evoke a torrent of emotions, as she’d learned firsthand. His views repelled her, and he scared her. She didn’t want to enjoy his stories, or laugh at his jokes, or feel the thrill of anticipation whenever he drew near. He represented everything she’d been raised to reject, a stumbling block she clung to with increasing futility.
As the main course arrived, her anticipation rose; she’d been too nervous to eat all day, and a postage stamp of raw meat had done little to satiate her hunger—or satisfy Eliza’s much darker appetite. However, her enthusiasm waned as she examined her dish. Poached salmon lay on the plate, skin side up, its pale flesh unadorned save for a small drizzle of cognac mustard sauce. Beneath it, a mound of potatoes lurked, their bland appearance doing little to entice her taste buds…or distract her companions, all of whom seemed to be staring at her.
“Speaking of music,” Eliza said briskly, her nose wrinkling in dissatisfaction, “I think we can all agree that Boston has none.” Her champagne flute tilted in her hand as she waved dismissively. “Where even is the symphony? Closed, they tell me.” Snapping her fingers, she signaled for a servitor to pour her more Dom Perignon. “No culture at all, really, despite these so-called museums. And don’t get me started on this awful food.”
Fred’s confusion deepened as he frowned at his plate, his discomfort evident. “I like salmon,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else at the table.
Eliza’s gaze turned icy as she set her fork down with deliberate precision, her eyes locking onto Charlotte’s. “The natives themselves, on the other hand, seem to be quite popular,” she remarked, making no secret of the role she thought Charlotte played in Klaus’s life.
Charlotte felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach, a sickening mixture of humiliation and impotent rage. She glanced at Günther, whose pallor had turned ashen, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped the stem of his wine glass. Marie-France looked equally miserable, shifting in her seat as her eyes darted between the tense faces of her companions. She cleared her throat in a feeble attempt to break the suffocating silence that’d descended, while Fred polished off his fourth scotch. If he was trying to drown his discomfort, it wasn’t working.
Eliza alone seemed immune to the turmoil she’d caused, continuing to dine with unaffected poise.
Klaus’s voice cut through the tension, his calmness belying a lurking threat. “My father approves,” he stated flatly.
Fred, grasping for a lifeline amidst what might potentially be a career-ending catastrophe, nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. “And if the Reichsminister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda approves, the rest of us can do no less! Besides,” he added hastily, “Charlotte is quite delightful. She could give us all some lessons in how to behave.” He speared a piece of potato with unnecessary force, the clatter as it hit the tablecloth punctuating his words. “Which reminds me, Klaus, I found your father’s speech quite illuminating last night.”
“I’ll be sure to convey your sentiments,” Klaus replied, with chilling composure.
“Did you catch it, Eliza?” Fred pressed his napkin to his lips, then blew his nose into it. “Channel 5, eight o’clock.”
Eliza had the grace to avert her gaze, at last called out on her antics, but Charlotte remained frozen in her seat. She knew all too well who the Reichsminister was; the entire world did. His power was second only to the Führer’s, controlling every aspect of public life within the Reich. And Klaus had never mentioned, never even hinted, that this was his father. As Marie-France cleared her throat and Fred sighed morosely at his plate, she struggled in vain to process the bombshell that’d been so casually dropped into her lap.
Klaus turned to Günther. There was a glint in his eye that Charlotte had never seen before, and hoped to never see again; it might’ve been the same glint that Ted Hood had seen, right before he died. “Funnily enough,” he began, his voice deceptively calm, “I just had a conversation with my father.” The room fell into a hushed silence, every ear strained to catch his next words. “About you, Günther, and how fortunate I was to have had such loyal classmates, in our Gymnasium days. Although those are, regrettably, far in the past.”
Günther’s complexion drained of its remaining color.
Klaus exuded an icy demeanor as he continued, each syllable measured and deliberate. “Men dedicated to the vision of a unified Reich,” he emphasized, “where distinctions like native and colonial hold no sway.” He punctuated his statement with a rhythmic tap of his fingers against the table. “My father, much like myself, doesn’t conflate his heritage with his achievements.”
“I hope your father is well,” Günther mumbled.
Klaus’s smile remained fixed, a stark contrast to the frigidity in his eyes. “Yes, quite well.”
Finally realizing that she’d made a horrible mistake, Eliza waved her hands helplessly. “I only meant that living here is difficult.”
Klaus’s gaze darkened further as he fixed it on her. “Difficult? Among your fellow citizens?”
Eliza faltered, her attempt at lightening the mood falling flat. “There’s just so much to catch up on,” she offered weakly. “Everyone here is so…behind, is all. I’m sure it’s difficult for them, too.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“At home,” Fred agreed robustly, his words slurred from the scotch. “And abroad.” He took another hefty gulp of his drink, setting the glass down with a thud. “Speaking of which, Klaus, the priests here seem almost as uncooperative as the priests there. What are your thoughts?”
Charlotte found herself relieved at the change in topic, no matter how bizarre. Klaus, for his part, considered Fred’s question seriously. “Their beliefs are fundamentally opposed to ours,” he replied slowly. “Christianity, particularly Catholicism, is a system that thrives on the suppression of individual agency. It exalts martyrdom while condemning those who seek to forge their own destinies.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Fred for a moment before continuing. “In contrast, National Socialism promotes the empowerment of the individual, encouraging self-determination and progress.”
Fred looked dubious. “A troubling number of priests seem entirely too autonomous.”
“Not in doing good,” Klaus corrected him firmly. “Only in seeking to gratify their basest desires.”
Fred nodded thoughtfully, pretending that he understood.
Charlotte, who’d gone to church with her grandmother and who still believed, bit back a sharp retort.
“Affixing rubies to the bones of their dead,” Klaus continued, disdain lacing his voice, “is holier to them than feeding the living.”
She turned to him, unable to hide her shock—or her indignation, at such an obnoxious statement. “I don’t disagree that the church should do more,” she allowed, struggling to sound rational, “and has made some mistakes. Like all organizations, I might add, and all people. But….” She hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. “Isn’t social welfare incompatible with National Socialism?”
Fred’s breath caught; he was clearly anticipating the apocalypse. But Klaus only nodded thoughtfully, accepting her rebuke of his worldview with characteristic gravity. “I understand your concern,” he acknowledged, “and agree that the question should be asked. My answer is that a functioning state must stand for more than survival of the fittest.”
His unexpected agreement left Charlotte so stunned, a gust of wind could’ve knocked her over. “Really?”
A flicker of humor danced in his eyes; he relished that he could have this effect on her. “Yes,” he said, his demeanor shifting from seriousness to a more relaxed and engaged state. “Education, family support in various forms, pensions, programs for veterans—these are all essential components of a society that values progress over mere survival.” He finished his wine. “As individuals, it’s our duty to contribute to this collective effort.”
“You’re quite the liberal, Charlotte,” Marie-France remarked, her tone suggesting what might’ve been admiration.
Fred, still recovering from the unexpected turn of events, blinked in astonishment. “Are all your conversations this interesting?”
Klaus touched Charlotte’s shoulder, a wealth of unspoken words in that simple gesture. “We educate each other.”
As Fred launched into his tirade about the Pope’s refusal to meet with the Führer, Charlotte’s attention drifted from her plate to the tense exchanges unfolding around her; Marie-France was attempting to soothe Günther, while simultaneously cajoling Eliza into acting normal. Eliza was intimidating and abrasive but, Charlotte understood her…to a certain extent. Within the Reich, being a woman seemed suffocating and grim; even so, Eliza clearly didn’t want her as an ally. She was an outsider in this world of political intrigue and social posturing, her discomfort growing with each passing moment as she poked at the remains of her salmon, forgotten. The revelation about Klaus’s true identity only added to her confusion, leaving her feeling increasingly isolated and out of her depth.
Fred and Klaus continued their debate about religion, joined by Marie-France, while Günther looked morose and Eliza smoked in stony silence. The mood at the table still hadn’t improved when, after what felt like a decade, the band struck up a lively tune. Charlotte remained lost in her thoughts as Fred slapped his knees, delighted with this turn of events. “Everyone dances,” he enthused, “so they’re playing a dance that everyone can do!”
Marie-France gave him a gentle pat on the arm, as long-suffering as she was amused. “Everyone except you, sweetheart.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent dancer!” Fred declared, with unwavering zeal. Seizing his wife’s hand eagerly, he pulled her upright. “Let’s go!”
She squealed in alarm. “The other guests will think you’re having a seizure!”
Günther and Eliza were head-to-head, arguing in heated whispers. Klaus was watching them, a strange expression on his face, and she couldn’t help but watch him; she was like a moth dancing around a perilous flame, enthralled by its magnetic allure, even as she felt her wings begin to singe. Beautiful wasn’t a term often applied to men, but it was the only fitting description. Leaning back in his chair, he exuded an aura of ease; only something in the set of his jaw hinted at a simmering tension. He might pour himself more wine or he might put Günther’s eye out with a fork, and she wouldn’t know which outcome was more likely until it unfolded before her. Yet the same man who took life with such ease was also the only one who made her feel included, or wanted. He wasn’t the Prince Charming she’d dreamed of as a little girl but a twisted mirror version, where every trait that made the hero admirable had been perverted into something both sinister and unsettling.
Abruptly, he stood. His eyes met hers as he held out a gloved hand. “Dance with me.”
Slipping her own hand into the soft kid leather, she rose to her feet. As she stood, she couldn’t ignore the flutter of anticipation in her chest—or the slight thrill of fear, heightening her awareness of how self-assured he was and how strong. Following him onto the polished parquet floor, she found herself enveloped in the circle of his embrace. The music would’ve been more familiar to her grandmother and she only vaguely knew the steps, but somehow none of that mattered; sure-footed and confident, he made every movement feel effortless.
She marveled at his ease, drawing her into a dance that felt both strange and utterly unfamiliar. And with each step, she teetered between exhilaration and apprehension, her body responding instinctively to his even as her mind rebelled against the growing sense that she belonged here. Despite her reservations, she couldn’t deny the growing intimacy between them, the unspoken connection that seemed to deepen with each twirl and dip. In his arms, she felt simultaneously vulnerable and strangely liberated, her heart thudding against her ribcage as he smiled down at her.
“Who do you dance with,” she asked, “when I’m not here?”
It felt like a clumsy attempt to diffuse the situation, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Marie-France,” he told her, glancing across the dance floor to where she and Fred were engaged in an energetic display.
She laughed in spite of herself.
His gaze softened, a new warmth creeping into his expression. “Thank you for putting up with my lecturing,” he said quietly. “I know I’m difficult.”
“Not at all,” she replied, her light tone masking the jitters she couldn’t seem to quell. She felt the warmth of his hand as he pulled her closer, the subtle pressure of his touch sending an electric thrill straight down to her toes. “I enjoy hearing your thoughts.”
A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, a playful glint in his eyes. “Then you are truly a masochist,” he teased, but there was an underlying sincerity in his words that caught her off guard.
“I’m having fun,” she admitted honestly.
He pulled her even closer, leaving her breathless. “So am I.”
The strains of the music wrapped around them, weaving a spell that seemed to suspend time itself. Despite the technological advancements of the Reich, culturally, it was a fly trapped in amber. Still, the couples around them laughed and flirted just like couples everywhere, because love transcended politics—and the heart couldn’t read lines on a map.
She wanted to be having a horrible time, especially now that she knew about his family. She’d agreed to come with him tonight for the same reason she’d agreed to do everything else: because he’d given her no choice. But as the evening unfolded, what’d begun as a charade now felt eerily authentic, like stepping into a dream that blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. It was as if she’d been bewitched by the allure of this night, trapped in a spell of her own making. The revelation crept upon her slowly, insidious and unsettling, leaving her wracked with guilt and a gnawing sense of dread. When had the pretense faded away, replaced by genuine emotions she dared not confront? The thought terrified her to her core, for she knew once her carefully constructed boundaries crumbled entirely, there could be no turning back.
“I need to sit down,” she lied. “That champagne went right to my head.”
Returning to the table, she found Fred indulging in her dessert, a small annoyance amidst the turmoil swirling within her. He seemed to have eaten Marie-France’s, too, and her resigned sigh spoke volumes. “I hope you don’t like cheesecake,” she commented.
Marie-France’s familiarity should’ve been welcome but, instead, it set Charlotte’s teeth on edge. With a forced smile, she made up some excuse about needing the toilet that she barely heard before rushing out of the room. A helpful clerk directed her to the women’s restrooms, where she locked herself into a stall and rested her head against the door. The silence gave her solace from Klaus’s relentless charm, but not the tumultuous storm raging within her own heart.
When she felt up to it, she let herself out and began to explore. She knew she should go back, but she couldn’t bear to—not yet, not when the mere thought of how Klaus had held her when they were dancing drove all rationality from her mind. So instead she uncovered a trophy room, and then a smoking lounge, and then eventually a library. She stared at a model ship in a glass case, wondering what to do, while faint echoes of the party whispered at her through the floorboards.
Startled, she looked up as a knock echoed on the door.
Stepping inside, Klaus perused the book titles. She observed him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, wondering how he’d known where to find her and if she should run now or if that would be too obvious. “Eliza is just bitter,” he remarked, his finger drawing a languid line down the spine of one ancient tome. “She wants a divorce,” he continued, sounding faintly amused. “She married Günther before realizing that there were more exciting men.”
Their situation seemed horribly sad to Charlotte, not humorous, but she’d never met people before for whom love was such a mercenary exercise. As repellent as Eliza was, she couldn’t help but empathize with the other woman’s plight, or shake her discomfort at Klaus’s nochalant attitude toward the matter. “Both of them might be happier, then,” she suggested tentatively.
Klaus’s shrug was a spare, elegant gesture. “When I was young and naïve,” he reflected, “I thought everyone was as happy as my parents. Eventually, I discovered that most marriages are miserable.”
His disillusionment unsettled her even more than his romantic gestures had, leaving her momentarily speechless. Caught off guard by her own consternation, she blurted a completely nonsensical response before she realized what was happening. “I thought your father was a farmer!”
He turned sharply, his eyebrows rising in shock. “What?”
“You had ducks,” she managed, feeling supremely foolish.
He hesitated for a moment, then burst out laughing. “At our hunting lodge.”
She blinked, nervously contemplating what else might be left to reveal. “You have a hunting lodge?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, as though owning multiple properties were the most normal thing in the world. “And a castle, Schloss Drachenburg, where I spent summers as a child.” His eyes searched hers, as if seeking any trace of deception. “But you really didn’t know? My surname wasn’t a clue?”
“No!” came the exclamation, as she held up her hands in protest. “You can’t be the only people in the world named Dassel,” she added, acutely aware of her oversight; she, like the rest of the world, had seen his father’s face splashed across the papers. Biting her lip, she averted her gaze as she attempted to mitigate her own idiocy. “You have different first names, regardless. Shouldn’t you be a junior? I believe that’s the convention in families with hunting lodges.”
“I’m named for my mother’s father and my father’s father,” he clarified. “Klaus Martin Dassel.”
“I’m named for no one,” she murmured, uncomfortably aware of how close he’d drawn to her.
His expensive cologne, with its faint undercurrent of bergamot, enveloped her, making it hard to focus. He was distracting, and she hated it—and she wanted so badly to hate him. Extricating herself again, she walked over to the desk and began to examine an antique paperweight.
He followed her, and she froze, clutching the orb in her hands. “We should go,” she urged, attempting to break the charged atmosphere that surrounded them, but he pinned her against the desk with a firm grip. His gaze darkened, revealing a predatory undercurrent that gave her goosebumps. “Be kind to Günther,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
He stroked the side of her face with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “If you want,” he replied softly.
As he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head instinctively, feeling his lips press against her cheek before he gently guided her face back towards him. His eyes bore into hers, searching for something she couldn’t quite decipher, as his hand caressed the back of her neck. Their lips met, and she pressed her eyes shut, trying to suppress the conflicting emotions raging within her.
He pulled away abruptly, his demeanor shifting, and when he spoke there was a hard edge to his voice. “So it’s like that, is it?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Pivoting on his heel, he strode toward the door.
“Wait,” she pleaded, forcing the word from her lips. “Please.”
He paused, his hand resting on the door frame, waiting for her to continue.
“I need to explain something,” she managed, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Yes?” he prompted, his gaze fixed on her.
Setting the paperweight down, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to reveal. “I’m… I’m afraid,” she confessed, her most private thoughts laid bare before him.
“Of me?” His eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and frustration. “Tell me again how I’m a monster.”
“You don’t get it!” she wailed, her words tumbling out so fast that she barely had time to breathe. “You don’t know what it’s like, how horrible things have been! Horrible isn’t even the right word, there just isn’t a better one.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, her memories of the invasion slamming into her like a freight train and tearing through the last of her fragile defenses. “Our neighbors, before they died….” Dropping her gaze to her hands, she bit her lip in an effort to hold back the swelling tide of pain. “They ate their dog.”
“Charlotte, I….” Klaus’s voice faltered, his usual confidence momentarily shaken.
“And I’ve lost everyone!” Her voice cracked with despair on the last word. “My mother, my father, my grandmother, my friends! Everyone and everything I knew, everything that mattered and that made the world make sense, gone in the space of months. All I have left is Zelda, and I’m losing her, too!” The tears were running freely down her cheeks, now, ruining her makeup, and she didn’t care. “My own sister tells me that I disgust her, complete strangers spit on me in the street and call me a betrayer, and she tells me that I deserve it!” Sniffing angrily, her eyes locked with his in a challenging stare. “And for what?” she demanded. “For a man who’ll get bored and move on soon? Go home? Forget about all this, about me?”
The tension eased from his shoulders, his anger replaced by understanding. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, the statement full of quiet conviction.
“What if I don’t believe you?” she challenged.
“Then I’ll have to be patient,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “And wait until you do. But this isn’t a fling.”
Her laugh was hollow. “Isn’t it?”
His lips firmed into a thin line. “I’m not a man who wastes my time.”
“We have nothing in common,” she insisted weakly.
“That’s not true,” he countered, his tone gentle. “What we don’t have in common is where we’re from and, believe me, that is the least important thing.” Walking slowly back to where she stood, he touched her cheek. “We understand each other, Charlotte, like no one else understands either of us. I know I’m difficult,” he added, after a long pause. “And I haven’t been as honest with you as you deserve. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because I was afraid I’d lose you.”
“Lose me?” she echoed. That he might fear anything had never occurred to her.
Instead of answering, he pulled her into his arms.
“I don’t know how this is going to work,” she admitted, placing a hand on his chest.
“We’ll figure it out,” he reassured her. “Together.”
His kiss was soft, part demand and part question, a silent plea for understanding. She froze, a small voice within still screaming that this was wrong, before finally succumbing to the undeniable pull between them. She let him tease her lips apart, as he slowly began to explore the depths of his passion. He lifted her up onto the desk, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, losing herself in the overwhelming need for his touch that’d been too long denied. He bit down gently on her lower lip, drawing a gasp from deep within her throat as she dug her fingernails into his scalp. “I only want to protect you,” he murmured into her neck.
She pulled him down on top of her. The crush of his weight was intoxicating, and his lips sent trails of molten lava over her skin. He slid a hand up her thigh and she arched her hips in silent invitation.
Her eyes closed and she gasped, as he bit down hard on the tender skin beneath her ear.
“The door,” she breathed.
He flicked his tongue over her earlobe. “What don’t you want someone to see?”
Pulling his mouth back to hers, she giggled. “Let me show you.”
She climbed off the desk and, her arms still around him, led him behind the desk. His gaze was heated as he watched her, neither helping nor hindering her efforts. Grabbing his belt buckle, she undid it and freed him from his pants. Then, roughly, she pushed him down into the chair. He didn’t resist; he seemed almost bemused at her ministrations, until she knelt between his legs and his breath caught. The door was still open, but she’d stopped caring; let everyone watch. In this world built on war, they were nothing more than their roles: he, just another uniform in a sea of soldiers and she, merely a caregiver who never seemed to give quite enough. Interchangeable to everyone but each other, this connection was the one thing that gave either of their lives real meaning.
He groaned as slowly, deliberately, she took him into first her hands and then into her mouth. She savored the feel of him, the taste, each soft sigh as he lost the last of his control. He’d given himself to her, wholly and completely, and he was hers now to do with as she wished.