Charlotte leaned against Klaus, her head on his chest, and thought about how cozy a fire would be in the fall. The house was filled with fireplaces, even one in the front hall, each a promise of warmth and comfort. Klaus stroked her hair gently, his touch soothing. He’d taken his boots off and was resting his feet on the coffee table, a rare moment of unguarded ease. She couldn’t help but marvel at how natural this all felt, sitting here with him, sharing a moment of domestic tranquility. Despite the surrealism of it all—this dark Prince Charming and his eccentric court—she was happy, and that surprised her. His family, strange as they were, obviously cared for one another deeply; strangest of all, though, she was beginning to feel like she belonged.
His parents were staying in Boston, unwilling to burden him with their security detail. They’d left ten minutes ago, along with the rest of the guests; Fred and his driver, between them, had all but carried Marie-France to the car while Voight walked Zelda home. Charlotte had kept a straight face, somehow, until Klaus closed the door and then almost collapsed laughing. Earlier, she’d felt so uncertain about fitting into his world; now, here they were, sharing the silence like an old married couple. “That was quite the adventure,” she remarked.
He trailed a fingertip up and down her shoulder, making her skin tingle. “My parents like to play with their food, sometimes,” he admitted, his tone laced with dark humor.
She resisted pointing out that so did he—and that, having met Adolf, she understood where Klaus got some of his tendencies. His father’s teasing of Fred was almost feline, toying with his prey before the kill. “Fred needs some kind of survival bonus for that performance,” she replied, settling in against him and taking his hand. In Fred’s shoes, she would’ve been weeping, but she didn’t blame Klaus. There was an honesty in how he approached the world, a rawness that she found strangely comforting. He was unapologetically himself, and she accepted him for it.
“Fred is living proof that, in politics, stupidity is not a handicap.” Klaus’s tone was dry.
She giggled, the sound bubbling up before she could help herself. It was moments like these that made her realize how deeply she cared for him. Their banter felt so natural, a testament to how far they’d come together. “Whatever made Marie-France want to marry him?”
He looked down at her, scandalized. “Whatever made Fred want to marry her? If she were the only female option available,” he added, wrinkling his nose, “I’d move to Canada and marry Heinz.”
“Heinz doesn’t seem like he’d be much fun as a husband,” she teased, before tensing as a new thought occurred to her. Klaus was so much like Adolf, with his strong views and instinct to lead; even in the SS he’d retained his individuality, and he stood out. “Do you want to go into politics?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes searched hers, trying to gauge her reaction. “Can you bear the idea?”
“I’ve discovered that I can bear quite a lot,” she replied, with a trace of self-deprecation. During the invasion, she’d learned what it meant to suffer, but at least she hadn’t been alone. She’d been part of a community, their shared identity as Americans bringing them closer together. But her neighbors viewed her as a traitor, and she understood. They’d starved together, grieved together, endured the invasion’s horrors side by side. They’d shared the pain, the loss, and the defiant hope of reclaiming their lives. How could she not hate Klaus?
That she’d look at him and see a fellow human being felt like a betrayal to them, an abandonment of their shared struggle. They saw her relationship with him as a rejection of their collective identity, a turning away from the bond they’d forged in their darkest hours. To them, she wasn’t just crossing a line; she was erasing her own morality in exchange for a world built on lies.
She knew that explaining her decision was impossible. To them, there was a right side and a wrong side, and good people saw that. Choosing to see humanity in Klaus, in their minds, meant excusing his actions. In hers, however, it was about believing that even in the darkest times, there could be light—even in the most divided worlds, there could be unity. War had taken enough from her; she wouldn’t let it define her future. She wasn’t blind to Klaus’s flaws, but she believed in the power of love to overcome hatred, and in her own ability to make the world a better place.
Klaus’s expression softened as he held her gaze, acceptance and appreciation in his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything; his hand gently cupped her cheek, thumb brushing softly against her skin. His touch was tender, a silent promise of support. As his gaze returned to the fireplace, though, his expression clouded. “I’m worried,” he confessed.
Her brows knitted together. “About Bill?”
“We’ll get him, but what then?” Klaus squeezed her hand. “His supporters won’t be happy, and he has more of those than we could ever arrest. I can’t keep you locked up forever, but….” He left the rest of his thought hanging in the air, that Cambridge wasn’t safe for either of them.
“I’m hardly ever alone,” she pointed out, tucking her feet under her as she snuggled into his shoulder. “And Zelda couldn’t possibly be safer, right in the middle of Gestapo headquarters.”
“That’s what August claims,” Klaus grumbled, sounding unconvinced.
Zelda also couldn’t waste her potential letting out Marie-France’s skirts, any more than Charlotte could spend the rest of her life running scared from her neighbors. “I didn’t realize that August knew your parents so well,” she ventured, steering the conversation into less stressful waters.
A flicker of irritation crossed Klaus’s face. “August’s own father should be shot from a cannon,” he said flatly. “I don’t like him borrowing mine, although five brothers should’ve made me better at sharing.” He allowed a moment to pass, lost in contemplation, before continuing. “August saved my father’s life in Berlin. There was some convoluted plot involving several high-ranking officials. They’d planned to throw him out a window during a conference, making it look like an accident. August uncovered it somehow, and not a moment too soon—he arrived mid-attack.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “During the conference?”
Klaus’s nod held a begrudging respect. “He was fighting back, of course, but it was six against one. They’d gotten him partway out when August broke the door down. He couldn’t use a gun, not without risking finishing the job, so he broke the nearest man’s nose with a chair. After that….” He shrugged. “A promotion and the chance to subjugate a brave new world.”
“Zelda tells me that he doesn’t like it here.” Charlotte’s tone was thoughtful.
“He and August Sr. haven’t spoken for over a decade,” Klaus countered. “It was his grandfather who left him the trust fund. And his ex-wife had just gotten remarried, to a man she claimed she actually felt safe having children with. I think he was just as happy to leave.”
She processed these revelations, wondering how much he’d told Zelda. Probably not much, her sister was just his assistant, she doubted that they got into much personal. Watching Klaus watch her, though, a more important question came to her. “Do you like it here?”
“I like it here, because you’re here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead.
Reaching up, she cupped his face in her hands, and then his lips were on hers and the rest of the world vanished. His tongue slipped inside her mouth as his kiss deepened, at first exploring and then dominating as his hands found her waist and pulled her against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his grip tightening as she abandoned all reason.
His lips descended to the soft hollow underneath her ear and she gasped, each kiss an electric shock as he worked down toward her collarbone. His touch was languid, almost teasing; she bit back a moan, feeling his tongue swirl over the tender flesh. She could feel his self-control slipping, too; twisting her fingers in his hair, she trembled and silently begged him not to stop. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, eliciting a gasp. A harsh breath escaped him, and he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. “Come upstairs with me.”
She hesitated, all of her earlier uncertainty rushing back. If she did this, she’d be his. It wasn’t just about the physical act; it was about the commitment, the trust. Giving herself to him meant giving him her heart, her soul, and the faith that he’d cherish and protect them.
“I love you, Charlotte,” he said, the statement both vulnerable and spoken with absolute conviction. “And I think you love me, even if you’re not ready to tell me so.”
Her heart pounded, the weight of his words sinking in. He was the same man who’d frightened her so badly that first fateful afternoon, but he looked so different. Searching his gaze she saw, not the cold and aloof Hauptsturmführer who’d scrutinized her identification but the shy and self-effacing outsider who’d taught her how to feed the ducks. After a moment, she nodded slowly. “Yes.”
He kissed her cheek, his lips warm and tender. “Remember, you can’t say no to me,” he encouraged, a playful glint in his eyes.
A determined look settled on her face, her jaw set with quiet resolve. “I don’t want to.”
Standing, he raised her to her feet.
She let him lead her up the stairs, her hand warm in his, neither of them speaking. Each step was a step further into the unknown, a promise of something she both yearned for and feared. The anticipation was almost tangible, a delicate thread connecting them; he’d taken other lovers, but he’d never been in love, and neither had she. For both of them, this was a first time.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The upstairs hall, bathed in overlapping shadows, looked strange and somehow alien. Back when the Clarks had lived here, she’d brought Mrs. Clark what food she could spare and tried to help keep her comfortable. That was after the hospitals had run out of chemo drugs. There was no whisper of the Clarks’ presence in the well-beaten rug and graceful Hepplewhite sideboard, smelling strongly of Ida’s favored furniture polish, but somewhere underneath it lingered the familiar echo of home. This had been a happy house, once, and it would be again.
Mr. Clark had spent hours in his bedroom, radio to his ear, listening to the Sox lose. His old bed was gone, the one he and Mrs. Clark had bought on credit from Filene’s as newlyweds. In its place was a Bauhaus-style design, produced by the famed Rudolf Vichr. Veneered in walnut and oak, it was framed in chromed tubular steel that wrapped into twin suspended bedside tables. The rest of the house, with its opulence, was a carefully constructed façade—meant to awe and impress, just like Klaus’s public persona. But this restrained, minimalist space reflected the real man, the one he kept hidden from the world.
She walked to the windows, the heavy curtains drawn back to reveal a view of the back garden. Moonlight bathed the meticulously kept landscape, silvering a riot of life that his gardener struggled to contain. Klaus disarmed himself and then followed her, his hand brushing over her shoulder; at the soft touch of his fingertips, her breath caught. He traced the curve of her neck, languidly, enjoying the sensations he was provoking. Finally arriving at her ear, he flicked at the pearl adorning her earlobe. “You like these,” he remarked, removing it and placing it on the dresser.
He reached for the second earring and she swallowed, fire coursing through her veins. “They were my mother’s,” she told him. “She wore them, along with the necklace, at her wedding.”
“They’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft. “And so are you.” Slowly, he reached for the medal at his collar. She stopped him, her hand covering his; he stilled, his posture shifting, as he surrendered to her silent request. Reaching up, she unclipped the ribbon and slid it out from underneath his collar with deliberate care. The silver-framed cast iron cross felt heavy in her hand as she placed it, carefully, next to her pearls. She removed his other medals after, each movement deliberate and almost reverent, while he let her do as she wished.
His service tunic was cut from gabardine, embroidered with silver bullion wire that caught the low light. The four front buttons were silver, too; he watched as her hands moved down, freeing him, until at last she pushed the fabric over his shoulders. His tie came next as he waited, trusting, before she moved on to his white cotton service shirt. “I want to see the rest of you,” she asserted, her voice a blend of curiosity and desire.
As his shirt fell to the floor, her eyebrows shot up. “You have tattoos!”
A mischievous smile quirked his lips. “You didn’t expect me to?”
She stared, momentarily speechless. He was so strait-laced, she’d never have guessed that his uniform hid this network of intricate designs. She felt a mix of surprise and intrigue, the stark contrast between his formal exterior and the personal, almost rebellious expression of his tattoos fascinating her. Tracing the rune over his heart, she cocked her head. “What does this one mean?”
“That’s the Wolfsangel,” he replied. “Medieval peasants believed that it protected them from wolves. More than that, though, it means freedom and independence. It’s also the insignia of Das Reich.”
Walking around him in a circle, she stopped and touched his right bicep. “And this one, here?”
“Othala,” he replied, as though naming a friend. “Kinship, heritage.”
Runes held deep spiritual significance to Klaus and to all Asatruar, representing ancient wisdom, protection, and the connection between the divine and the natural world. Odin commanded man to know: how to carve, how to read, how to ask, how to offer, how to sacrifice—and runes were the secret to it all. She marveled at the depth of his beliefs, feeling a new layer of connection with him. But the letter on his other arm was in Latin script, an A+ no bigger than her thumb. “And this one?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
He turned his head slightly. “My blood type.”
She stood behind him, her hands on his back. “Have you ever needed a transfusion?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
One hand drifted down, to the knot of scar tissue at his side. “When you got this?”
“Yes.” She heard the roughness in his voice, thick with longing and threaded with uncertainty.
Completing her circuit, facing him once again, she touched the tag around his neck. Her fingers lingered on the metal, her touch feather-light, as if by holding it she could somehow shield him from harm. There was no name stamped into the zinc, a harsh reminder that he was no one to the men he served, a mere number in a vast machine. A vision came to her then, stark in its relief, of a soldier’s body growing cold as water lapped at his boot. The same thing could happen to Klaus, at any moment, the tag that felt so alive growing cold with the rest of him as the world moved on.
She felt a surge of protectiveness and love, an overwhelming desire to keep him safe, to cherish every moment they had together. Her hand drifted from the tag to the zipper of her dress, her eyes on his, seeking and finding the same emotions reflected back at her. With a soft whisper of fabric, her last defense fell to the floor. Fingers trembling slightly, she unclasped her bra, feeling the weight of his gaze on her exposed flesh. She reveled in the intensity of the moment, in how he looked at her with such admiration and lust. It was a heady mix, vulnerability and empowerment and a burning need for more.
Naked before him, she grabbed the button at his waist, her fingers clumsy with anticipation. His eyes darkened with desire as he swung her into the air, carrying her to the bed. His mouth never left hers as they sank into the covers, entwined in this new dance. She gasped, feeling the heat of his skin against hers, the weight of him grounding her in the moment. Every sensation was a new discovery, a revelation of something beautiful and profound. She remembered hearing once that everyone was mortal, until that first sacred touch; now, biting back a gasp of pain as she felt their bodies merge, she understood the truth of those words.
As he moved within her, time seemed to stretch and blur, each sensation more intense than the last. She raked her fingernails down his back, her body arching in response to his. A long time later, she didn’t know how long, she gasped again; it was a sound of pure ecstasy as her body went limp, spent and sated. At some point she fell sleep, cradled in his arms, feeling a sense of peace and contentment she’d never known before. In Klaus, she’d found her other half—not where she expected, but where she needed. He wasn’t what she’d envisioned, but their connection transcended that, as natural and undeniable as the rain. It wasn’t about right or wrong, or politics; it was about two souls who needed each other, bound together by a love that defied reason.
When she woke up, the room was dark and he was gone.
The last thing she remembered was feeling safe and content in his arms, making the emptiness beside her into even more of a gaping chasm. She rolled over, every muscle aching, her mind foggy with disorientation. Her fingers fumbled for the bedside lamp, finally finding the chain and pulling it. The soft light illuminated a room perfectly in order, a mocking contrast to her inner turmoil. A sharp pang of fear clenched her heart—had she been wrong about him, about what he wanted and what’d just happened? She sat up, her breath quickening, until she caught the soft strains of a violin filtering up through the floorboards.
She slid off the bed, wincing as her feet touched the hardwood. She found a robe in the closet, the soft fabric comforting against her skin, and followed the music to the library. Klaus was sitting in a chair, dressed in pajamas, the violin resting on his shoulder. The moonlight streaming through the window cast a silvery glow over him, accentuating the serene concentration on his face.
He moved with the music, gracefully, almost as if he and the violin were dancing. The bow glided across the strings, producing a melody that was both haunting and beautiful. It was a side of him she’d never seen before, and she was captivated. She sat down quietly, not wanting to interrupt, and watched him play. His expression became one of rapt concentration as the crescendo built, mingled with a hint of pain, as if the music itself was both a release and a burden.
When he finished, he rested the violin on his leg and looked at her.
She looked back at him, stunned by the beauty of what she’d just witnessed. “What was that?”
“Bach,” he replied, his tone soft and reverent. “Sonata for Violin No. 2 in A Minor.” His eyes held a gentle warmth, a hint of fragility, as if he was sharing a piece of his soul with her. He seemed genuinely pleased by her presence, the faintest smile touching his lips. The intimacy of the moment, more profound than any physical closeness, filled the room.
“It was beautiful,” she breathed.
His smile deepened at the compliment. “My parents always had to put up with me playing in the middle of the night, but the problem’s gotten worse since California.”
She felt a pang of empathy, understanding what he meant by the problem. His inability to sleep, the nightmares that plagued him about events he couldn’t bring himself to discuss, he escaped from it all by seeking solace in his music. Knowing this, sharing this intimate part of his life, it was overwhelming. She realized how much he trusted her, how much he needed her. Tears welled up in her eyes, not from sadness but from a deep sense of connection. “There’s nothing to put up with,” she promised him. “Tell me about your violin?”
He introduced it with reverence. “This is Carrodus. A del Gesù.”
“I thought all the great violins were Stradivarius,” she remarked lightly.
He nodded, understanding her unspoken question. “Most musicians do favor Stradivarius. The sound is lighter, more ethereal, the instrument practically plays itself. But a del Gesù,” he continued, his voice softening with affection, “is different. It demands more from the player. You have to fight for the sound, draw it out with every ounce of skill and emotion. It’s darker, more complex.”
She studied the violin, fascinated. “Does it have a story?”
“Every great violin does,” he replied, running his fingers gently along the strings. “Bartolomeo Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri, del Gesù, of Jesus, made this violin in 1743, just before his death. He added ‘del Gesù’ to his name after 1731, to show his deep devotion to the church. He was a man of passion and temper. It’s said he even killed a rival, perhaps over business or his wife’s affections. She helped him with his work, especially as his health declined towards the end.”
The love between Guarneri and his wife had brought Carrodus into being, an enduring testament to something greater than themselves that had outlasted them both. She liked to think that she could hear an echo of it in the music…and hoped that wherever Guarneri’s wife was, she heard it, too. With a deep breath, she raised her gaze. “Klaus?”
A sad smile touched his lips, as though he shared her thoughts. “Yes?”
“I do love you.” She spoke the words quietly, but with conviction.
His eyes, alight with warmth, held hers. “You’re my everything, Lottie.”