Zelda sat in the sterile and impersonal waiting room, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts, each more tormenting than the last. The blank, white walls seemed to close in on her, the antiseptic smell of the hospital mingling with the acrid taste of her growing rage. Charlotte had been in surgery for hours, fighting for her life, and all Zelda could do was wait. The injustice gnawed at her like a relentless beast, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails scored her palms. Why was Charlotte, sweet and innocent Charlotte, the target of such depravity? Her sister had done nothing but see good in the wrong man.

Klaus was the one committing atrocities, yet no one called him names or refused him service—because it was easier for so-called decent people to see sex as somehow worse than murder. Women were the guardians of morality, the keepers of the home, and when the world fell apart, they became the easiest scapegoats for society’s collective rage and disappointment. It was a twisted form of control, a way to reassert dominance in a chaotic world by punishing those perceived as weaker, more vulnerable. Blaming women diverted attention from the real perpetrators, the men who wielded power and made decisions that led to bloodshed and suffering. It was a cowardly act, a way to maintain the illusion of order and justice without confronting the true horrors. And so, women like Charlotte bore the brunt of this misguided fury, their lives torn apart by the very champions who claimed to protect them.

Zelda bit down on her lip, fighting the urge to scream. Klaus had forced this relationship, subjecting Charlotte to a relentless campaign of terror until she’d given up…and given in. Whatever she felt for him now, or thought she did, was at least in part a defense mechanism. Zelda glanced at her sister’s lover, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on some distant point that only he could see. Underneath his uniform, he was just some stupid, spoiled aristocrat; denying himself his little games had undoubtedly never even crossed his mind—and now Zelda might lose her last remaining family member, because he couldn’t keep his pants on until he went home to Bonn.

A soft sob escaped Fritz’s throat, the only sound breaking the low hum of the air conditioning. The detectives from the Cambridge Police Department had come and gone, interviewing all three of them. Moritz had also come by, his presence a stark reminder of the darker world outside these walls. He’d asked the same question, too, that Zelda had been asking herself all afternoon: could whoever did this have been one of her former friends?

The lead detective on the case, whose name Zelda had already forgotten, believed the perpetrator had been a woman. The knife had been concealed under a plate; no one looked twice at someone’s mom or grandma, walking down the street, carrying what looked like cookies. Zelda took a deep, steadying breath. Charlotte might remember who’d attacked her when she woke up—if she woke up. The patch of blood-stained gravel had been impossibly large, enough for ten women. How much blood could one woman lose and still live?

There was no one to ask. Fritz hadn’t managed more than three words together in the lifetime they’d been sitting here, his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. Klaus hadn’t spoken at all, his face a stone mask. The doctor wouldn’t come out until there was news, and the waiting was unbearable. Constance had chosen to stay at the house, muttering something about security. The patrolmen were still there, crawling over the place like ants, bagging evidence, casting footprints, and doing a thousand other things. Voight was still in New York, dealing with his own mess.

Outside, the sun was going down, casting long shadows across the worn and faded linoleum. Zelda got up and walked over to the window, a hollow ache in her chest. The waiting room felt like purgatory, time stretching into an endless torment. Voight’s absence was another gnawing void, and she hated herself for that; she shouldn’t want the comfort of a man whose hands were stained with blood, or feel so alone without him.

Fritz blew his nose.

Then, finally, movement at the door broke the monotony.

Oberführer Lauchert strode in first, his presence commanding immediate attention. Klaus saluted him with a mechanical precision, and Lauchert put a hand on his shoulder, murmuring soothing words in a low tone. Moments later, Obergruppenführer Bittrich followed him, scowling. And then, almost like a mirage, Voight appeared. Zelda blinked, not trusting her eyes. It couldn’t be real, not here, not now. But as he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, the solid warmth of his embrace broke through her disbelief. She sobbed into his chest, the dam of her composure shattering.

“I came as soon as I could,” he murmured.

She clung to him, in response, needing his strength more than she cared to admit.

“Is there an update?” Bittrich asked.

Stepping back, Zelda shook her head.

Bittrich’s eyes darted worriedly between her and Klaus, who remained statue-like. Either no one had noticed her interaction with Voight, or everyone was too preoccupied to care. Voight’s eyes searched hers, waiting for her small nod of acquiescence before he sat down next to Fritz. She was alright, or as alright as she could be given the circumstances. Fritz clutched at his handkerchief, but Voight’s questioning was surprisingly gentle.

Fritz dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Eventually, he managed to speak, though his voice was raw with guilt. “I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, when I heard screaming. I told her to wait! I’m so sorry.” He looked up at Klaus, who watched him with an expressionless face. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “This is all my fault.”

Voight’s gaze softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. “And then what happened?”

Fritz swallowed hard, fresh tears streaming down his face. “I put pressure on the wound. I didn’t know what else to do. Constance called for help.”

Voight nodded, processing the information. He, like everyone else, had noticed Constance’s absence. “Was Charlotte conscious?”

Fritz nodded, his lower lip trembling. “She….” He glanced at Klaus, his voice barely a whisper. “She asked for the Hauptsturmführer.”

Klaus didn’t move a muscle, but something in him seemed to contract.

Zelda went back to the window.

Her mind drifted as she stared at what remained of Boston’s skyline, grasping for answers that wouldn’t come. How did Voight reconcile his Catholicism with the horrific truth of their reality? She glanced at him, remembering their late-night conversations where his faith seemed unshakable, despite the chaos and bloodshed. It was baffling. To her, the world felt like a cruel joke, each day a reminder that the ideals she’d grown up cherishing—freedom, justice, the promise of the Founding Fathers—had been exposed as nothing more than a charlatan’s tricks. She wondered if Voight’s God gave him the strength to keep going or if it was just another lie he told himself so he could sleep at night. She couldn’t see a path forward, not for herself, not for her sister, and certainly not for a world that seemed determined to tear itself apart.

The doctor came out, her expression grave yet composed. Zelda’s heart pounded as their eyes met, a moment of intense connection. She didn’t look down, didn’t avert her gaze, like all doctors did when the news was bad. Instead, she gave a slight nod, and Zelda felt a surge of hope.

“She’s through surgery,” the doctor said, her voice steady and professional. She was an older woman, with a petite stature; even so, her aura was one that commanded respect.

Zelda’s legs almost buckled. “Thank you, Doctor….”

“Bennet,” the doctor supplied, pulling off her gloves. Her words, like her mannerisms, were no-nonsense and to the point. “Barring unforeseen complications, she’ll live. But she has a long road ahead of her.” Her eyes held Zelda’s, the empathy there at odds with her stern tone as she allowed her words to sink in. “You need to be prepared for that.”

Zelda nodded, tears of relief streaming down her face. “Thank you.”

Before she could say anything more, Klaus joined them, his presence like a storm cloud. “I want to see her,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Now.”

Dr. Bennet’s eyes flicked to his insignia, her face hardening with visible disdain. “Who are you?”

Klaus’s gaze darkened, a dangerous edge to his voice. “The man who loves her.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Unimpressed, Dr. Bennet met his glare with one of her own. “Are you married?”

He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “No.”

“Family only,” she said firmly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Stepping forward, his fingers twitched with the effort of not throttling the diminutive woman. He towered over her, and when he spoke, his voice was low and sibilant, dripping with menace. “Do not presume to tell me where I do and do not belong, Frau Doctor.”

Dr. Bennet’s gaze didn’t waver. “How do I know you’re not the one who stabbed her?”

Something unholy flashed in Klaus’s eyes, and for a split second Zelda thought she was about to witness Dr. Bennet’s murder. “Unless you crave the cold embrace of soil around your corpse,” he hissed, his nose a hair’s breadth from her, “you will let me see my partner.”

Dr. Bennet gestured at Zelda, her expression flat. “I’ll speak to Ms. Wahl first. Alone.”

She led Zelda into her office and shut the door behind them. “It’s a regular who’s who in the Reich out there,” she remarked grimly, flipping the lock. Then, after stretching, she sat down on the edge of her desk and fixed her gaze on Zelda. “A lot of men who think they’re important, including your sister’s friend. He doesn’t like to be told no, does he?”

“No,” Zelda confirmed. “He doesn’t.”

Dr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Klaus loves her,” Zelda admitted. “He’d never hurt her.” That, she added silently, and a stabbing frenzy just wasn’t his style.

“What about my patient?” Dr. Bennet pressed. “Would she want him in there?”

Zelda understood the doctor’s suspicion. Klaus shouldn’t be breathing the same air as Charlotte, he shouldn’t even be on the same planet. He might not have wielded the knife, but if he’d left her alone she’d be home where she belonged. Opening her mouth to express as much, Zelda shut it again. “Yes,” she said finally, the admission tasting bitter on her tongue. Charlotte was that kind of girl and so was she, it turned out, and what else was there to say?

Dr. Bennet’s sigh was heavy with resignation. “Fine. I can’t change the world, as much as I’d like to.”

Zelda didn’t respond; she didn’t know how.

Klaus was waiting where they’d left him, his expression unreadable. Zelda glanced at him, but his attention was fixed on Dr. Bennet. “Can I see her now?” he asked, his voice quiet and strained.

Dr. Bennet’s eyes searched his before she responded. “I have to explain something first,” she began. She turned to Zelda, ensuring that each of them understood the gravity of her words. “Without Rottenführer Krüger’s intervention, Charlotte wouldn’t have reached the hospital. That she’s alive is a miracle. But even so….” Dr. Bennet took a deep breath. “These are catastrophic injuries.”

Klaus tensed. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Bennet met his gaze, her expression somber. “The knife caused severe damage. She’s lost a lot of blood and there was significant trauma to her abdomen. We had to remove a lot of damaged tissue to stabilize her. We don’t know when she’ll wake up. It could be tomorrow, it could be days, or even longer. And when she does wake up, there will be certain things she can’t do.”

Klaus’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

Dr. Bennet hesitated for a moment, then spoke gently but firmly. “The knife only grazed her spine, so she will walk again with physical therapy. She’s very lucky in that regard. However, the internal damage was extensive. She won’t be able to have children.”

Klaus nodded, absorbing the information. “I understand.”

But he was so composed, Zelda wondered if he did.

Dr. Bennet led them in to see her sister. The room was eerily quiet, save for the steady beep of the machines keeping Charlotte alive. A breathing tube snaked down her throat, her chest rising and falling mechanically. Other tubes and wires were attached to her body, connected to monitors that displayed numbers Zelda didn’t understand. An IV port was taped just above her left hand, a lifeline in the antiseptic environment. Charlotte looked so frail, so heartbreakingly delicate, like a porcelain doll abandoned and forgotten.

Klaus sat down heavily on a stool beside the bed, taking Charlotte’s free hand in his and pressing it to his forehead. Zelda stood helplessly nearby, acutely aware that she was intruding. This was her sister, her family, but she felt like an outsider, a spectator to their bond. Part of her wanted to comfort Klaus, and part of her hated him. His presence here, his claim over Charlotte, was a painful reminder that he’d stolen her away, entangling her in his own world of violence.

“She needs rest,” Dr. Bennet told him. “And so do you.”

Klaus kept his gaze on Charlotte. “No.”

“Yes,” Dr. Bennet insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “She won’t wake up tonight, whatever happens, and you’ll be no use to her if you wind up in a room down the hall. Go home.”

His grip on Charlotte’s hand tightened, the only sign he’d heard.

Watching him, Dr. Bennett thawed slightly. “You can come back in the morning,” she added. “Visiting hours start at eight.”

Zelda braced herself, expecting Klaus to make a scene, but he merely nodded. Standing, he leaned down to whisper something in Charlotte’s ear before kissing her gently on the cheek. Then, ignoring both Dr. Bennet and Zelda, he strode out into the hall. With a last glance at her sister, Zelda followed, not because she wanted to but because there was nothing else to do. Cut adrift, she had no one else to share her pain, no one else who understood that without Charlotte there was nothing.

Klaus’s boots echoed loudly in the empty space. Hospitals became ghost towns at night. Before he reached the doors to the waiting room, he stopped, biting back an exclamation of frustration. “She should be in a German hospital.”

“What,” Zelda shot back, “afraid her surgeon is Untermensch?”

“No.” He glanced at her. “The medicine here is barbaric.”

“Innovation hasn’t exactly been our strong suit,” she reminded him, “given the embargoes, the sabotage, the—

“Yes,” he interjected brusquely. “Thank you.”

Goddamn him, the cold fish. Charlotte might die, and he was acting like a guest at some cocktail party, his detachment almost inhuman. Zelda felt her anger boiling over, a torrent she could no longer contain. “This is your fault!” she cried, her voice trembling with fury and despair. “She would’ve been fine, you despotic freak, if you’d just left her alone!”

Faced with her raw accusation, his mask finally slipped. “Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted.

Zelda recoiled, taken aback. She’d expected denials, or more indifference, but not this. He sagged against the wall, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it’d flared up. “I know what I am, Zelda,” he assured her, his tone quieter now and filled with a horrible resignation.

“Do you?” she challenged. “Do you really?”

He tensed, then deflated. “You think it’s all about honor and glory,” he explained, his voice hollow. “And then you watch your best friends crushed, screaming, beneath the treads of a tank. Or immolated with a flamethrower,” he continued, turning to look at her. “And you know that your side, in that exact same moment, is doing the exact same thing.” His words were flat, almost devoid of emotion, but his eyes betrayed a deep, haunting pain.

Staring back at this person she’d never seen before, Zelda had one question. “How?”

Something flickered in the depths of his gaze: amusement at her innocence, maybe, or sorrow for its loss. “You learn the truth about the world, in a trench. And the only way you can make peace with it, live on without it destroying your mind, is to hate.” His tone was resigned, filled with a bleak acceptance of the darkness he’d embraced to survive. “That man you’re eye to eye with, in the mud, the one with a home and family just like yours? He doesn’t deserve to live. You do.”

And he’d brought this evil down on Charlotte.

Zelda’s anger flared again, her voice sharp and accusatory. “What about the fact that your little hobby can’t have children?” she retorted, her eyes blazing. “What if she’s a cripple forever?” Her scoff was almost another sob. “I suppose you’ll abandon her, find a new woman who’s still perfect, and who can give you your equally perfect Aryan babies just like the SS demands.”

Klaus took a deep breath, and let it out. “If she needs me to care for her,” he said calmly, “I will.”

“Yeah, right.” The idea of this fascist parasite playing nursemaid was laughable. “Given your day job,” she deadpanned, “I think I’m pretty clear on your idea of family values.”

In response, Klaus jabbed a finger toward Charlotte’s room. “Did you ever think to ask what she wants?” he snapped. “Because she wants children, Zelda, and has since long before she and I met. This is a crushing loss for her, whatever you think about me.”

Zelda hid her face behind her hands, as the enormity of the situation crashed down on her. “I just want her to be alright,” she mouthed, her voice breaking.

She felt Klaus’s hand on her shoulder. “So do I,” he said quietly.