Voight led Zelda to his car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, her mind a tumult of doubt, fear, and a thousand other emotions she couldn’t name. She loved him, she knew that much—but tonight she wasn’t sure she wanted to be near anyone, least of all him. Yet the thought of being alone, after everything with Charlotte, was even more terrifying. Exhaustion and grief had stripped her bare, leaving her numb; his presence was both a balm and a torment.
After her blowout with Klaus, she’d reappeared in the waiting room, shocked to find everything how she’d left it. Fritz was explaining something to Bittrich, while Voight conferred with Lauchert in low tones. Seeing her, though, he’d strode over to her and grabbed her by the elbow. She’d let him lead her here, too numb and disoriented to resist, feeling like a marionette whose strings were being pulled by someone else. The world outside felt surreal, as if she were floating through a dream where nothing made sense. She didn’t know what would happen next, and in that moment, she wasn’t sure she cared. She was also miles from home and freezing.
She got in.
Slamming the door closed, Voight walked around the front and joined her. She glanced at him, his stern profile illuminated by the dim dashboard light. He was wearing his horsehide greatcoat, a high-collared monstrosity that suited him. As he started the engine, she wondered what it said about her that she could find comfort in a man who’d chosen the path he had. Was it weakness? A deep-seated need for protection, even from a predator? Or was it simply that in a world gone mad, she’d clung to the only solid thing left?
She stared at the amber dials glowing faintly in the dark, their soft light casting an otherworldly glow inside the car. It amazed her that it wasn’t even midnight yet. How could all of this have happened in a single day? Just hours ago, she was kissing Voight, then watching him nearly kill Bill. The memory of an ashen-faced Gretchen bursting into his office with news about Charlotte felt like it belonged to another era, not the same year, let alone the same day. The relentless pace of events left her feeling unmoored, trapped in a surreal nightmare where words like home and family and even love had lost all meaning.
“You can’t go home,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice low and certain.
She turned to look at him, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What about Constance?”
“Constance isn’t my concern,” he answered, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His tone was flat, dismissive, making it clear that he’d already made up his mind.
The lights of Boston twinkled in the darkness, casting fleeting reflections on the car window. Voight glanced at her, noticing her shivering. He turned on the heat without a word, the warmth slowly filling the space between them. “Where am I supposed to go?” she asked, her voice barely audible. The question hung in the air, filled with uncertainty and a hint of desperation.
He downshifted and switched lanes, threading through the traffic still clogging Government Center and the laughing pedestrians racing toward Boston Common. “Tomorrow morning, you’re moving across the street,” he stated matter-of-factly. “As is Charlotte, when she’s well enough.”
Zelda’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Absolutely not!”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost amused by her defiance. “Adolf and Ingrid have extended their visit,” he informed her, “and are no doubt eager to try parenting girls. But tonight,” he finished, merging right as he approached the I-90, “you’re coming home with me.”
“I can’t!” she protested, a note of panic creeping into her voice. “I don’t even know where you live!”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he kept his focus on the road, his silence a wall she couldn’t penetrate. The car’s hum was the only sound, an uneasy companion to her racing thoughts. The buildings thinned out, replaced by long stretches of dark road lined with trees that seemed to whisper secrets in the night. The city’s glow became the ethereal light of the moon, casting ghostly shadows across the landscape. The transition from the bustling city to the serene, almost eerie quiet of the countryside was daunting, filling her with a strange sense of foreboding; the vastness of the world outside the car was both comforting and unsettling. As the last of the city lights disappeared behind them, she realized just how far from home she truly was.
“Fritz is handy in a crisis,” she remarked, trying to sound normal, but her voice cracked, and she was sobbing again before she could stop herself. Voight reached over, touching her with a gloved hand, the gesture surprisingly gentle. She sniffed, trying to regain her composure. “I need to call Constance.”
His eyes flicked towards her, then back to the road. “Why wasn’t she at the hospital?”
Zelda blew her nose, the tissue crumpling in her trembling hand. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “She’s always had trouble facing things. Part of me wonders….” Her voice trailed off, uncertainty gnawing at her. Constance had been so angry, lately.
His gaze sharpened. “Part of you wonders what?”
She hesitated, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. The suspicion, that Constance could somehow—no. How could she even think such a thing, let alone voice it out loud? This was someone she’d grown up with, someone she loved and trusted, her sister’s best friend. “Nothing,” she muttered eventually, turning her head toward the darkness.
Voight let the matter drop, giving her space.
His house, she learned some time later, was a big glass box in Weston.
Stepping into the pine-scented night, she looked around, taking in the serene surroundings of this town that barely deserved the name. “Why do you live out here?”
“I like the silence,” he replied simply.
“The commute isn’t terrible,” she observed, “but it’s certainly not convenient.”
In response, he offered her his arm.
She took it, and he led her up the walk, their footsteps echoing amidst the stillness.
Inside, the house was a testament to modernist design, in sharp contrast to the chaos of the outside world. The downstairs was completely open, with strategically placed shelving partitioning the long chef’s kitchen from a massive living room. An open staircase curved around behind a freestanding chimney column; an equally outsized couch faced the fireplace. Sitting down, she learned that it was both avant-garde and uncomfortable. The minimalist furniture seemed more like sculptures than functional pieces, a statement of form over comfort. The walls were painted the same red as fresh blood, a bold choice that felt unsettling and entirely fitting.
Voight handed her his phone and went into the kitchen, leaving her to her thoughts.
Putting off the inevitable, she looked around more. The design suited him perfectly, she decided: it was severe, calculated, and devoid of unnecessary warmth—much like him. The lack of curtains made it an oddly voyeuristic fortress, however, despite the only peepers being deer. This this new level of intimacy was daunting, and the austere environment only heightened her sense of vulnerability. Nevertheless, there was a strange comfort in the orderliness of the space, a reassurance in its predictability amidst the mess her life had become.
Running her thumb over the smooth surface of Voight’s phone, she watched the screen light up, then punched in his code and dialed her own home number. This was more space-age tech that, to the average American, might as well be a prop from Star Trek. Constance, tethered to a landline, should’ve lunged for the receiver on the first ring. She didn’t even know if Charlotte had made it to the hospital, but there was no breathless demand for news—there was no response at all.
Zelda hung up, a knot of worry tightening in her chest.
Cooking noises drifted in from the kitchen: ingredients being gathered on the countertop, a pan retrieved, the confident chop of a knife. She flinched every time it hit the board, her sister’s pallid face flashing before her once again. There was a tick, tick, tick followed by the low whoosh of a gas burner. She dialed again and, this time, Constance picked up. “Hello?”
Her voice was tentative, and Zelda remembered that this was an unlisted number. “It’s me.”
“Oh.” Constance sounded distracted. “Of course. How…is Charlotte?”
Zelda wanted to shout that Charlotte wasn’t great. “She’s going to pull through.”
“Good,” Constance said, but without enthusiasm.
“You can visit her tomorrow,” Zelda explained. “Charlotte can’t have flowers, not until they’ve downgraded her care and moved her into a different room. She’s…she’s not conscious, Constance.”
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“Is she guarded?” Constance asked, her tone oddly clinical.
Zelda’s eyes widened, her distrust growing. “Yes,” she confirmed, trying to sound casual. “There’s one guard in her room, two in the hall, and more downstairs. Dr. Bennet said no at first,” she added, “until Lauchert threatened to call Adolf and God knows what else.”
“Oh. I’m glad to hear that,” Constance replied, her voice still lacking any real emotion.
A cold finger touched Zelda’s spine, and she glanced toward the kitchen, relieved that Constance didn’t know where she was—and equally sure that Constance wasn’t alone. Zelda didn’t know what made her so sure, but someone was listening in over Constance’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” she probed. If not, Constance would find some way to tell her.
“I’m fine,” Constance said. “It’s strange, though. Having the house to myself.”
Zelda didn’t have the strength to keep fighting, not tonight. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” Constance repeated, then she hung up.
Staring at the device in her hand, Zelda wondered what’d just happened.
Voight put a plate down in front of her on the coffee table, a minute later. He’d prepared two identical plates: bite-sized pieces of sausage, some kind of potato salad with bacon and onion, and mustard, all arranged with the precision of a five-star restaurant. The delicious aroma stirred a sudden pang of hunger in her stomach, a reminder of how long it’d been since she’d last eaten.
She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but now the sight and smell of the food made her realize how ravenous she was. Voight watched intently as she took a hesitant bite, his eyes searching her face for a reaction. The first taste surprised her; it was good, better than she’d expected. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavors as they spread across her tongue, a welcome distraction from the tempest brewing in her mind. “Who made this potato salad?” she asked, genuinely impressed.
“I did,” he replied, his tone serious.
“You can cook!” she blurted, excitement breaking through her exhaustion.
He favored her with one of those rare, real smiles that lit up his eyes. “I like to think so.”
She’d had worse meals in some really nice restaurants. “What else can you make?” she inquired between bites, curiosity piqued.
“All sorts of things.” He sounded pleased with her interest.
“What’s your specialty?” she prompted.
He considered for a moment. “Selle de veau Metternich. Veal with truffles in a cream sauce.”
“Traditional,” she remarked, nodding appreciatively.
“Yes,” he agreed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
She put down her plate, her depression returning in full force. “This shouldn’t have happened,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
Voight’s eyes softened as he regarded her. “I know,” he replied quietly. “But it did.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she needed to say next. “When I spoke to Constance….”
“You think Constance got cold feet,” he finished for her.
“Yes,” she confessed, relieved that she didn’t have to hide the truth from him. “She set Charlotte up. Moreover, someone was at the house when I called. I’m just not sure who.”
Voight leaned back against the couch, his expression thoughtful. “And that’s why she called for help,” he mused, “instead of letting Charlotte die. Killing turns out to be harder than people expect. Do you suppose it’s Alex, there? Constance has real feelings for him, however unrequited.”
“And hate for us finally united them?” Zelda shook her head, the sadness in her eyes deepening. “Alex might be an idiot, but he’s not evil. He wouldn’t do something like this.” At least, she hoped not. “Constance, though, something happened, and she hasn’t been the same since.” A description that was, Zelda knew, woefully inadequate; the light in Constance’s eyes had just…died, leaving her a shell of the woman she’d once been. “She’s become so withdrawn, so secretive.”
“She’s going to the ghetto,” Voight revealed, his expression somber. “She’s been bribing the guards to get in.” He paused. “One of the ghetto police is an undercover agent. I should’ve had her arrested, but all she’s doing is sneaking in food—and I have neither the resources nor the inclination, despite what Klaus thinks, to persecute anyone for following their conscience.”
His tone was grim, but she managed a small smile. “You’re a good man.”
In response, he picked up her plate, balancing it on his knee. She’d only managed to eat about half of what was on there, despite her hunger. He started feeding her pieces of sausage, slowly, with his fingers. Each bite was a deliberate act of care, his eyes never leaving hers as he dipped pieces in mustard before gently pressing them into her mouth. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the intensity of his gaze, made her pulse quicken. Taking the last piece, he pushed it in and held her mouth open, sliding in another finger to make her open wider. With his thumb, he swiped at a small spot of grease on her lip, his touch turning her to water. Withdrawing his fingers, he pulled slightly on her lower lip. “Swallow,” he commanded softly.
Keeping her eyes on his, she did, feeling a rush of warmth spread through her at the simple, visceral act; the connection between them felt electric, a silent understanding of what was to come.
In a sudden motion, he pushed her down onto the couch, his weight pinning her firmly. She thrashed and protested, a mix of anticipation and defiance flashing in her eyes. With a swift, practiced tug, he pushed her skirt up and ripped her panties away, the sound of tearing fabric heightening the tension between them. Producing his whip from somewhere, he slid the handle inside her, eliciting a sharp gasp that turned into a low moan. He moved it with a deliberate rhythm, pushing it deeper, her body reacting instinctively to the mix of pain and pleasure.
His breath was hot against her ear, his voice a dark, seductive whisper. “Is this what you want?”
“Then ask me,” he demanded, his voice rough.
She met his gaze, helpless. “Make this all go away. Hurt me.”
Withdrawing the whip, he tossed it aside and helped her fumble with his uniform, their movements hurried and desperate. He tore open her blouse, sending buttons scattering, then pulled down her bra to expose her breasts. She managed to get his pants off just as he pushed himself inside her, his thrusts deep and demanding. He stayed like that for a moment, his eyes locked on hers, conveying a depth of connection that words couldn’t express.
His hands found their way to her neck, his fingers pressing gently at first, then with increasing pressure just below her jawline. She gasped, the pressure building a strange, almost euphoric sensation. His gaze grew intent, predatory, as she fought to stay conscious while everything around her blurred and darkened. When he finally released the pressure, the world came rushing back in a wave of euphoria that left her tingling all over. He repeated the process, each time intensifying the sensation until she could no longer distinguish between pain and a pleasure so intense it almost caused its own loss of consciousness. By the time he reached his own release, her body was a quivering mass of sensation, her mind no longer capable of forming coherent thought.
Afterward, he gently took her wrist, feeling for her pulse. She lay there, utterly spent, letting him act like the doctor he was. She didn’t think she had the energy to move, but there was a comfort in knowing that he cared enough to make sure she was okay—and was educated enough to know the difference. He sounded like a doctor, too, when he spoke. “How do you feel?”
She felt disoriented and disconnected from her body, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to explain. Instead, she curled up against him. As he lit a cigarette and put an arm around her, she closed her eyes and drifted, the warmth of his body a grounding force. She listened to his heart, beating in a slow and soothing rhythm. “I missed you,” she said finally, “when you were in New York.”
“I missed you, too.” He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up into the air. “And I love you.”
As she lay there, she marveled at the dichotomy of the man beside her—his cold efficiency in his professional life, juxtaposed with the tender concern he showed her in moments like these. It was a strange, intoxicating blend that made her feel both secure and defenseless. But, for now, she allowed herself to bask in the comfort of his presence. There was, however, a question she needed answered. Actually, there were several, but she’d start with the most pressing one, as soon as she found the words. “When did you realize that…?”
“That I liked pain?” He looked down at her, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I was fifteen,” he shared, “and had been shipped off to NPEA Neubeuern. I knew there was something inside, something wrong, but I couldn’t begin to guess what it was or what to do about it. Then, one weekend, my friends and I went to a café. The girls there were known to be friendly, especially to boys whose fathers had blessed them with large allowances. Although seeing any girls at all, even unfriendly girls, was exciting. I never went to school with them, even in kindergarten.”
She giggled softly, the image of a young, awkward Voight trying to impress a girl painting itself vividly in her mind.
“This one girl, she served us. She was pretty enough, but nothing spectacular. Nor was she especially interested in me,” he clarified, somewhere between chagrinned and amused. “We ordered tea for the table, and when she returned, I attempted to be chivalrous and help. Instead, being the idiot I was back then, I poured scalding water on her arm.”
“Your heart was in the right place,” Zelda pointed out, defensive on his behalf.
“She screamed, and the manager rushed over, and he screamed.” He looked down at her, a mix of mirth and something darker in his eyes. “I apologized profusely, I did feel terrible. But I’d also never been so excited.” He paused, the memory washing over him. “Right then, she would’ve been more likely to skin me alive than let me touch her, and that…that was even better.”
His raw honesty was oddly compelling. “You…explored that feeling?”
He nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Eventually, I understood what it meant, what I needed. But that was a long journey, filled with confusion and shame, until I met someone who understood.”
“And now?” she asked quietly, afraid to break the fragile intimacy of the moment.
His eyes held hers. “And now,” he replied, “I’ve embraced it. Just like I’ve embraced you.”